Elementary

by william Todd

  “I am sure the dead patron’s family might also like to see a fruitful conclusion as well,” I added dryly.

  Holmes, as was his custom, was not listening to the remark but tapping his chin thoughtfully. “Does that name sound familiar to you, Watson—Hughes, Milton Hughes. Yes, I am sure I’ve heard it before.”

  “It does not ring any bells with me. Why don’t you look it up in that index of yours?”

  He waved his hand, “No time for that. I’ve consulted the Bradshaw, and we must depart now for Paddington if we are to make the next train. What say you, Watson? Up for some country air? If the weather is this comely in London, just imagine how it will be in the Cotswolds.”

  “I will admit, this sounds more interesting than the day at Portman Square I had initially envisioned.” As I took my last sip of tea and grabbed my bowler, I asked, “Will I be needing my service revolver?”

  “I should think not,” he replied. “Ours will be a purely investigative pursuit and an intriguing one at that.”

  “How so?” I asked as we headed for the door. “A dead man in a hotel room and a stolen necklace of some value hardly seems to be the type of crime that you, of all people, would consider intriguing.”

  “Did you not read the telegram I gave you?” He did not give me time to answer. “It is intriguing precisely because this gentleman had guards outside his bedroom door and placed around the hotel, yet someone was still able to gain access to his room, kill him, and make off with a necklace with a sizeable ruby as its centerpiece.”

  “What kind of person feels the need to be guarded thusly?”

  “That was a piece of the puzzle left out of the telegram and one that greatly fascinates me. Come, Watson, let us find out what is what in Witney.”

  . . . .

  We were surprised to see a constabulary wagon waiting for us when our train pulled into Oxford. A tall, woolly-haired officer recognized us through our cabin window and motioned for us to disembark. He approached us, hand out in greeting. “Hullo, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson, I am Chief Constable Mear. I hope you don’t mind being picked up here. It’s quicker to get to Witney by road than rail from Oxford. There’s always a dreadful wait in Yarnton before the train goes on to Witney. I can apprise of you everything on the way.”

  Holmes gave the man a queer look and said, “Did Mr. Hughes relay to you his overture for my assistance? It was he who had sent me the telegram asking for help in the matter, yet it is an officer of the law who whisks us off to our destination.”

  “Truth be told, Mr. Holmes, had he not contacted you, I would have. This whole thing has got us all tied up in knots. Mr. Hughes saw us floundering, which I am embarrassed to admit, and I think he overheard me mention your name. Well, he beat me to the punch. When he told me he’d contacted you, I offered to pick you up. Come, I will explain the whole matter on the drive. We should be at the hotel in less than an hour.”

  As we made our way to Witney Holmes rested his chin on his chest, closed his eyes introspectively, and laced his fingers while Mear relayed to us all relevant information.

  “Mr. Francis Erdley,” he began, “is a textile merchant, one of the biggest in France. He has been living in Calais for some twenty-five years but was born and raised in Shrewsbury. His younger sister, Beatrice, to whom he is very close, still lives there in their childhood home. Chronic illness and melancholy always prevented her from joining her brother in France, which was often offered, from what I hear, but never accepted. It seems, she was considering finally selling the home and joining her brother, but a potential suitor was vying hard for her affections and to convince her to stay. Erdley was on his way to see her when this unfortunate incident happened.”

  “You seem to know much about Mr. Erdley’s habits and history,” my friend noted.

  The chief constable smiled, “Part of what I know is from being born and raised in Witney and part is from interviewing his sons who always accompany him. You see, Erdley comes through here every summer on his way to Shrewsbury. A man of habits, he is. Stays at the same hotel and in the same room. Everyone knows or has at least heard of him. He’s been doing this since his sons were but children, and they are both strapping young men now—well, at least one is. They always timed their arrival for when the circus came to town, and he would take his sons to see the shows before heading up to see his sister. Ah, but it’s been years since Witney’s seen the likes of a circus since The Fuller Brothers Show shut down, and his sons are too old to care besides. Now, they stay but a night, two at most, then are gone like the wind. Three weeks later, they come through once again, catch the train in Oxford, and that is the last we see of them until the next summer.”

  Although Mear could not recognize it, I have been around my friend too long not to notice the subtle change in Holmes’s aquiline features. Something had piqued his interest, yet he did not seem to feel the need to divulge anything presently.

  Without rousing himself, Holmes asked, “Who is this potential suitor?”

  “A Benny McElwee. He is a blacksmith and a widower. We have dispatched constables in Shrewsbury to question him for obvious reasons. We have not yet heard back in that endeavor.”

  He turned to me. “Depending on what we find in Witney, Watson, we may have to travel to Shrewsbury.”

  “And me without my overnight bag,” I replied sourly.

  “It will not be the first time we have had to make do.”

  “I have heard no mention of a wife,” I commented to Mear.

  “She died not too many years after the youngest boy was born, and Mr. Erdley never remarried. I suppose he’s got enough to keep him busy with his business and family.”

  “Please tell me, Constable Mear,” Holmes went on, “what are the circumstances around the guarded room? That seems most unusual.”

  Mear shrugged. “That was at the request of the hotel owner, Mr. Hughes. When Mr. Erdley refused to put the necklace, which he had purchased as a gift for his sister, into a hotel safe, Mr. Hughes insisted extra security be utilized. He employed two off-duty constables at his own expense. He apparently did not feel safe with the necklace not locked away and took this measure to protect himself of liability should anything happen. Erdley was not happy but acquiesced in the end at his youngest son’s behest.”

  “A shrewd move on Mr. Hughes’ part,” Holmes quipped.

  “Yet a strange request, nonetheless,” replied Mear. “Erdley always brings along extravagances on which to lavish his sister, who I believe saved him from drowning as a young boy. He brings her Jade from the Orient, leopard skin rugs from safari, fine French wine and the such. Until now, no precautions have ever been taken or needed, for there has never even been an attempt at separating the man from his finery in all these years. Now, maybe it is due to Mr. Hughes’ newness as owner of the hotel—a little over a year—and his anxious personality, but he insisted on the safeguards.”

  “Was Mr. Hughes made aware of this ritual of indulgences?” Holmes asked.

  “I am sure Erdley made him aware, but it did no good. He was adamant. Hughes is a nice enough fellow but a bit tightly wound.”

  I asked, “Who found the man dead?”

  “His eldest son Jack who’d had the last watch outside his father’s door. At seven, he knocked on the door to rouse his father to no avail. Pounding got no reply. Jack finally went down to the front desk to get a spare key. Once inside, Jack found his father with a mortal wound to his head. The weapon, a brass lamp from the nightstand, lay on the floor beside the bed. He is quite beside himself and can’t for the life of him figure out how it could have happened. You see, Mr. Holmes, that is the mystery of it all. The room is on the fourth floor of the hotel, and the only possibilities of entry and exit are the room door or a small balcony overlooking the main street. But even the French doors to the balcony were still locked from the inside. And with someone watching the street and another on the roof, there was no opportunity for someone to even climb a rope to the balcony and gain entr
y that way.”

  The Chief Constable sighed heavily. There was desperation in his voice when he, at last, said, “We have exhausted every avenue, yet a man is dead and a valuable necklace missing. That is where you come in, Mr. Holmes.”

  Holmes knitted his brows. “You trust the word of those put in charge of this little endeavor? It could well be, in fact likely, that one of the individuals entrusted as sentry was the culprit.”

  “Constable Jones is the senior constable in Witney, twenty years of exemplary service, and as far as I am concerned is above reproach. He is a consummate officer of the law. He is willing to swear under oath that the few hours he was on watch nothing of import happened.”

  “Many a perjurious oath has been uttered before,” said Holmes. “Especially when the acquisition of wealth was involved.”

  “That leaves the son, Jack,” I replied. “There has to be something there.”

  Mear replied, “I would tend to agree, though I am having a hard time with motive. Erdley could be a kind man, well enough, but he could hate with equal measure. I have seen him dote on Jack as his oldest and closest son, but I have also seen him belittled and scolded unmercifully. He is harder on Jack than the younger son, George, but I believe that is because the business will eventually pass to him. George, on the other hand…well, George is more ignored than anything.”

  Holmes then asked, “And what of the sentries on the roof and street below?

  Mear replied, “Constable Archer on the roof, and George Erdley on the street below, walking the length to the crossing streets and back, which with a regular gate would take four minutes, end to end; we timed it.”

  Holmes was quiet a long moment then finally said, “Thank you. This will give me some data on which to ruminate. Let me dwell on these facts for a time in silence. When we reach Witney, and I can see things for myself, perhaps some light can be shed on this matter of murder, and although it is but little consolation, the sister may yet receive the object of affection from her now late brother.”

  . . . .

  We finally arrived at the King’s Lion Hotel. Holmes engaged the constable driving the wagon for a brief, hushed conversation as I eyed a smallish, slender, dark-haired gentleman who gave a nervous smile as he crossed the street to join us. He was well-dressed, yet there was something about him, about the shape of his face that made him look, well…odd, that I think he tried to hide with his full-feather attire. He gave all of us hardy handshakes as Holmes rejoined Mear and me on the sidewalk.

  “Thank the heavens you have come, Mr. Holmes!” said he. “This travesty will yet be avenged. Oh, thank the heavens!”

  “I am more than happy to help any way I can, Mr. Hughes,” Holmes offered.

  The man laughed in amazement, “Ha, here only but a moment, and you are already putting your magnificent powers of deduction to use. You are right, I am he but how—”

  “Who else could you be?” Holmes cut in, “I can easily spot a suit tailored at Savile Road in London, such as what a fine hotelier would wear; and since you have already telegrammed asking for help, who else would be greeting us so loquaciously?”

  Hughes was about to reply, but Mear cut him off, “We shall keep you apprised of any findings, Mr. Hughes, I assure you.” Turning to Holmes he then said, “If you would follow me, I shall show you the room.”

  “I shall also like to see the roof as well.”

  “Of course.”

  Hughes grabbed my friend by the cuff of his frock coat, “If you need to see me, Mr. Holmes, I shall be in my office across the street at the Wurthing Park Hotel.”

  “You own both hotels?”

  Rather boastfully, the man replied, “Why yes, I do. My office is on the fourth floor. Come up at your leisure or have a steward come fetch me if you need my assistance with anything. Anything.”

  “I am quite sure we shall be speaking again shortly.”

  We walked up the four flights of stairs and past a sentried constable into room 427. It was a luxurious suite with an ample living area and comfortable accoutrements. Locked French doors were centered along the far wall with an adjacent archway on the right which led into the bedroom.

  Holmes inspected the room as we slowly made our way across. Nothing seemed to catch his eye, however, he paid most peculiar attention to the carpeting as we walked. “The pile is too short and too new from which to glean any useful information,” said he, “and too many footprints have covered any relevant ones.”

  He then stopped at the French doors. They were indeed locked with a hook and eye latch. He pulled on the doors. They gave only minimally. He then shook the door with a bit more violence. Still, the lock held.

  “Surely, someone using that much force would have been heard,” said I.

  “You are correct, Watson. And even with such rugged testing, the lock held.”

  He unlocked the door, and the three of us stepped out onto a balcony stretching out roughly five feet from the hotel’s exterior wall and was about eight feet in width. Across the street was the building’s mirror image, the Wurthing Park Hotel. Resting over the slightly bent, wrought-iron railing in front of us was a small, decorative rug with fringed edges. Its outline could be seen on the stone flooring of the balcony at our feet. Holmes then looked along the hotel front. To his left and right, for the length of the hotel, every room on the fourth floor had a balcony facing the street; however, this balcony was the only one whose rug was not in its rightful place.

  “Mear, do you happen to know why this rug is placed over the railing and not where it should be?”

  “According to Hughes, to which I can attest, these hotels line a very busy thoroughfare with a multitude of carriages and carts coming and going and kicking up earth. Since it has been very dry and dusty of late, he instructed the staff to pull up the rugs in the evening while the patrons are at dinner and beat the dust from the rugs. Any overly soiled ones are taken and washed. Those that are not washed are left to hang to further help in ridding them of their muck. Then in the morning, they replace the rugs on the balcony floor while the patrons are breakfasting. This one for obvious reasons has not been replaced yet, unlike the others on this floor.”

  It seemed to me an odd request. “I would be much more concerned with mud and other excrements being tracked in through the hotel room door.”

  “Yes, me as well,” replied Mear. “Hughes’ reply was that he replaced all the carpeting in every room on this floor but not the hallways. He didn’t care that the hall carpeting got sullied because it was being replaced in September. Any detritus brought in from outside would have already been scuffed off the shoe walking down the carpeted hallway. Standing out on a dirty and dusty balcony though...”

  Holmes then said, “Let us now see the bedroom. Chief constable, please lead the way.”

  As Mear led us from the balcony, I noticed from the corner of my eye, Holmes picked up something from the balcony floor and placed it in his pocket. It looked to be a piece of thread possibly from the fringing of the draped mat. I knew better than to ask. If Holmes has anything akin to a deficiency it is his love of the dramatic. He is like a magician who seeks the look of awe upon the faces of his audience with a splendidly completed act of prestidigitation. I have learned with due diligence he will take me into his confidence; but until that penultimate point, I must be satisfied with my role as a silent partner.

  Mear next showed us the bedroom. It was large, clean, and sparsely adorned, save a bed, nightstand and a wardrobe at the far end. A wall clock hung on one wall, while a large painting hung on the other. The room appeared undisturbed everywhere except the left side of the bed and the nightstand. Mr. Erdley had already been taken away, but a ruffled area of the bed and a bloodstained pillow revealed where he had been sleeping when the blow struck. The lamp, consisting of a long, sculpted brass neck with a heavy, round, crystal base still lay on the floor. Splattered blood sullied one side. The drawer of the nightstand protruded, opened approximately half-way.


  Mear spoke up as Holmes took in the room with quick yet intense glances, “I have left the room exactly as we found it.”

  “I applaud you on your diligence,” He replied in a half-hearted tone as he studied the scene. “Yet one of the most important pieces has been taken: the body.”

  “Leaving it in this heat for any extended period was not in anyone’s best interest. We had the body taken to Oxford for a post-mortem. It is being performed as we speak, but the cause of death was obvious.”

  Holmes went to the nightstand and gently closed then reopened the drawer. It squeaked and scratched, wood upon wood, as he pulled it out. “This is the reason why it became necessary to kill Mr. Erdley. Only the soundest of sleepers would not have awakened upon hearing that drawer being opened. No doubt, the necklace was stored within where its owner could keep a close watch on it. When the sound disturbed his slumber, the intruder grabbed what was nearest him to silence Mr. Erdley.”

  “So far, our routes run parallel, Mr. Holmes. We surmised as much ourselves.”

  Holmes looked around the room and said to himself quietly, “Yes, but how did he gain entry then leave undetected?”

  Next, he began to knock on the walls. All seemed solid.

  My friend then opened the wardrobe and inspected Mr. Erdley’s suits. I could have sworn I saw him sniffing the air like a dog as he did so. Closing it, Holmes then pulled out and looked behind the wardrobe then crawled across the floor on hands and knees, going over any minutia he happened upon. Having finally satisfied himself that there was nothing left to gain on the floor, Holmes finally regained his height and said, “I should like to see the roof next.”

  We ascended to the roof, and as Mear opened the door, he said, “There wasn’t much to look at up here, Mr. Holmes. Archer, just like Jones, swears it was an uneventful night. He saw nothing, as would be expected.”

  Holmes waved the statement off as he stepped out onto the flat rooftop, “That which is ignored by others happens to be what I most readily observe.”