by Paul Gilbert
Holmes gestured for me not to express my astonishment at the mention of the name of the bank.
‘We shall join you outside shortly,’ Holmes informed the relieved young policeman. Then quietly to me he added: ‘We shall learn a lot more from Lestrade for so long as he remains ignorant of our earlier involvement in this matter.’ I nodded my agreement and a moment later we were racing down the stairs to the waiting cab.
We were fortunate in that the driver was none other than an old acquaintance of Holmes. George had assisted Holmes in his enquiries on more than one occasion, most notably during the affair of the Naval Treaty, and his intimate knowledge of London enabled us to answer Lestrade’s request for urgency most promptly.
We made our way through a veritable labyrinth of security systems before we reached the small but very deep main vault. I have seen Lestrade, many times at the scene of a dreadful crime, but never before have I seen his small weaselly face so etched with distress and confusion. Nor have I seen him so pleased upon Holmes’s arrival at the scene.
‘Good of you to come, Mr Holmes. This really is something right up your alley,’ Lestrade said slowly, trying to calm himself.
Holmes paid scant regard to this dubious greeting and was immediately engaged in his initial survey of the room, whilst gesturing to me to examine the bloodied, lifeless form that lay prostrate in the centre of the vault floor. My examination was as brief as it was futile. The police surgeon would be able to supply a far more detailed report than I was capable of providing in these circumstances. However I was able to confirm that the poor fellow had suffered an almighty blow, to the back of the head, and that a large blunt object, evidently removed at the time of the murder, had been the tool of the man’s destruction.
As I gradually stood away from the body I became aware of Holmes slithering across the floor, as if he were a black mamba stalking its prey, with a small magnifying glass protruding from the stalk-like fingers of his left hand. From time to time he would emit a grunt of disappointment. Then he might put a certain object which was invisible to the rest of us under closer examination by raising it to his eye. At last he sprang up from the floor and dusted himself down with a flourish.
‘Any clues?’ Lestrade asked, a note of hope in his voice, quite unlike his usual cynicism.
‘Only three of any real relevance, although I am certain that there would have been considerably more had you and your men not stampeded all over them!’ Holmes glared towards two embarrassed constables who were standing to attention by the door, as he spat out these words.
‘Three?’ Lestrade asked, smiling tentatively.
‘However I shall not be able to determine their true worth until you furnish me with a few facts! For example, have you managed to establish the identity of the victim?’
‘Certainly, it is none other than the bank’s manager himself, one Nathaniel Crosby.’ As Lestrade said this name Holmes shot me a barely discernible glance in the hope that it might prevent me from registering any form of recognition. In this Homes was successful, for Lestrade continued, unaware of our interchange.
‘The facts, as I understand them, are as meagre as they are unusual. Crosby informed his staff that he would be working late this very evening in preparation for the regular quarterly audit. At a quarter past seven his chief clerk, John Clevedon, asked if he could be of any further assistance. Crosby informed him that the remainder of his work would need to be conducted in the vault and was for his eyes alone.
‘You can, therefore, understand Clevedon’s surprise when, upon leaving for the night, he was certain that he heard two agitated voices echoing up from the vault and that one of them was surely that of a woman!’
‘A woman?’ I questioned. ‘Well, perhaps it was that of his wife?’
‘That was Clevedon’s notion, however he felt that it would be indiscreet of him to try to confirm this, and he continued on his way out of the building. It was at this point, as he turned the last key in the main door to the street, that he heard a most terrible cry that also emanated from the vault. His first instinct was to retrace his steps and to discover the cause of this ghastly sound. However, and to his regret, he thought it unwise to return unattended and so he went in search of a constable—’
Holmes slapped his forehead in exasperation. ‘I presume that the search took longer than he had anticipated and that by the time he had returned, policeman in tow, the culprit had long since departed?’
‘You have it in one, Mr Holmes,’ Lestrade confirmed gravely.
‘I presume that your early suspicions have fallen on Crosby’s wife?’ I asked.
Lestrade nodded emphatically. ‘Indeed, Doctor, and I immediately dispatched two men to the Crosby’s address. However no one in their small household had a notion as to her whereabouts, so I left an officer there to await her return. So far I have received no word of her.’
‘Was the bank fully secured when Clevedon eventually returned?’ Holmes asked quietly.
‘It was necessary for Clevedon to unlock each lock in the sequence,’ Lestrade confirmed.
‘Sequence?’ Holmes repeated quietly and enigmatically. As he did so he raised himself on to a large chest that stood in a corner of the room. Once there he sat down, crosslegged and with his eyes tightly shut. Lestrade glanced quizzically at him and I turned him away to ask further questions of him.
‘What is this sequence you speak of?’
‘The main locking device has been arranged in such a way that the final bolt can only be activated provided that the others have been thrown in a particular order. Interestingly, only Clevedon and Crosby were in possession of this sequence and they have both committed it to memory.’
‘Well then!’ I exclaimed. ‘Surely this confirms Mrs Crosby as the murderess. She must have observed her husband lock the door on a previous visit to the bank, and retained memory of the sequence!’
Lestrade shook his head slowly and despondently. ‘Ah, but there is the mystery, Doctor. Clevedon knows of no such visit, the device cannot be fathomed merely by chance and there was not time for her to try every permutation.’
As Lestrade said these words I glanced once again at the forgotten form in the centre of the room. ‘This man has only been dead for a little under an hour!’ I declared. ‘Yet his pallor is that of a far older corpse.’
At this, Holmes’s grey, glistening eyes burst suddenly open. He unravelled himself and dropped to the floor in a single, fluid motion.
‘Watson, I am nothing more than a dull-witted incompetent!’ he raged.
‘Whatever can you mean?’ I asked.
‘It is not possible to explain now. Lestrade, would you, Watson and your two fine officers carry the body to the street above? There is no time to lose, for surely there are only the last glimmers of daylight left to us!’
‘Glimmers, daylight? I do not understand,’ the bemused inspector replied, though straining at the body just the same. We all shared Lestrade’s bewilderment, yet my own experience assured me that every one of Holmes’s actions and instructions would have a perfectly logical motive behind them. The climb up to street level was not made without some difficulty, so Holmes had to squeeze between us in order to support our efforts. Once there Holmes had us lay the body gently down upon the pavement and remove the covering from over Crosby’s head.
Within an instant the effect of what remained of the gloaming was visible to us all. The sight of Crosby’s skin awakened in my own dull reasoning something that Holmes had already foreseen. Large, unsightly red welts began to blemish the dead man’s face, although, I am certain, they would have been considerably brighter and more grotesque had the sun been high.
Holmes was visibly moved at this sight. ‘By underestimating the dark, devious nature of this woman, I have surely condemned this man to his untimely death,’ he snarled through gritted teeth.
Although I had a greater understanding of these symptoms than Lestrade, I still felt compelled to ask: ‘How has this tragedy occ
urred?’ while the inspector merely stood there in bemused silence, his lips slightly parted.
Holmes’s answer was brief and impatient.
‘My own naïvety led me to enable Randell to arrange a meeting with his brother who used the forthcoming audit as the excuse, to his wife, for his having to work so late. Evidently his subterfuge failed and his wife broke in upon this meeting. An argument then ensued, as audibly witnessed by Mr Clevedon, resulting in a blow to the back of Randell’s head, probably from the large spanner used to bolt down the lid of the chest on which I meditated when we were in the vault.’
‘But whatever made you so certain that the body was Randell’s and not that of his brother? After all, his appearance could not be more different from that of the man who visited our rooms,’ I asked whilst glancing furtively towards Lestrade, who was, by now, becoming aware of our having suppressed prior knowledge.
‘I am certain that, at the behest of his wife, Nathaniel swapped clothes with the corpse of his brother and then proceeded to trim his hair and beard with a pair of blunt nail scissors.’ In answer to my questioning look he added: ‘There were still traces of this unseemly operation on the vault floor when I examined it earlier.’
‘Gentlemen!’ Lestrade suddenly cried. ‘There is, evidently much more about this grim affair of which you have withheld prior knowledge. This is a most serious obstruction of the police and I insist upon an immediate explanation!’
I could see that Holmes was still greatly affected by what he would undoubtedly regard as a terrible failure on his part.
‘Inspector, I will be more than pleased to accompany you back to the Yard and provide you with whatever information that may be of use to you,’ I offered.
Holmes placed a grateful hand upon my shoulder as he called to George, who was still waiting at the corner. ‘I would suggest, Lestrade, that you cast a wider net than the Crosbys’ now abandoned new home,’ was his parting comment.
As an interesting postscript, I should mention that within a few days, of Randell’s murder, a more potent motive than simply withholding his allowance was revealed to us by virtue of the completion of the bank’s audit report. This revealed a shortfall of funds of close to £30,000! I can also reveal that the mortgage, on their new home was in default from the very first month and that their present address is still, alas, a complete mystery.
Holmes will always regret having underestimated Crosby’s appalling wife and most certainly this incident has done nothing to dispel my friend’s almost pathological mistrust of the female gender of our species.
THE MYSTERY OF THE MUMBLING DUELLIST
‘A third case worthy of note is that of Isadora Persano, the well-known journalist and duellist, who was found stark staring mad with a matchbox in front of him which contained a remarkable worm said to be unknown to science.’
(The Problem of Thor Bridge by A. Conan Doyle)
My initial introduction to the Isadora Persano affair occurred during the conclusion of the adventure of the Red Leech. Just a few moments before the murder of Crosby was brought to our attention I came upon Holmes, who was hunched in deepest concentration over a glass jar containing a most singular-looking worm.
The tragic demise of poor Crosby had left me with a feeling of forlorn emptiness for a while, which was only dispelled when I eventually returned to my old rooms at Baker Street, to find my friend Sherlock Holmes still engrossed by that unusual specimen.
On this occasion, however, the object of his attention was not to be found within a jar, for its dismembered parts were now dispersed amongst various items of laboratory apparatus with which Holmes had completely littered the room. Furthermore, a murky green liquid, which I subsequently discovered was a sample of the creature’s blood, was merrily simmering over a Bunsen flame The noxious smell that this emitted was overwhelming and in an instant I threw open the curtains and raised the sash to allow some of this to disperse.
Once I had recovered my breath I turned to face my friend, I found him laughing in my direction.
‘Really, Watson, it has long been a source of puzzlement to me that a man of medicine can be so encumbered with faculties as sensitive as yours. Surely a soup of worm’s blood mixed with a touch of morphine is not such a heady brew?’
‘You must have the constitution of a locomotive,’ I retorted breathlessly. Then, once I had replenished my lungs with fresh air from the open window, I asked: ‘Would you mind explaining to me the purpose behind this toxic experiment?’
‘No, not at all, old fellow. This little notion of mine has done nothing to improve my understanding of the case, so therefore I can now extinguish the flame that you find so troublesome. For me to explain the reasons for all of this might, however, take some little time.’ Holmes kept his promise, only to replace those fumes with some from his darkest old shag.
‘My practice is somewhat slack at present, so therefore I have all the time that you might need to expand upon this problem. I assume that there is a case at the root of this experiment?’ I asked whilst preparing a pipe of my own.
‘Your assumption is correct and, if I know my friend Watson and his penchant for such things, it will prove to be a case that will ultimately find pride of place amongst the crowning jewels of your collection. What do you know of Isadora Persano?’ Holmes asked of me as I took to my seat opposite his own.
‘Unless I am very much mistaken, he is a highly respected journalist who has long specialized in affairs of international intrigue,’ I replied.
‘Anything more?’ Holmes prompted.
‘I believe that he freelances, because I remember reading reports from him in both the Daily Telegraph and The Times However nothing has been received from him for some time now and he is feared lost somewhere in Central America, as I recall.’
‘Excellent, Watson! Evidently there is much to be gained from residing over the premises of a quiet practice, for you are certainly well read and your knowledge is accurate, albeit incomplete. I could also add to your fountain of understanding the fact that he is as well known, within the confines of certain clandestine circles, as being one of the last duellists in Europe. Furthermore and to complete your pocket biography of the man, you should also know that he has not disappeared in Central America as was at first supposed. He is to be found within these shores, but, sadly, he has also been diagnosed as insane!’
Before I was able to question him further, Holmes called down to Mrs Hudson for some tea and Chelsea buns. He ushered me into my old chair, before a cheery fire and relit his pipe from a small glowing coal. From the very moment that the last crumb had been devoured and the weary landlady had been unceremoniously ushered from the room, Holmes’s countenance assumed a more intense aspect and I was certain that his attention was now to be firmly focused upon the unfortunate journalist.
‘I should begin by informing you of how I came to be in possession of a sample of a worm, deemed by the authorities to be hitherto unknown to science.
‘An old acquaintance of mine, Hubbert Greene, who is currently employed as a valet at Browne’s Hotel, came upon Persano, apparently in a state of torment, as he sat at his desk in one of the more discreet suites that Browne’s has to offer.
‘Greene had been obliged to use his pass key because Persano had not ventured from his room for two full days and Greene wished to allay his misgivings without creating a furore. Upon gaining access to Persano’s suite the vision that confronted him caused Greene to collapse into a chair, where he remained dumbstruck for at least thirty-five minutes. After that he was able to gather his thoughts once more.
‘Watson, you must understand that this is a man who once served with the Fusiliers, and is therefore not usually troubled by an over-sensitive disposition. But he was deeply affected by the sight of a strong, intelligent and sophisticated man of the world sitting at his desk, rocking himself back and forth whilst mumbling incoherently into his own saliva.
‘In silence and with stealth, Greene stole towards the tor
mented guest in an attempt to make sense of the ramblings that he was murmuring, but in vain. He then followed the intense gaze of Persano’s reddened eyes and soon recognized the object of his unremitting glare. Amongst the clutter of spilled food and crumpled paper, all that remained of incomplete letters and abandoned articles, nestled a half-opened wooden matchbox. Therein lay the subject of the very same experiments that you have found so abhorrent today.’
‘I presume that the intention behind your experiments was to establish why a man should be driven to insanity by so innocuous-looking a creature?’ I asked.
‘Of course, although I also wished to discover why the authorities categorized it as “unknown to science”. I completed part of my task in the library at the Natural History Museum. Here I was able to establish that in the rituals of various indigenous peoples of Central America there is a form of punishment, performed on those persons found guilty of acts of infidelity, which involves the insertion of a large worm into the ear of the victim. When threatened, these creatures excrete a poisonous fluid that often induces a lingering, painful death. However, this outcome is by no means inevitable, but anyone who survives is rendered permanently insane! Rather suggestive, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Good heavens, Holmes! It is more than suggestive; surely you have the full and definitive explanation. The authorities who, I presume, retained a portion of the worm for their own investigation, obviously did not delve into the matter as vigorously as you did yourself, before dismissing the creature as unknown. Furthermore, we know that Persano’s last reports came from the very region where the worm ritual is performed. What further confirmation do you require?’
‘Watson, I am sorry to have bored you with so mundane a topic. There is surely no good reason for delving further into this affair.’ Holmes turned his head sharply away and crossed his arms in a display of feigned indignation.