“Assist you how?” she inquired.
“By sitting down at a table when you go home today and writing a list of all the people the family knew or who had been to their house,” Holmes stated. “Here is my address,” he said, tearing a sheet from his notebook. “You can send the list to me there as quickly as you are able.”
“I shall make your request a priority, Mr Holmes,” she promised before gracefully seating herself on the sofa, nervously clutching the slip of paper Holmes had given her.
We left Miss Wiggins composing herself in the proprietor’s suite and took the train to Charing Cross, walking the distance from the station to Baker Street while silently mulling over the developments thus far. Earlier, as we rode on the Pullman coach, Holmes offered a perplexing comment that caused me to wonder what he had in mind. “I have two reasons for asking Sally Wiggins to provide me with the data,” he admitted. “The first is obvious, and the second is perhaps the solution to this whole affair.”
We were eating a late lunch of some leftovers that were in the ice chest when our landlady knocked and entered our rooms after I answered, “Please come in, Mrs Hudson.” We knew it was she from the cadence of her rapping. “Peterson, the commissionaire,” she announced, “is waiting downstairs for a reply to this message directed to you both.” She handed me the note, which came from Miss Addleton.
“Mr Holmes and Dr Watson (it read):
“I have terrible news about my brother. They have carted him off in irons and accused him of murder, telling me that he wanted his wife out of the way so he could be with the other woman.
“Please help him and tell me what I am to do.”
“Fools!” Holmes bellowed. “Why would he start a fire that also endangered a daughter he idolized?”
Holmes hastily wrote instructions for Miss Addleton on the reverse side of the message and handed it back to Mrs Hudson. “Here is a half-sovereign for Peterson if he can deliver the reply this afternoon,” said Holmes, and, turning to me, asked if I was prepared to have another try at bringing Captain Addleton back to his good senses.
“I’ve thought about my approach and I think I’m ready,” I responded.
“Capital, Watson,” he went on, “then let’s be off to Scotland Yard, where you can visit the captain in the dock and I can engage Inspector Gregson in a Dutch-uncle talk. I must concede I anticipated this outcome from the conference with him yesterday, but I had hoped he would be more circumspect, rather than rush to judgment.”
We arrived at police headquarters just as Tobias Gregson was enlightening the press gathered in the lobby how he had recently uncovered clues that led to solving the cold case.
Afterward, in the privacy of his office, Holmes inquired of the inspector if he knew that Ichabod Addleton had witnesses who could establish his innocence.
“Let him produce a dozen witnesses,” Inspector Gregson contended. “I have a star witness to whom the defendant confessed the crime—your biographer, Dr Watson.”
“But he is insane; he hallucinates,” I interjected. “Does that not reduce his confession to rubbish?”
“He is lucid enough to know right from wrong,” the inspector argued. “That is sufficient to render his admission admissible in court, and you, Doctor, are compelled to testify as to what you heard from his own lips.”
“What transpires between a patient and his physician is confidential,” I debated, realising my argument was a weak one.
“We shall see about that,” Inspector Gregson snapped.
Holmes interrupted our dispute with a request that I meet with the captain in the lockup.
The inspector acquiesced. “Of course, by all means,” he said gladly. “But be forewarned, I shall want to know what he has to say.”
Holmes accompanied me to the cellblock, and we found the prisoner in an agitated state. When I introduced Holmes to Captain Addleton, he was unimpressed until I informed him that Holmes was there to help him attain his freedom.
“That is wonderful,” he remarked, “for it is impossible for a playwright to compose his best work in a place like this—no paper, no pen, no table.”
“We have learned Captain Addleton’s secret!” I proclaimed. “We now know why he was a scoundrel!”
He reacted with a start, then settled. “What is it that you know?” he asked.
“We have discovered that Captain Addleton was unfaithful to his wife; he concealed a lover,” I revealed.
“It was not a matter of love. It was a dalliance on his part while his wife was on holiday,” William Shakespeare declared. “The other woman took it more seriously, though, and pursued the captain. She became obsessed. She went to extremes. She took drastic measures.”
“Who was this other woman? What was her name?” I persisted.
“That is not important, John,” he continued. “The harm she inflicted was irreparable. Besides, it was Captain Addleton who was responsible for the catastrophe. It was he who instigated the adultery. O, ye scoundrel! Hath ye no shame?”
Even using other methods, I attempted to accomplish the impossible with the captain, so Holmes and I left him brooding about his confinement. I reported my lack of success to Inspector Gregson and went with Holmes back to our diggings.
Later that afternoon, Billy, a page-boy at Baker Street, brought Holmes an envelope that contained the list Miss Wiggins had drawn up naming associates and acquaintances of the Addleton family.
“As I suspected, Watson,” Holmes boasted, “Sally Wiggins is the other woman. Her handwriting is identical to that in those four lurid love notes locked in the bottom desk drawer.”
Holmes decided to confront her that very evening at her apartment on Priory Street, but first he wrote a message and asked Mrs Hudson to give it to Billy for delivery immediately. We hailed an empty cab that was passing our building and in five minutes we were taking the stairs down to the Underground terminal. Holmes rode in the train car with his hands clasped behind his head, his dark eyes closed, and his toes tapping in rhythm, as if imagining a tune, but I surmised he was plotting his next strategic move. A half-hour later he was turning the small lever that rang the doorbell at apartment number 4-C.
“Who is it?” came a sweet feminine voice from inside.
“It is Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson, here to see Miss Wiggins about a pressing matter,” Holmes replied.
“She is in the bathtub but won’t be much longer,” said her roommate. “I’ll go tell her who it is. Please wait.”
A moment later, the roommate swung open the door. “She said for you to come in and have a seat. She’ll be out directly,” said the jittery young lady. “It’s not often a detective and a doctor come calling. Is something amiss?”
“Don’t be upset,” Holmes said to reassure her. “Miss Wiggins will explain after we have gone on our way.”
“If you say so, I won’t worry then,” the roommate remarked. “I must excuse myself and leave this instant or I will be late for a dinner engagement with my beau. He adores it that I am punctual.” With that, the young lady departed in a flash.
In time, Miss Wiggins emerged from the bath, drying her wet, stringy hair with a towel and appearing far less elegant than she did at work. Now without makeup and wearing a bulky, white terrycloth robe over plaid pajamas, she flopped down into an armchair and brusquely asked: “Did you bring me news of a revelation in your investigation?”
“In a manner of speaking, yes, I did,” answered Holmes coyly.
“My list was helpful, then,” she glowed.
“Yes, it was, in a way you didn’t expect,” he went on.
“What on earth do you mean?” she inquired.
“Perhaps if you would be more forthcoming, I could explain myself in more explicit terms,” he added.
“What are you getting at, Mr Holmes,” Miss Wiggins demanded.
“What I am getting at is this, my dear,” Sherlock Holmes began. “You and Ichabod Addleton were entwined in a love triangle. You were jealous of Annabe
lle, because Mr Addleton refused to divorce her. You threatened to eliminate the wife if you couldn’t marry him, and you carried out that threat by setting the house ablaze on a night you knew Mr Addleton would be away.”
“Prove it,” she said calmly.
“I intend to, Miss Wiggins. Here are four love notes in your handwriting, graphically depicting your intimacy,” said Holmes, spreading the correspondence on the coffee table that stood between them. “In one of these notes, you frankly state: ‘If I can’t have you, Ichabod, I’ll fix it so she can’t have you either.’ It is dated two days before the fire. I have sent a message requesting Inspector Gregson of Scotland Yard to come here at seven o’clock with a writ to search your flat. I shall hazard a guess that he and his men will locate a skeleton key that fits the rim lock on the door to the servants’ entrance at the former Addleton residence. Also, they will find incriminating evidence in a diary on your nightstand, a memoir of your life’s events which I perused while you were bathing. After all is said and done, the authorities might still retain Mr Addleton in custody, because they could regard him as a co-conspirator.”
“He is in jail?” she whined.
“He has been arrested for the murder of his wife and daughter,” Holmes informed her.
“Oh, God, no! They’ll hang him!” Miss Wiggins sputtered. She bent forward, buried her troubled countenance in the palms of her hands, and burst into tears, totally losing control of herself. “I still love him with all my heart,” she heaved. Then, after a period of quiet, she thrust herself upward in a daze. “But they won’t hang a woman, will they?” she wondered, glaring at Holmes. She answered her own question: “No, they won’t. It’s me the police want, Mr Holmes. Don’t let them hang him for what I alone did. He is faultless, an innocent, broken man. Oh, Ichabod, my poor, poor Ichabod.” Again, she cried, hysterically.
Some weeks later, Miss Wiggins pleaded guilty to homicide by arson and was sentenced to ten years imprisonment in the women’s section at Parkhurst Penitentiary. Captain Addleton never recovered, and, tragically, he died in an asylum at the age of fifty-six.
about the author
Jack Grochot is a retired investigative newspaper journalist and a former federal law enforcement agent specializing in mail fraud cases. He lives on a small farm in southwestern Pennsylvania, where he writes and cares for five boarded horses. His fiction work includes the book Come, Watson! Quickly!, a collection of five Sherlock Holmes pastiches. He is an active member of Mystery Writers of America.
THE YELLOW FACE, by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
In publishing these short sketches based upon the numerous cases in which my companion’s singular gifts have made us the listeners to, and eventually the actors in, some strange drama, it is only natural that I should dwell rather upon his successes than upon his failures. And this not so much for the sake of his reputation—for, indeed, it was when he was at his wit’s end that his energy and his versatility were most admirable—but because where he failed it happened too often that no one else succeeded, and that the tale was left forever without a conclusion. Now and again, however, it chanced that even when he erred the truth was still discovered. I have notes of some half-dozen cases of the kind, the adventure of the Musgrave Ritual and that which I am about to recount are the two which present the strongest features of interest.
Sherlock Holmes was a man who seldom took exercise for exercise’s sake. Few men were capable of greater muscular effort, and he was undoubtedly one of the finest boxers of his weight that I have ever seen; but he looked upon aimless bodily exertion as a waste of energy, and he seldom bestirred himself save where there was some professional object to be served. Then he was absolutely untiring and indefatigable. That he should have kept himself in training under such circumstances is remarkable, but his diet was usually of the sparest, and his habits were simple to the verge of austerity. Save for the occasional use of cocaine, he had no vices, and he only turned to the drug as a protest against the monotony of existence when cases were scanty and the papers uninteresting.
One day in early spring he had so far relaxed as to go for a walk with me in the Park, where the first faint shoots of green were breaking out upon the elms, and the sticky spear-heads of the chestnuts were just beginning to burst into their five-fold leaves. For two hours we rambled about together, in silence for the most part, as befits two men who know each other intimately. It was nearly five before we were back in Baker Street once more.
“Beg pardon, sir,” said our page-boy as he opened the door. “There’s been a gentleman here asking for you, sir.”
Holmes glanced reproachfully at me. “So much for afternoon walks!” said he. “Has this gentleman gone, then?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Didn’t you ask him in?”
“Yes, sir, he came in.”
How long did he wait?”
“Half an hour, sir. He was a very restless gentleman, sir, a-walkin’ and a-stampin’ all the time he was here. I was waitin’ outside the door, sir, and I could hear him. At last he outs into the passage, and he cries, ‘Is that man never goin’ to come?’ Those were his very words, sir. ‘You’ll only need to wait a little longer,’ says I. ‘Then I’ll wait in the open air, for I feel half choked,’ says he. ‘I’ll be back before long.’ And with that he ups and he outs, and all I could say wouldn’t hold him back.”
“Well, well, you did your best,” said Holmes as we walked into our room. “It’s very annoying, though, Watson. I was badly in need of a case, and this looks, from the man’s impatience, as if it were of importance. Hullo! That’s not your pipe on the table. He must have left his behind him. A nice old brier with a good long stem of what the tobacconists call amber. I wonder how many real amber mouthpieces there are in London? Some people think that a fly in it is a sign. Well, he must have been disturbed in his mind to leave a pipe behind him which he evidently values highly.”
“How do you know that he values it highly?” I asked.
“Well, I should put the original cost of the pipe at seven and sixpence. Now it has, you see, been twice mended, once in the wooden stem and once in the amber. Each of these mends, done, as you observe, with silver bands, must have cost more than the pipe did originally. The man must value the pipe highly when he prefers to patch it up rather than buy a new one with the same money.”
“Anything else? I asked, for Holmes was turning the pipe about in his hand and staring at it in his peculiar pensive way. He held it up and tapped on it with his long, thin forefinger, as a professor might who was lecturing on a bone.
“Pipes are occasionally of extraordinary interest,” said he. “Nothing has more individuality, save perhaps watches and bootlaces. The indications here, however, are neither very marked nor very important. The owner is obviously a muscular man, left-handed, with an excellent set of teeth, careless in his habits, and with no need to practise economy.”
My friend threw out the information in a very offhand way, but I saw that he cocked his eye at me to see if I had followed his reasoning.
“You think a man must be well-to-do if he smokes a seven-shilling pipe?” said I.
“This is Grosvenor mixture at eightpence an ounce,” Holmes answered, knocking a little out on his palm. “As he might get an excellent smoke for half the price, he has no need to practise economy.”
“And the other points?”
He has been in the habit of lighting his pipe at lamps and gas-jets. You can see that it is quite charred all down one side. Of course a match could not have done that. Why should a man hold a match to the side of his pipe? But you cannot light it at a lamp without getting the bowl charred. And it is all on the right side of the pipe. From that I gather that he is a left-handed man. You hold your own pipe to the lamp and see how naturally you, being right-handed, hold the left side to the flame. You might do it once the other way, but not as a constancy. This has always been held so. Then he has bitten through his amber. It takes a muscular, energetic fellow, an
d one with a good set of teeth, to do that. But if I am not mistaken I hear him upon the stair, so we shall have something more interesting than his pipe to study.”
An instant later our door opened, and a tall young man entered the room. He was well but quietly dressed in a dark gray suit and carried a brown wide-awake in his hand. I should have put him at about thirty, though he was really some years older.
“I beg your pardon,” said he with some embarrassment, “I suppose I should have knocked. Yes, of course I should have knocked. The fact is that I am a little upset, and you must put it all down to that.” He passed his hand over his forehead like a man who is half dazed, and then fell rather than sat down upon a chair.
“I can see that you have not slept for a night or two,” said Holmes in his easy, genial way. “That tries a man’s nerves more than work, and more even than pleasure. May I ask how I can help you?”
“I wanted your advice, sir. I don’t know what to do, and my whole life seems to have gone to pieces.”
“You wish to employ me as a consulting detective?”
“Not that only. I want your opinion as a judicious man—as a man of the world. I want to know what I ought to do next. I hope to God you’ll be able to tell me.”
He spoke in little, sharp, jerky outbursts, and it seemed to me that to speak at all was very painful to him, and that his will all through was overriding his inclinations.
“It’s a very delicate thing,” said he. One does not like to speak of one’s domestic affairs to strangers. It seems dreadful to discuss the conduct of one’s wife with two men whom I have never seen before. It’s horrible to have to do it. But I’ve got to the end of my tether, and I must have advice.”
“My dear Mr Grant Munro—” began Holmes.
Our visitor sprang from his chair. “What!” he cried, “you know my name?”
“If you wish to preserve your incognito,” said Holmes, smiling, “I would suggest that you cease to write your name upon the lining of your hat, or else that you turn the crown towards the person whom you are addressing. I was about to say that my friend and I have listened to a good many strange secrets in this room, and that we have had the good fortune to bring peace to many troubled souls. I trust that we may do as much for you. Might I beg you, as time may prove to be of importance, to furnish me with the facts of your case without further delay?”
Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine, Volume 16 Page 12