by Lyndsay Faye
At first I thought his mysterious intentions would be denied, for there was no answer. Then the detective smiled in his ironic fashion. “Slow footsteps…a woman, I think. Yes, and slightly lame in one foot. Naturally, I cannot yet tell you which foot. My apologies. Ah, here is the lady herself.”
The door flew open, revealing a wrinkled, forward-thrusting face wreathed with a nimbus of wispy white hair, a face resembling nothing so much as a mole emerging from its burrow. Her spectacles were so dirty that I could hardly see the use of them. She peered at us as if at two scabrous street dogs and tightened her grasp on her cane.
“What do you want? I don’t let rooms, and if you’ve business with my sons or my husband, they work for a living.”
“What miserable luck,” Holmes exclaimed. “I was informed that your fellow knew a man with access to a cart.”
“Yes, sir,” she replied, her eyes narrowing still further, “but my youngest won’t be back until seven.”
“By Jove! No rest for us today, Miles,” said Holmes with a wry face. “I was prepared to meet nearly any price, the goods being what they are, but we’ll simply have to inquire elsewhere.”
“Now, wait. You’ve need of a cart today?”
Holmes bent his aquiline face toward the old woman and replied, “I’ve certain…materials which need transporting. I’m afraid it’s rather a man’s business, Mrs….?”
“Mrs. Green.”
“Of course, you’re his mother. And you’re sure Mr. Green will be out for some time? Well, it is a pity. I don’t imagine you’ve any experience with such matters?”
She pursed her wrinkled mouth and, reaching some private conclusion, beckoned us inside. We were led into a small, dimly lit parlour, which featured not one iota of furnishings more than was necessary, and sat down.
“I must admit,” Holmes began, “I’ve been set on my guard by recent events.”
Mrs. Green’s eyes lit like tapers. “Oh, you mean the murder, do you? Begging your pardon, what was your name?”
“I am Mr. Worthington, and this is my associate Mr. Miles.”
She nodded sagely, replying, “A nasty business.”
“But how terrifying! You must have heard something, living so near at hand.”
“Not I, sir. Though I am, I may tell you, a very light sleeper. I was once awoken by nothing more than my cat leaping onto the downstairs balustrade.”
“Dear me. But you sleep downstairs, surely, to have heard such a thing?”
She shook her head proudly. “No, indeed. My daughter and I sleep on the first floor. I am very sensitive, nocturnally speaking, sir.”
“Then you must certainly have been disturbed! Your window overlooks the very spot.”
“Would that I had seen something, or heard it, but I slept peacefully through till morning. It’s eerie, that’s what. But what time shall you be needing the cart?”
“In all honesty, Mrs. Green, I should not like to discuss my goods with anyone other than your son. I cannot convey to you my absolute trust in his discretion except to offer my warmest compliments regarding his upbringing. We shall return at a later time.” Holmes bade a cordial farewell to the woman, who limped appreciably on her right foot as she showed us to the door.
“You were quite effective at gaining an entrance,” I noted as we returned to the cab.
Holmes smiled, but his gaze was distant. “It goes without saying in this community that, given even a single male member of the household, any resident will be acquainted with a man who has access to a cart. You can hardly fail, provided your pronouns are vague enough.”
“It is a pity she could tell us nothing.”
“On the contrary,” my friend replied softly, “she told us a great deal.”
“How do you mean?”
“I had hoped, despite its cool execution, that this was some monstrous crime of passion. Mrs. Green’s room overlooks the scene of the assault, and I know for a fact that Nichols was not moved. If Mrs. Green is a light sleeper, and if Nichols was not moved, and Mrs. Green heard nothing, then there was no quarrel. If there was no quarrel…”
“Then the murder was premeditated,” I continued. “And if the murder was premeditated—”
“Then it is worse than I thought,” Holmes concluded grimly. “Whitehall, please, driver! Scotland Yard.”
We entered the Yard’s headquarters through the rear of the building and hastened up the familiar staircase to locate Inspector Lestrade. Our associate’s office was hardly a shrine to organization at the best of times, but that afternoon we found the windowless room could hardly be glimpsed beneath its litter of notes, maps, and memoranda. He looked up from his chair with a decided smirk.
The inspector appeared to have recovered a deal of composure within the haven of the Yard, along with the officious manners which were wont so often to chafe the considerable vanity of my companion. I had watched the pair collaborate over crimes both trivial and momentous over the years, and despite their mutual love of justice and regard for each other’s talents—tenacity on Lestrade’s part and innate brilliance on the part of Sherlock Holmes—I had never yet witnessed a meeting when the two friends failed to pique one another’s temper, either deliberately or incidentally. The fact that both would end up nettled and self-important was a foregone conclusion, even if Holmes religiously delivered full credit to Lestrade in all their mutual cases, and Holmes was Lestrade’s first and last defense against the incomprehensible.
“Well, Mr. Holmes, the notion we’d a homicidal maniac on our hands was a bit rich, don’t you think? I’ve put together the evidence regarding the Tabram case for you, and I think you’ll see it’s hardly the work of the same man.”
“I do not recall stating that the crimes were perpetrated by the same individual, only that they are both singular and similar.”
Lestrade proceeded to rummage through his papers primly.
“Very well, Mr. Holmes. Lecture as you like. I will confine myself to the facts. Deceased, one Martha Tabram, an unfortunate, found in George Yard Buildings on August the seventh stabbed thirty-nine times. Took us a full week to identify the body, finally confirmed by Henry Samuel Tabram, her former husband. They had two sons, but she seems to have been more interested in gin than in children, so she deserted him. He cut off her maintenance money when he discovered how she was supplementing her income. One can hardly blame him.” Here the inspector coughed discreetly before continuing his report. “She was last seen in the company of a drunken sergeant, and whoever he may be, the case is black against him. Tabram ducked into an alleyway with the chap and that’s the last we know.”
“To whom are we grateful for this information?”
“Constable Bennett, whose beat includes George Yard Buildings, and a Miss ‘Pearly Poll.’ Miss Poll and Mrs. Tabram fell in with a pair of guardsmen at the Two Brewers public house sometime before midnight. When they had finished at the pub, they parted ways into dark corridors in pairs. I’m sure you can deduce why that might be.”
“Thank you, the matter is indeed within my powers. What says this Constable Bennett?”
“That he approached a young grenadier guardsman at two o’clock in the morning just north of George Yard Buildings. Fellow told Bennett he was waiting for a friend who had gone off with a girl. Almost three hours later, one John Reeves came running up to Bennett with the news that he’d found a body. Bennett said that the corpse was placed in a disheveled and provocative position, and the time of death was estimated at close upon two a.m. So you see by now, it can have nothing to do with the other business.”
“Lestrade, you really must lead me through the steps which brought you to that conclusion, as they are dark to me,” Holmes murmured.
The inspector puffed up noticeably. “I am disappointed you don’t see it. Martha Tabram ducked into the shadows of George Yard with this sergeant, intending to ply her trade. The young grenadier waited for his comrade to return. He did not return, however, as he was engaged with Tabr
am, fought with her, and killed her, leaving her body on the landing of George Yard Buildings.”
“It is becoming more clear,” Holmes laughed. “In fact, I have very few questions to pose. First, have you any notion of what they quarreled about?”
“Certainly, Mr. Holmes. He was a young soldier on holiday but very likely to have been a rogue. She had no money on her person when she was discovered, therefore it is clear to me that they fought over a question of payment.”
“Dear me. He could not pay?”
“They had been frequenting public houses, and he had probably run through what scant coin he had. When Martha Tabram demanded recompense, and he could not deliver, she would have grown very insistent.”
“I understand she was jabbed nearly forty times with a common pocketknife.”
“Yes, so we think. But one wound, the cause of death, was inflicted to the sternum with a bayonetlike blade, which implicates the soldier yet again,” declared Lestrade triumphantly. “Finally, her death occurred at very close to two in the morning, which shows that Tabram had not the time to make any new acquaintance before she was killed.”
Holmes steepled his two index fingers before his lips. “Lestrade, I must congratulate you, for your hypothesis does not directly oppose any known facts. Unfortunately, it abysmally fails at covering all of them, but you have done worse, my good Inspector, and this theory shows some salient points.”
“And what, if you don’t mind telling me, is wrong with it?” demanded Lestrade.
“I will do you the courtesy of elucidating the benefits straight off. For one, it is indeed extremely suspicious that Tabram was found in the alley she entered with the soldier; very likely she was occupied there until the time of her death.”
Lestrade looked as though he was about to say something self-congratulatory but was prevented by my friend.
“I have not quite finished. It is also of the greatest interest to me that Tabram was mutilated with a different variety of knife than that used to end her life. I suppose a bayonet would not allow a very effective range of motion for such a free-form exercise, but I have not yet made up my mind on that point. And now, inevitably, to your theory’s flaw. Murders motivated by money are immensely practical crimes, of the most transparent motivation and prosaic execution. You suggest that this guardsman killed Martha Tabram in order to silence her demands for money, and rather than flee the scene, he put away his bayonet, pulled out his pocketknife, and proceeded to stab her chest, groin, and abdomen, presumably because he wasn’t sure he’d finished the job.”
“I challenge you to show me another explanation that so closely covers the facts,” cried Lestrade. “We know nothing of this soldier, after all. For all we know, he may be an extremely perverse individual.”
“Ha! You are right. He may indeed be. Can you tell me the whereabouts of the other witnesses, this so-called Pearly Poll and the second guardsman?”
Sulkily, Lestrade shuffled through his file. “As far as Pearly Poll is concerned, not only is her address hardly permanent, but we’ve put her through two police lineups and she’s proven an utter waste of our time. As for the private—well, he has disappeared into thin air.”
“One more question, if I may.”
“Yes?” Lestrade replied, looking as though his good nature had been sorely tried indeed.
“The constable did not happen to note the colour of stripe on the soldier’s cap, did he?”
“It was white,” he snapped, “so of course he was a member of the Coldstream Guards. And now you’ll have no difficulty whatsoever in identifying the suspect that the entire force has had their eye out for. Just wire me when he’s found the culprit, will you, Doctor? Good day to you, Mr. Holmes.”
When the door had slammed testily behind us, Holmes set off down the hallway which led to the front exit of the Great Scotland Yard building. Though few policemen were present with the leisure to stop and speak to each other, those who could spare the time were muttering in hushed tones as they attempted to make sense of the events. I little knew what my friend was thinking, but Lestrade’s explanation seemed to me to fall far short of the mark.
“Holmes, surely Martha Tabram’s murder was an act too brutal for a brawl over a few pence?”
“Agreed,” replied Holmes as we regained the street, surrounded comfortingly by leafy trees and solid red brick. “I haven’t the slightest doubt that whoever is responsible was in the grip of a powerful emotional force.”
There was a brisk wind flowing through the Yard’s open spaces, and I welcomed its invigourating influence as Holmes hailed a cab and we made our weary way back to Baker Street.
“I cannot make it out yet, Watson,” my friend mused, drumming his long fingers against the side of the hansom, “but I would not have missed it. It is a far queerer matter than it appeared on the surface. As Lestrade has been at pains to remind us, these murders are in no way linked. But consider that in the case of Nichols, we have a killer who is exceedingly eager to cut women apart after they are dead, and in the case of Tabram, a killer so dedicated to the idea that he puts away his murder weapon to begin coolly stabbing his victim.”
“What can we do?”
“I must consider the options at hand. After all, we do not yet know these women. Speaking with their friends and loved ones may prove very profitable indeed.”
“We will at least learn more than we did this morning.”
Holmes nodded. “It was most peculiar. We unearthed no immediate alleys which demand investigation. I suppose I shall have to invent my own.”
CHAPTER THREE Miss Mary Ann Monk
The next morning I completed my ablutions quickly, as I could just make out voices emanating from downstairs. When I entered the sitting room, I found Holmes leaning against the sideboard with his hands in his pockets as he conversed with a man whose general appearance spoke of neither good hygiene nor good spirits.
“Ah, Watson,” cried my friend. “I was about to fetch you, as we have an important caller. May I present to you Mr. William Nichols of Old Kent Road, a repairman of printer’s machinery, if his fingertips had not already declared as much to you.”
Our guest was a weathered fellow of middle height with sly blue eyes and bushy grey side-whiskers. A tremor in his strong, ink-stained hands informed me he was quite disturbed by recent events.
“Do be seated, Mr. Nichols, and accept our condolences regarding your wife’s death. I have no doubt but that, despite the earliness of the hour, Dr. Watson would be happy to prescribe you something fortifying. You have had a most trying ordeal.”
I poured Mr. Nichols a brandy and led him to the settee. He drank slowly from it, then turned back to Holmes.
“I’ve not tasted a drop in years,” he confessed, “for I knew the ill of it. Polly Walker was a sweet girl in her youth, and no one knows it better than I do. But as for her drinking, and her other vices…Polly Nichols turned into a bad sort, gentlemen, make no mistake about that.”
Holmes shot me a look and I located my notebook. “Mr. Nichols, if it would not be too terribly painful for you, I should like you to tell me all you can about your late wife.”
He shrugged. “There’s nothing I can say as will do any good. I hadn’t seen the woman in over three years.”
“Indeed? You were utterly estranged?”
Mr. Nichols pursed his lips, considering his words. “I’m no angel, Mr. Holmes, and I’ve my own mistakes to pay for…There was another woman, and Polly took on about it to the point of packing up her things and running off. I’ll say as much only because you’re said to know things you oughtn’t. But it was good riddance, so far as I was concerned. Polly more often than not had a drop in, and when she did, the children and I suffered for it. We had five, Mr. Holmes, and I think sometimes it was a strain on her. She wasn’t the mothering kind. When she left for good, I supported her for a year, but I cut off her allowance when I learned what she’d become.”
“I see. But what of the children?”
“Oh, I’ve care of the little ones, Mr. Holmes. I’d not let her lay one filthy hand on them once she’d set her course in that direction.”
“So you dissolved all contact with her, being yourself a man of unimpeachable moral character?”
I worried lest Holmes’s dig might offend Nichols, but our visitor merely answered gruffly, “She contacted me, all right, Mr. Holmes. She tried to cozen the authorities into forcing her maintenance money out of me. But they saw I didn’t deserve the keeping of her, common baggage that she was. She went from man to man and workhouse to workhouse. None of them kept her long. I’m sorry to say it, Mr. Holmes, but her death was less of a shock than it should have been.”
Holmes raised a single eyebrow coldly as he lifted the tongs and lit his pipe with an ember from the fire. “I should at least have thought the manner of her death would give pause to her kith and kin.”
At this, Nichols paled slightly. “Yes, of course. I’ve seen her. I would not wish that end on anyone.”
“I am very gratified to hear it.”
“It’s a hard push for me, though. I daresay it will cost me for the funeral, her dad not being well off and she without a penny to her name.”
“Yes, yes, I am sure it is a very trying time for you. You know of no enemies, nor of any further information which might aid us in our inquiries?”
“Polly’s only enemy so far as I could see was gin, Mr. Holmes,” replied Nichols with a knowing look.
“However, as I am sure you will agree, gin unfortunately was not responsible for her death,” returned Holmes with some asperity. “And now, Mr. Nichols, I must devote my entire energies toward my thoughts and my pipe, so you will forgive me if I bid you good morning.”
After I had shut the door upon Mr. Nichols, my friend exclaimed, “A nice spouse, Watson. He has at least absolved himself as a suspect. Crimes of jealousy require a measure of regard for the victim.”
“He seemed more shaken by the cost than by the death of his wife.”
Holmes shook his head philosophically. “It is not difficult for me to envision Polly Nichols’s flight from his establishment. If she was everything he says she was, they must have made a charming pair.” He set his lit pipe on the mantel and made for his bedroom.