‘He’s dead,’ I said.
Holmes sighed. ‘A terrible price to pay.’
‘For what?’
My friend gave me a bleak look. ‘For avarice and betrayal of trust. If only we had arrived half an hour earlier this poor wretch’s life would have been saved, although I fear that he would have been spared only for Pentonville. Come, we must summon Scotland Yard.’
As we waited for the police, Holmes examined the miserable rooms of the late Harry Kilner in the painstaking fashion that had become familiar since the day I had accompanied him to the house off Brixton Road where Enoch J. Drebber, late of Utah, met his end. The place was thick with dust and the peeling wallpaper smelled of mildew. Kilner had few possessions, but I saw piled upon a battered chest half a dozen yellowing copies of The Bradford Telegraph. At length Holmes gave a nod of satisfaction and was scribbling a note of his conclusions when our old acquaintance Tobias Gregson arrived, accompanied by a clutch of silent subordinates.
‘Well, Mr Sherlock Holmes! What have we here?’
In a few crisp sentences my friend explained the circumstances that had brought us to the scene of the crime. ‘You and your men will no doubt wish to conduct the usual investigations. Dr Watson and I must bid you farewell, for our next task is to break the news to Mr Buckle that his friend is dead.’
Gregson wrinkled his nose. ‘You know, we must not jump to conclusions. I dare wager that this murder is quite unconnected with the tobacconist. You say that Kilner was a toper. Well, such men fall easily into bad company. There may well be a simple explanation for what has happened. A quarrel over a debt or a woman, perhaps.’
‘I quite agree,’ my friend said with asperity, ‘that one should not jump to conclusions. Please take this note. It contains the deductions I have made from the evidence I have found here. You and your men will surely arrive at an identical result, but when you are finished here, you may care to check whether we have the same ideas.’
Holmes folded the piece of paper on which he had been writing and passed it to the detective.
‘What will this tell me, then, Mr Holmes?’
‘The size and type of the boots worn by the murderer, the colour of his coat and of his hair, together with the weapon he used to batter poor Kilner to death. All that remains is for me to express my very best wishes to you for the Christmas season. Good day.’
He turned briskly and led me out of the grim basement. When we had regained the street, I said, ‘I am disappointed in you, Holmes. Your powers appear to be failing. I should have hoped that you would at least be able to suggest the felon’s name.’
Holmes permitted himself a thin smile. ‘Well, I might hazard a guess…but no, it is better to seek solid evidence than to indulge in speculation.’
I pointed at the sign above the entrance to The White Swan. ‘Kilner spoke of an upside down swan and we know that he was overly fond of a tipple – I wonder if we should look inside the tavern for further enlightenment?’
‘I hardly think that it specialises in enlightenment,’ Holmes said crisply. ‘No, Kilner’s final words are suggestive, I grant you, but I suspect that the swan he had in mind was black. Now, here’s a cab! We must return to Josiah Buckle’s premises and break the news that he has lost a friend.’
As was his custom, he refused to say another word about his theory of the crime, leaving me to rack my brains in vain. On arrival at the tobacconist’s shop, we found Mr Buckle hard at work, sweeping the floor as he prepared to re-open for business. He seemed to have shed years since our consultation. His back had straightened and his eyes glinted. He greeted us with a cheery handshake.
‘Mr Holmes and Dr Watson, how good to see you again! As you will see, I’ve taken you at your word and started to make ready for a resumption of trade. I owe you such a debt. After talking to you, I feel ten years younger. I keep telling myself, even if I’ve lost George’s letters forever, I still have my memories of him. Besides, I know every line of his correspondence off by heart.’
‘I have sad news for you,’ Holmes said. ‘Harry Kilner is dead.’
Josiah Buckle paled. ‘Good Lord!’
Holmes laid a hand on the old man’s shoulder and explained what had happened. ‘There will be a time to mourn your friend, but murder has been done and I must devote myself to making sure that the killing of Harry Kilner does not go unavenged. Mr Buckle, please attend. I have a very important question for you. You told me that your son George perished in 1855. Did he ever spend time in Western Australia during the year before his death?’
Bewildered, the tobacconist said, ‘Yes, he did – but how could you know?’
‘It is my business to know things,’ Holmes replied coolly. ‘You mentioned that Kilner lost his employment following the death of his employer. Can you tell me exactly what happened?’
‘You’ll have heard of Sir Titus Gillibrand, no doubt,’ Mr Buckle murmured. ‘The family made its money in the tea trade and Sir Titus was noted both as a collector of rare artefacts and for his generosity in a charitable cause. He was twice widowed and gave freely to those who seemed to him deserving. He also kept a large private staff. Unfortunately, his son from his first marriage died a year ago and young Charles, who was something of a black sheep, inherited the family fortune.’
A strange light came into Holmes’ eyes. ‘Ah, Mr Charles Gillibrand? I came across him once during the course of my enquiries into a business concerning a blind auctioneer and a croquet mallet. As I recall, young Gillibrand was also a collector of quite obsessive zeal. He did, however, lack his father’s good taste. I recall watching him bid furiously against a Lebanese potentate for the privilege of owning a quite hideous oil painting. He failed to succeed and frankly I thought it a stroke of luck, but his mortification at being out-manoeuvred by his rival was alarming to behold.’
Josiah Buckle nodded. ‘By all accounts, he is a strange young fellow, single-minded to the point of fanaticism. Certainly, he lacks any trace of his father’s amiability. Within a week of Sir Titus’s death, he dismissed all the old man’s servants and replaced them with a ruffian whom he had picked up during the course of a mis-spent youth. Poor Kilner was so desperate for work that he tried to curry favour with Charles, undertaking errands in the hope of securing a fresh position, but to no avail.’
‘Where does the son live?’
‘Overlooking Hyde Park, at Number One, Java Mansions.’
‘Very well,’ Holmes said. ‘That must be our next destination. Come, Watson, the solution to this pretty puzzle is at hand.’
‘But Mr Holmes!’ the tobacconist cried. ‘You have not explained…’
Holmes raised his hand. ‘Please, sir. This is a moment for action rather than words. When I return, you may put to me as many questions as you desire.’
With that he led the way out of the little shop and we were soon dashing through the streets towards the heart of the city. The skies were darkening and as we approached Hyde Park I heard a distant rumble of thunder. I yearned for Holmes to take me into his confidence, but already I had learned the futility of taxing him before he was ready to unburden himself. Java Mansions was a tall building of white stone, splendidly positioned a stone’s throw from the Park. The very plainness of its architecture seemed, paradoxically, to hint at the wealth of occupants who had no need to make a show of affluence by indulging in extravagant ornamentation. To my surprise, however, the windows of Number One were not only curtained but also traced with cobwebs. There was no sign of decoration for Christmas, but the house was not unoccupied. I saw one of the curtains move as we descended from the cab.
‘Sir Titus Gillibrand was a businessman of considerable distinction,’ my friend murmured, tugging at the bell pull. ‘I fear that, as so often happens, the son has inherited the ruthlessness of the parent without the compensating sense of noblesse oblige. The result is seldom happy, either for the individual or the society in which he moves.’
After a short delay the oak door creaked open.
A squat, sullen-eyed man stood on a raised step above us. He was the very opposite of the smart and discreet butler whom one would expect to encounter in a house such as this. His coat was tattered and an old scar curved across his left cheek. He had evidently not shaved for serval days and his whole bearing suggested that his sole purpose was to deter those who had the temerity to call from venturing into the house, by force if necessary.
‘No trespassers,’ he muttered, before either Holmes or I could utter a word. He was by no means a giant, but his shoulders were broad and his girth considerable, so that he blocked the way into the entrance hall as effectively as a brick wall.
My friend responded with an ironic smile and, raising his voice, announced, ‘I believe that Mr Charles Gillibrand would be willing to make the acquaintance of Mr Sherlock Holmes.’
From inside, a high-pitched voice fluted. ‘Mr Sherlock Holmes? What a delicious surprise! By all means, do come in.’
With a scornful grunt, the servant lumbered aside to allow us ingress. As we strode forward, a slender young man came to greet us. His face was pale, as though he rarely saw the sunlight, and his fair hair was slicked back. When we shook hands, his grip was girlish. I caught the whiff of a rather unmanly scent which he had evidently daubed around his neck.
‘I saw your cab arrive,’ our host explained, dismissing his man with a flap of the hand. ‘Of course I was so intrigued! To what, pray, do I owe the honour of a visit from London’s most celebrated detective?’
He ushered us into a cavernous sitting room. Two of its walls were covered with fine paintings of the Venetian school, a third by old maps. A display cabinet was filled to overflowing with silver coins in presentation cases and a bookcase groaned under the weight of heavy Morocco-bound albums. I could picture this curious fellow a few moments earlier, peering out between the brocaded curtains when he heard the cab stop outside. A couple of candles in an elaborately carved holder on the sideboard burned brightly, but the corners where their light did not fall were dark and gloomy. I remarked films of dust on every surface, a further puzzling instance of the contradiction between evident riches and skimped housekeeping.
‘Thank you,’ Holmes said as the young man indicated an armchair. ‘I prefer to stand. Our visit will be brief. I have only one object in trespassing here and that is to ensure that the property of Mr Josiah Buckle is returned to its rightful owner.’
Charles Gillibrand’s cheeks turned crimson and he clutched at the sideboard as if for support. ‘What on earth are you suggesting, Mr Holmes?’
‘The letters,’ my friend said suavely. ‘Mr Buckle has a strong sentimental attachment to them. I have come to retrieve them. Nothing more.’
Our effete host swallowed hard. ‘I am afraid that is impossible. I mean, I simply cannot understand what you are asking me to do.’
With two quick strides, Holmes was standing in front of Gillibrand. Their brows were almost touching. ‘I must insist,’ he said in the calm, level tone that, as I had come to realise, he employed when he was in deadly earnest. ‘Mr Buckle has a strong sentimental attachment to the correspondence that was stolen from him. He is an old and decent man and he deserves better than to have his last years tarnished by a theft as cruel as it was pointless.’
‘Pointless?’ Charles Gillibrand murmured. ‘How odd that you should say that. Not, of course, that I have any idea of what you are talking about. What in the name of Heaven makes you believe that I would be able to assist you?’
‘Less than two hours ago,’ Holmes said, ‘I was looking down on the corpse of your late father’s valet, Harry Kilner.’
‘Oh dear.’ The young man’s eyes flickered and I thought I caught a note of hysteria in his voice. ‘An accident? The demon drink, I suppose. Poor old Harry was over-fond of alcohol. My father often used to measure the bottles to quantify the scale of Harry’s little thefts. Poor father! He was too kindly to take the obvious step of dispensing with the services of a criminal who betrayed his trust. That was a mistake I did not make myself.’
‘No doubt,’ Holmes said languidly, ‘it was with a view to ingratiating himself with you that Kilner drew your attention to the upside down swan.’
That final phrase had a startling effect upon Charles Gillibrand. He uttered a gasp of shock and glanced wildly around the room, as if in search of a means of escape.
‘Ah,’ Holmes said, ‘I see that I have it right.’
Seized by panic, the young man called out, ‘Cave! Cave! Where are you? Come here at once, or it will be the worse for you!’
We heard the pounding of feet and the door was flung open by the ruffian whom we had met at the door. When he saw my friend confronting Gillibrand, he narrowed his eyes and rocked on his heels. He gave the impression of an uncaged animal, waiting for the right moment to pounce.
Undeterred, Holmes gave him a curt bow. ‘Mr Cave? Your master has confirmed a rather speculative theory of mine, as have the size of your boots and other details corresponding to data available at the scene of your crime. Before he died, Harry Kilner murmured a few words and the first was “Cave”.’
Cave scowled and balled his fists. Gillibrand glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. He seemed almost as frightened of his servant as of Holmes.
‘What do you want, Mr Holmes?’
‘The letters. All of them. Including the envelope for which you were willing to sacrifice a man’s life.’
‘I did not mean anyone to die,’ Gillibrand said. ‘Poor Cave is blessed with strength in abundance, rather than intelligence. Kilner’s death was unnecessary, but this fellow never knows when to stop.’
Cave growled and again I was reminded of a wild creature. He seemed to me less a man than a ferocious beast who respected no-one, who followed nothing but his own primitive instincts.
Giving him a nervous glance, Gillibrand murmured, ‘Mr Holmes, I am sure that we can come to some arrangement.’
‘My immediate concern is to ensure the return of the letters. As to the murder, no doubt you and this brute will have to throw yourselves on the mercy of Scotland Yard.’
‘I had nothing to do with murder! It was Cave’s fault, I tell you. All I asked him to do was to give Kilner a warning, but he went too far.’
Holmes shrugged. ‘A slender basis for a defence to a capital charge.’
‘What!’ There was no mistaking the fear in Gillibrand’s eyes. ‘Now, Mr Holmes, you can have the letters, and Cave’s neck too, if need be. But I tell you, I am innocent.’
‘My neck?’ the ruffian roared with fury. He took a pace towards my friend and swung a punch which Holmes, always light on his feet, dodged easily enough.
‘For Heaven’s sake, man, have you gone mad?’ demanded Gillibrand, placing a small white hand on the fellow’s arm.
It was inconceivable that such a feeble grip could restrain a strong and violent man and Cave shrugged it off with such force that he sent his master spinning backwards, so as to collide with the sideboard. The impact was sufficient to cause the candlestick to topple over and within seconds the woodwork was ablaze.
Cave bellowed in incoherent horror, much as an animal might when confronted by fire, and backed towards the door. Gillibrand lay crumpled on the thick Persian carpet, screaming at the sight of the room in flames. I whipped off my coat in an attempt to beat out the fire, but its ferocity drove me back. Already pungent smoke was filling my nostrils and making it hard to breathe. Even as I fought for air, Cave made good his escape, but neither my friend nor I sought to follow him.
Holmes advanced towards the prostrate young man. ‘The letters!’ he shouted. ‘Where are they?’
Gillibrand cast a quick glance at a cabinet on the opposite side of the sitting room. ‘Do something!’ he yelped. ‘My house is on fire! You must save it, for pity’s sake!’
‘Pity?’ Holmes demanded. ‘What pity did you have for Josiah Buckle or Harry Kilner?’
As I redoubled my efforts to fight the blaze, my friend moved swiftly across to
the cabinet and threw open its doors. A pile of papers spilled out on to the carpet and he swooped like an eagle upon a pack of yellowing envelopes loosely tied with string.
Gillibrand cried out. ‘So you have what you came for! Now help me!’
Still prostrate on the floor, he was choking from the fumes. The blaze had taken hold. My own eyes were watering and I knew that in seconds the battle would be lost. Within moments, the effects of smoke inhalation would render me insensible.
‘Holmes! We must go!’
My friend moved across the room and seized Gillibrand’s collar. As I made a final vain attempt to combat the flames, Holmes dragged the young man across the floor and out of the room. Not an instant too soon, I joined them in the hallway, banging the door shut against the inferno raging within.
***
‘You see, Mr Buckle,’ Holmes explained to the tobacconist late that evening, ‘it was clear to me from the outset that you had been the victim of a cruel plot, designed to separate you not only from mementoes of inestimable personal value, but also from not inconsiderable riches.’
The old man studied the items on the table in front of him with tears in his eyes. There were half a dozen envelopes and as many sheets of paper, all bearing the careful calligraphy of the late George Buckle. ‘I shall never be able to thank you enough, Mr Holmes.’
‘Think of the return of the letters as a Christmas gift, my dear sir. It was apparent that Kilner knew that you had something worth stealing and yet, when he lured you away to the tavern, the only items stolen appeared to have no more than sentimental value. A casual theft is not so carefully planned and I felt sure that the secret lay in your son’s letters. Something he had written, perhaps? The good Watson thought so, but I was unconvinced. Poor Kilner’s final words provided me with almost all the information I required. He did his best, with his parting breaths, to hang the man who had done for him. Not only did he name Cave, but he also explained the motive.’
‘The upside down swan,’ I murmured, looking at one of the envelopes. It bore a blue lithographed stamp on the top right hand corner. On opposite sides of the stamp’s frame were the words Western Australia and Postage Four Pence. Within the frame was a black swan, emblem of the old Swan River Settlement. In the printing process, the picture had been inverted.
The New Mysteries of Sherlock Holmes Page 7