He face twisted in worry. “What can I do, Mr. Holmes? From all the evidence this man is guilty, yet somehow I am unconvinced. There was blood everywhere in the alley, but we have found none on any of Wilson’s clothing. My superior says only that he must have discarded his coat somewhere on the journey home. But he was wearing his usual coat when he returned, for a neighbor saw him arrive, and with the amount of blood, his boots too and even the legs of his trousers would have been stained—and they were not.
“We found the weapon, it was a knife of the common sort but well sharpened, and the blow which killed Melden was struck by a man skilled with such a weapon. I have found nothing in Wilson’s past to explain that. My superior says that any fool may be fortunate once, yet I am not convinced. And always the Duke is in the office talking, and each time my superior comes out with new reasons why Wilson must be guilty. So far I have managed to hold off from formal charges, saying we should have a watertight case since Wilson’s daughter is to marry young Ainsworth. Can you help me, Mr. Holmes?”
Holmes nodded slowly. “I believe I can. I have a few more inquiries to make, and then I may be able to place the solution in your hands. I have something I wish you to do for me first.” He looked at McGeorge, who nodded eagerly. “I wish you to find out what you can about two men. These are their names and details.” He passed over a piece of paper.
“I’ll do what I can, sir.”
“Then I’ll wish you a good day.”
I was all agog as McGeorge departed. “What were the names, Holmes?”
“A man called Archibald Carrol; the name of the other man varies, he has used more than one.”
I was puzzled. “I’ve heard nothing of any man by the name of Carrol in connection with the Wilson case, Holmes?”
“I assure you, my friend, both men have an intimate connection that shall be revealed in due course.” was all he would tell me at that time.
McGeorge called a day later and was admitted. “I have all you want sir, I think. Carrol was hung a year back for a killing while in prison, but the other was released early and is now using the other name which you gave me. I looked at his prison records and the man wasn’t due to be released for several years. I questioned that with the Governor and was told to mind my own business. I think someone of influence may have been involved.”
Amusement flickered briefly in my friend’s eyes. “You are probably right, McGeorge. But I’d recommend right now that you do as was suggested to you, and ask no more questions. I—and others—have an appointment to see your Commissioner tomorrow. You are to be there with us at two in the afternoon.”
I could see McGeorge was mystified, but he trusted Holmes. “I’ll be there, sir.”
“Good man.”
I spent the remainder of the evening thinking over events while Holmes read in silence. I could not see how anything we had done so far would free poor Wilson, but I too had confidence in Holmes. Just before we retired one of Holmes’ lads arrived. They spoke briefly before Holmes took possession of a bundle tied up clumsily but securely in brown paper and well-knotted string.
Holmes handed that to me the next day as we set out. “Give this to me when I request, my dear Watson. I think it may be safer with you.” I noticed that the bundle had been retied so as to appear smaller and now reposed within a bag from a popular shop.
In his own hands Holmes carried a bundle identical in appearance to the one Joe had handed over the previous night. I smiled, understanding the ruse. It was as well, since as we exited the hansom cab for our appointment a man dashed up, thrust my friend against the building, seized the parcel, and made off with it. I grinned at Holmes in satisfaction and received his nod of approval in return.
At precisely two o’clock we were shown into the rooms of the Commissioner of the London police. He was not alone; a man stood with him, and I recognized, if not who the Commissioner’s companion was, at least what he was; for only a nobleman would have such a bearing. The Commissioner gazed keenly at Holmes, looking disapprovingly at my bundle, then turned as McGeorge was shown in.
Holmes spoke first. “I have asked Officer McGeorge to be present, since what I am about to reveal concerns a case in which he has been deeply involved.”
“Very well, Mr. Holmes. But please be brief, I am a busy man with many calls upon my time.”
“As am I, Commissioner. But I will make this a short tale so far as I can. It concerns a man who, some years ago, was inadvertently caught up in an attempt to rob the bank a few doors from his shop. Mr. Jabez Wilson was made the victim of a scheme to have him out of the way, but being an honest and dogged man, he came to me to discover how, and why, he had been used in such a way.
“I was able to discover the plot, and the police imprisoned those involved, a man named Archibald Carrol, and another calling himself John Clay. Carrol subsequently killed a man in a prison brawl and was hanged, but Clay was later released and took up his original name of Jonathon Vincent.”
I saw the nobleman move slightly and Holmes turned to him. “An interesting name, is it not?” He received no reply and, after a few seconds, he continued.
“Meanwhile, Jabez Wilson met a widow with a young daughter and married her. The marriage was very happy until James Melden, her supposedly dead husband, returned. The man was a liar, a thief, and a scoundrel—and a would-be murderer. Mrs. Wilson had two unusual events occur to her shortly before the man’s death, once when a hansom attempted to run her down, the other when a pistol was discharged at her. Neither the driver of the cab nor the shooter was ever found by the police, although McGeorge assures me that you looked.
“I have read the father’s will and the conditions concerning his estate, and I believe it is within those conditions that the motive is hid. If Charlotte Wilson dies, the estate becomes the absolute property of her daughter—who is yet a minor. If Melden were then to reappear, the girl would be in his power and the money his. How long, think you, would the girl live after that?
“Fortunately, both attempts against Mrs. Wilson failed, and it was then that I believe her rascally husband determined to obtain money in an easier fashion, at least to begin with. He planned to blackmail Jabez Wilson, using threats of public humiliation against both women. To prevent this, Jabez scraped up all the money he could find to pay Melden. It was a foolish thing to do; no blackmailer is ever satisfied, but Jabez hoped.
“What he did not realize was that a portion of this episode was insinuated into his enemy’s mind by John Clay, known by now as Jonathon Vincent. The two men had met on the docks while pursuing their own crimes and Vincent had the story from Melden, and at once he saw how the man could be used.
“Vincent was the son of a noble family, his career as a criminal known to very few—but known to still fewer was the identity of his companion in crime. Archibald Carrol was Vincent’s illegitimate brother and his long-time friend. When Archibald was hanged, Vincent blamed Jabez Wilson, but for whom neither man would have been caught, and he set out to see the man he blamed for his brother’s death ruined, broken, and hanged to repay the debt.
“Jabez Wilson was seen by witnesses to leave his shop around late evening and return. It was not Jabez who left, but another man, one who always excelled at theatrics and who chose to leave in the uncertain light of dusk and to return after dark, pausing to stand on his doorstep where the light from a nearby street-lamp fell upon him until he was noticed by your witnesses. Is that not so, Your Grace?” His gaze transfixed the Duke who stood stiffly staring, before he nodded reluctantly—but as one who is duty-bound.
“Melden came and left again when Jabez said he did. Vincent met his dupe later in the alleyway, murdered and robbed him, achieving in one blow the stopping of a mouth, a considerable sum of money for his own use, and, he hoped, the ruin of a man he hated. You will ask if there is proof of this? There is. I have the coat Vincent wore for the killing, and it is clear Jabez Wilson could neither wear nor own such a garment. Not only is it a full size to
o small for him, it is from a tailor whose name is a household word. They can tell you for whom the coat was made—as they told me.
“I have also spoken to the witnesses. They never saw Jabez Wilson move. I venture to say that, were they shown the man walking, they would at once insist that was not the man they saw leave and re-enter Wilson’s shop. The appearance of a man may be easily counterfeited in poor light, the way in which he moves is not so easily faked.”
“The coat? You have it here?” asked the Commissioner.
Holmes nodded to me and I produced the bundle. He laid out the garment, pointing to the ominous stains and the size marked within. “I think, if you investigate all I have said, you will find further proof—if it should be necessary.” He met the Duke’s gaze with his own stare and waited.
“It is not necessary.”
The Commissioner turned. “Your Grace, are you saying that you know this tale already? That you knew your son for a murderer and this other man as his innocent victim?”
“I did not know before last night. I feared. Jonathon has been wild from a boy, but I swear I did not know how far he had gone until a letter reached me some time ago saying he was imprisoned under a false name, and begging me to have him freed. He was my son. I did what I could.”
“And the man Carrol?”
The Duke flushed slightly. “I was fond of his mother who had been a servant in my father’s house. When I inherited my title and estate I set her up in a cottage in the village and allowed my sons to become friends. Archibald vanished when he was still in his teens. I know now that he was involved in smuggling and was often in France. I knew nothing of it at the time, nor that he and Vincent were yet close friends.”
Holmes looked at him. “One son is dead, Your Grace. What now of the other?”
“He has left the country and will not return.” The Duke produced a sealed envelope. “Here is the confession he wrote before he took ship. He admits too that Melden planned murder to obtain his wife’s estate. With this confession my son’s victim may be freed, and I will see the man receives generous compensation for his suffering.”
I was still muttering angrily when we departed. It was clear the whole business would be hushed up and I heartily disapproved. Holmes was more philosophical.
“Don’t distress yourself, my dear Watson. The death of Melden prevented his intended murder of his wife and daughter. As for Jonathon Vincent, he lives a life of violence. As the Bible says, those who live by the sword shall perish by the sword.”
In which Holmes spoke only the truth. Two years after Miss Sophia Wilson married the Honorable Frederick Ainsworth, news came that Jonathon Vincent had been killed in France. And yet, maybe in the end noble blood had told after all. He had died rescuing a little girl who had fallen in the street before a fast-driven carriage. He had time to fling her clear before he died under its wheels.
A QUESTION OF PRESENCE
I heard about Holmes’ latest case almost two days after it began. I had been away in Kent seeing an elderly relative of my wife and I dropped in to spend time with Holmes on my return. I saw at once that he was as animated as he always is when an interesting case comes his way.
“What is it this time, Holmes?”
“Something that may be rather nasty, Watson. Do you remember the case of Miss Mary Sutherland? She came to ask me to find her fiancé, Mr. Hosmer Angel.”
I remembered. It was one of the few times I had seen my old friend so angry. I smiled. “I remember that you wished to horsewhip her stepfather for his cruel deception.”
“So I did, and it was more the pity I did not.”
I laughed aloud at that. “I think you would have had to engage in a foot race through the city to do so, my dear Holmes. The man saw the intent in your eyes and fled; indeed, seldom have I seen a man move so quickly as Windibank once he saw that you knew all.”
Holmes’ attitude seemed to sober. “Yes, but I fear he may not have remained impressed for long. Two mornings ago I had a visitor, and his tale is one which seems to me to be an ominous one.”
I poured myself out a beer, drank half the glass, and sat in my usual chair to listen to the tale my friend related.
It had been a bright fine morning, and Holmes had risen early to work on a new monograph concerning the deductions that could be made from various sorts of paper. He was hard at work when there came a brief rapping on his door. He opened that to find a young man standing there, waiting to be admitted.
“I saw at once,” Holmes said. “That he was from the colonies. His tan had not yet faded and since here it is barely spring, it was obvious that he had come from a country where the season was just fading into autumn. He was a fine upstanding young man in his late twenties, as I should judge it, and there was about him an aura of health and hard physical work. He reached out and shook my hand eagerly and, from aspects of his hands and wrists, I deduced him to be a sheep farmer—and as soon as he spoke I recognized the accent also. He was a New Zealander, a man of the land, owning his own farm, and I said as much.”
“Why, sir, how can you know that?”
“You are clearly a man used to hard physical work, but that could be many occupations. However, despite calluses, your hands are far softer than one might expect; such a thing comes from the regular handling of sheep, the lanolin in their raw fleeces keeping soft the hands, which might otherwise be rougher-skinned. You could be merely a shearer, or a farm laborer, but for your clothing. It is not in the first style here in England, but it was clearly made for you, and from cloth of excellent quality by an experienced tailor.”
“You are…you must be…Mr. Sherlock Holmes then. I have heard of your great deductive powers, sir, and it is for that reason I have come to consult you most urgently.”
“I am he; come in and be seated. Tell me the problem and I shall see what may be done.”
The young man accepted the offer, sat, and considered briefly before commencing his story.
“I am Josiah Sutherland, known at home as Joe. My father, Edward Sutherland, came out from Cheshire to New Zealand as a lad of sixteen, there he worked for a farmer and learned the trade while he saved hard. Later he wed, took up an area of land near Auckland, and became a farmer himself. It is volcanic soil there and very rich—so that with hard work and a devoted wife, he prospered. Still, I will say to you, Mr. Holmes, that he never forgot his parents and only brother at home.
“He felt that he owed his mother and brother much. His father was a hard man, and for some youthful peccadillo he cast my father off, but my uncle was already working as a paperboy, and my grandmother had some small savings of her own. Between them they secretly provided the fare for my father to emigrate so that he should have not have a debt outstanding on his arrival. My father never forgot that, but by the time he was in a position to repay them, my grandmother had been dead for many years, and my uncle had just died.
“Instead my father chose a sum of money which he thought represented the amount of his fare they had provided, with—added to it—the interest which would have accrued over the years since. It came to two and a half thousand pounds and this sum he placed in a bank in the city of Auckland and said in his will that it was to fall to my cousin, Mary. The interest was to be hers so long as she lived, so that she would never be in want.”
“How did he know of her?”
“He kept in touch always with his mother and younger brother. There were letters sent to a friend that were passed on to them, while they were free to write openly to him so long as my grandfather knew nothing of that. Once my grandfather was dead, they were free also to receive letters openly, and when my father died there was a whole small chest containing the letters he had received over more than thirty years. The affection between the brothers remained a great constant in both their lives, and before my uncle died he had planned to bring his wife and daughter on a visit to our farm.”
“But this did not occur.” It was a statement, and Josiah Sutherland nodded.
“No, my uncle died, his wife remarried, and as my father also died about that time, there was a complete, though temporary, lapse in communication between the two families. I cannot swear to it, sir, but from things within the letters I have cause to believe that my uncle’s wife resented her husband’s friendship with my father, and was only too happy to cut her connection upon his death.
“My lawyer said that once she discovered that my father had left a large sum of money to my cousin, Mary, she attempted to have the money transferred to herself instead, but my father had a good lawyer and the trust was firmly established. Perhaps, had the money alone been left to Mary, it could have been diverted since she was barely twenty-one at the time. But it is in trust, and the principal reverts to me on her death, or to my heirs should I also be dead.”
“So you stand to receive two and a half thousand pounds upon the death of your cousin. It is a large sum.” Holmes’ voice was bland.
Josiah Sutherland flushed angrily. “It is nothing to me, sir. I have five times the sum in my bank, and many times that again in the worth of my beasts and land. No, I came here to England to seek out my cousin. Our fathers were brothers and the best of friends, and I would like to know her also as a friend. She continued to write to me after our fathers’ deaths, less often but still regularly, telling me much about her own life, talking of her home,” here he smiled, “and at least one unusual feature of it, and much else so that I became concerned when, some four months ago I ceased to hear from her without knowing any cause for her silence.”
“So you rushed halfway across the world to see what could have happened to a woman you have never met, do not know, and whose death provides well for you?”
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