“Then perhaps you would be good enough to explain to me exactly how you came by facts concerning the late Miss McLachlan which have only come to light in the last hour, when Major McLachlan himself visited the Yard to report his aunt missing?”
“As you were so quick to point out, Inspector, I am neither your underling nor a member of the police force. And as a mere amateur, I hardly think it my place to educate you in how best to carry out your investigations.”
“Amateur you may be, Holmes, but if you do not furnish me with a reasonable explanation for your surprising knowledge, I shall be forced to draw the obvious conclusion. That your friend Dr. Watson informed you of the name of the woman he brutally murdered. Now, sir, what have you to say to that?”
Holmes considered for a moment, his fingers steepled beneath his chin in a familiar manner. He glanced at me, but I had long experience of his methods, and was in no doubt that he had an answer for Potter, if he chose to give it. Finally, with a sigh of irritation, he turned his attention to the waiting policeman.
“Very well, Inspector Potter. If, as seems the case, you are incapable of the most basic police work, then I suppose it falls to me to educate you. The chain of deduction is really a very simple one.” He gestured towards me. “In his statement, Dr. Watson mentioned that the murder room contained little by way of furnishings, and what there was of inferior quality. However, he also noted that a lady’s robe of expensive manufacture hung from a wardrobe door.
“The only logical explanation was that this garment belonged to the victim. Therefore, when I left the police station last night I contacted various street urchins who have in the past rendered me similar services, and detailed them to visit every police station they could, checking whether an elderly lady of quality had been reported missing. Fortunately, one of my young friends happened to chance upon a serving girl on an errand who informed him that her mistress had wandered off during the night. It seems that the lady in question is mentally somewhat past her prime and has been known to disappear on unplanned midnight rambles, but always she has returned by first light. This morning she failed to do so. The lady’s name was Sarah McLachlan, aunt through marriage to Major McLachlan.”
He sat back, his face expressionless, awaiting Potter’s reaction.
To my surprise, Potter seemed mollified. “Very good, Mr. Holmes,” he said, with a strained smile. “If only some of my lads were half as sharp as you, we’d already have this case tied up.”
“I cannot comment on that, Inspector. You know your men better than I.”
“I do. And any of my men would have come to me at once, had they any information likely to aid in an investigation. In fact,” he concluded, the smile fading from his face, “I wonder that you did not. And I wonder what other facts you might know, but have kept to yourself? Facts which might, perhaps, further incriminate your friend here.”
He stared steadily at Holmes as he spoke, ignoring me as though I were not there. But if he expected Holmes to react, he was to be frustrated.
“As you said, Inspector, I am a mere amateur. What could I possibly know that the professionals do not? As for Miss McLachlan, this is the first time I have seen you since discovering her identity. When else might I have told you of what I had learned?” A cold smile played briefly on his lips. “And besides, you did come to the same conclusion without my assistance.”
Potter held Holmes’s eye for a moment longer than was comfortable then, with an exaggerated sigh, turned his attention to me.
“Very well, Dr. Watson,” he said. “As I was saying before I was interrupted, the deceased lady has been identified as the aunt of a prominent Member of Parliament, Major Sir Campbell McLachlan. Do you have any personal knowledge of the major or his aunt? Have you ever met or treated Major McLachlan or any member of his family? There is a brother who lives with the major, I believe.” He flipped open his notebook and held a pencil above a blank page. “I would remind you that we will be asking the same question of the major, so I would advise you to be sure of your recollections.”
It was fortunate that Holmes had alerted me to the name earlier, otherwise I would have been less sure of my answer. As it was, I was able to reply with confidence that I had met neither McLachlan nor his late aunt.
“But you are aware of the major’s work concerning the gangs who have recently been the cause of an upsurge in criminality in the capital?”
“I am aware of the gangs, yes, of course. I have even, in my own small way, been able to assist Holmes in disturbing their activities. Major McLachlan’s name is new to me, however – in this and every other regard!”
I had not cared for Potter’s insinuation that I would be less than truthful, and I fear some of my irritation was apparent in my tone.
“There’s no need to raise your voice, Dr. Watson,” he said with a glint of pleasure in his eye. “I should tell you that I myself have worked with Major McLachlan in the past, with a great deal of success, and a fair amount of reporting in the press. I must admit to some surprise that a gentleman with your particular interests should claim that the name is unknown to him.”
“Watson is as knowledgeable regarding current affairs as any man, Inspector, but if he has a flaw it is in his occasional failure to take note of details.” Holmes’s voice was smooth as he again took charge of the conversation. “I, however, know a great deal about the major. He is a soldier of some repute, and a hero of various Indian campaigns. Famously jealous of his privacy and of his family’s reputation, all that is generally known of this private man is that he is a keen collector of military memorabilia, was in his time a gifted polo player and is expected to be raised to the Lords in the very near future. He is not, however, someone who has ever called upon the services of either myself or Dr. Watson, nor do I recollect ever making his acquaintance socially.”
“Does that answer satisfy you, Inspector Potter?” I asked.
“It is certainly an answer, Doctor, but I would not go so far as to say that I find it satisfactory. But let us move on for the moment.” He consulted his notebook. “You were discovered in the murder room with several knives. Now,” he held up a hand to forestall my objection, “I am aware that as a doctor you can claim such blades to be necessary for your work, but you are not currently – and correct me if I’m wrong – a surgeon? So, three knives might be viewed as excessive, given your normal day-to-day practice?”
“In my day-to-day practice, yes. But recently I have treated an elderly patient by lancing a variety of painful boils, for which I needed a range of knives. Besides,” I said, becoming more heated at the detective’s insinuating tone, “even your own policeman admitted that each knife in my bag was free of blood.”
To my surprise, Potter gave a small chuckle at this sally. He flipped his notebook to a new page and read the few words I could see written there.
“Thank you again, Dr. Watson, for reminding me of the second piece of new evidence uncovered since last night.”
He reached into his bag, and pulled out a crumpled brown rag, which he laid before us on the table.
“This rag was found by one of my men, dropped under the bed. As you will see, it is heavily marked with dried blood. Almost as though someone had wiped a bloody knife clean on it.”
He sat back, satisfied he had struck a blow to my defence. Holmes, however, was once again equal to the task.
“Might I examine it, Inspector?” he asked quietly. Without waiting for an answer, he lifted the rag from the table and turned it this way and that in his long fingers. He spent no more than five seconds in such scrutiny, before casually tossing it across to me. “Here is a key element in the inspector’s case against you, Watson. Will you tell him the flaw in his reasoning, or shall I?”
It was on the tip of my tongue to tell Holmes that this was no time for games, but before I had even opened my mouth, I saw exactly what my friend meant. The rag had clearly once been grey, for here and there small patches of that colour were visible among the
far more prevalent dark brown of dried blood. Nothing but the blood rendered it remarkable, making it all the easier to spot the flaw in Potter’s theory.
“The bloodstains!” I cried with delight and no small relief. “They all but cover the rag!”
“Bravo, Watson!” exclaimed Holmes with a laugh of real pleasure; the first I had heard in this place. “You have it exactly! This rag has been soaked in blood, Inspector,” he said, switching his attention back to the bewildered Potter. “There is barely a space the size of a shilling unblemished. You surely see the significance? No? Then let me demonstrate.”
With that, he leant forward and picked up the detective’s pencil. Holding it in one hand as though he would a knife, he took a piece of paper from his pocket and held it in the other. “See here, Inspector, I have the weapon, fresh from the kill, but I can hardly walk the streets afterwards with a bloody knife in my hand. I must clean it, but how? Aha! A fragment of cloth lies nearby, just the thing! I fold the cloth in two round the knife—” he matched his actions to his words as he spoke “—and slide it along the blade, wiping away all trace of my infamous act.”
He pulled the paper open again and laid it back flat on the table. “You take my point, Inspector? As Watson so readily grasped, any bloodstains caused by cleaning a knife blade would stand out clearly in straight lines and congeal on either side of the fold. Not smudged across the whole, as is the case here.”
He handed the rag back to Potter, who said nothing but glared at the blood-encrusted object as though it had personally offended him. He snapped shut his notebook, having written nothing in it, and rose to his feet. “Well, I cannot spend all day talking to you, so I’ll bid you both good day. I’m sure I’ll have further questions later.”
With that, he departed, leaving Holmes and myself alone at last.
“Thank you, Holmes,” I said. “Had you not forewarned me about Miss McLachlan I fear I would have given the appearance of guilt, however honestly I searched my memory.”
Holmes dismissed my thanks with a wave. “Even by the woeful standards of Scotland Yard, Inspector Potter is impressive only in his mediocrity. He contrives always to miss the obvious in his quest for the incriminatory. No matter what you said or how you reacted, he would have assumed your guilt and assured himself he had seen evidence of it. He is, however, dogged, if Lestrade is to be believed. He will not readily give up his pursuit.
“Still, he has been routed this morning. We should allow ourselves some pleasure in that. Perhaps it will prove some consolation to you, once you have read this.”
I had noticed Holmes turning a square of newspaper in his hands since the door had closed on Potter, and this he now held out to me, an unexpected look of contrition on his face.
The clipping was from a newspaper I recognised as a notorious purveyor of social scandal and revolutionary rhetoric. The paper itself was cheap and thin, the ink tending to smudge even as I unfolded it, but enough remained legible for me to realise that it was an account of my arrest. The text was in the usual jumbled mix of typefaces, designed to heighten the impact of the author’s lurid prose, but the content was less terrible than I might have feared. Beneath the banner headline proclaiming my arrest were only two paragraphs, the first of which merely recounted the bare facts of my “capture”.
The second section, however, concentrated on my relationship with Holmes.
DR. WATSON IS BEST KNOWN to the public as the author of a series of fictions recounting his activities as assistant to Sherlock Holmes, the well-known London busybody. Those of our readership who are familiar with his writings will be aware that Dr. Watson and Mr. Holmes exclusively content themselves with investigations into “criminal” acts aimed at the ruling classes, thereby positioning themselves firmly on the side of the oppressors. It has long been suspected by certain parties, among whom this reporter counts himself, that Mr. Holmes considers the law to apply only to other people, and it seems that this lax attitude to personal morality has now spread to his amanuensis. Mr. Holmes is known to have close ties to Scotland Yard and prominent members of the government, so it will come as no surprise to our readers to hear that steps have already been taken to quash reporting of Dr. Watson’s crime, and that he is likely to be released into his companion’s custody in the near future.
I shrugged my shoulders slightly. “It was bound to get out, I suppose,” I said in a steady voice. “If you blame yourself for its existence, then please do not, I beg of you, Holmes. No man could hope to silence the entirety of the British press. Not even you,” I concluded with a wry smile.
Holmes frowned in return. “It is the only account I have found. We can at least console ourselves with that. Still, Mycroft is most vexed that even one reporter thought it worthwhile to oppose his will. There will be no repeat.”
I hurried to reassure him further by stressing the one positive to be found in the newspaper clipping. “Never mind that, Holmes! Is there any truth in the last part – that I am likely to be released soon?”
“Forgive me, my dear fellow!” he exclaimed suddenly, slapping a palm on the table. “That is the news I intended to give you before Inspector Potter appeared and drove the matter temporarily from my mind. Mycroft is confident that you will be released by the end of the week.”
The relief that flooded through me at those words was incalculable. I have, of course, spent time in far worse physical conditions than those I had seen in Holloway Prison, but the mental anguish, the horror of public humiliation should this affair become common knowledge; that had tied my stomach in knots since my fleeting appearance in court. Now it seemed that particular ordeal would soon be behind me.
“That is splendid news, Holmes,” I cried. “But how have you managed it?”
“I must admit that little of the credit is mine, Watson. My role was simply to remind my brother that, save for your presence in the murder room itself, there was no real evidence against you. You had the opportunity to commit the crime, but that is all. What possible motive could you have for slaughtering a complete stranger, and how did you do the deed, and yet leave your knives as spotless as ever? These questions were put to… interested parties, and it was agreed that the answers provided by the police force were less than satisfactory.” He smiled widely. “I expect the paperwork required for your release to arrive in the next few days.”
On that happy note, Holmes took his leave, the time allotted for our interview having come to an end. The promise of freedom would sustain me until that promise became a reality, and so I allowed myself to be escorted to my cell with a far more hopeful heart than I had expected when leaving it only an hour before.
Chapter Five
It is a grave mistake to embrace hope when another person controls every part of your existence.
This was brought home to me almost immediately, as Shapley (who it seemed had attached himself to me, to the exclusion of the other guards) ordered me to halt as I made to take the staircase that led to my cell.
“You’re moving home, Watson,” he said, reaching forward to remove from my chest the badge showing my cell number. “Governor says we need your cell, so you’re to be shifted somewhere less comfortable. Privileges are for those as deserve them, not rippers of old ladies like you. Now get moving!” He pushed me hard in the back, forcing me forward and to the side, where I stumbled and scraped my hand against the wall.
I knew that there was nothing to be gained by protest. I straightened up and, following his pointed finger, made my way down an unfamiliar staircase, along another identical corridor and into my new cell.
In truth, there was little on the surface to differentiate between my new home and the old one. The main difference was the addition of a second bed, on which sat a small, hunched figure. He greeted me with a nod as I entered.
“Brought you some company, Hardie,” Shapley announced. “And he’s a cold’un, this one. A killer, no less, so you best watch out for yourself. I’d be sleeping with one eye open if I was you.
” He laughed and slammed the door shut behind him.
Only once Shapley had left did my new cellmate speak. “And what do we have here then?” he said in a surprisingly friendly tone; there was no malice in his voice, and he smiled as he looked me up and down.
Unsure how best to respond, I settled for returning his nod, and sat on the edge of the unoccupied bed.
“What do they call you then?” he asked again, his scrutiny of me apparently over.
“Do—John Watson,” I said. No need to advertise my professional status. “And you?”
He grinned widely. “Albert C. Hardie at your service, John, but me mates call me Bert.”
I bristled a little at “John”, but recalling where I was, did my best to repress my discomfort. I did not intend to be in prison for long, but while I was, it would be in my interests to make friends if I could. “Bert it is then,” I said, and offered him my hand. He stared at it briefly then, a decision seemingly made, he extended his own and we shook. His handshake was firm, almost too much so, and he held my gaze for a long moment before releasing my hand. I took the opportunity thus presented to study his face in detail. He could not have been much more than fourteen or fifteen, thin but robust, with a pale, pockmarked face from which two small unblinking blue eyes peered out.
He was obviously as interested in me as I was in him. “Is that right what he said? Are you a murderer?”
“It is all a misunderstanding.”
“A poisoner, I expect,” he said, thoughtfully. “That’s how your sort like to do it, ain’t it?”
“I am no poisoner, I assure you,” I said stiffly. “Nor a murderer of any other stripe. There was—” I hesitated. Was it wise to speak of my case with a stranger? I had heard of spies being placed in prison cells, men desperate for commutation of their sentence and willing to report on their fellow prisoners to that end. I was aware the boy was staring at me and that I was taking too long to respond. In the end, I simply repeated myself, “—a misunderstanding,” though I knew how inadequate I sounded.
The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes--The Improbable Prisoner Page 4