The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories - Part IX

by Marcum, David;

  The Lambeth Poisoner Case

  by Stephen Gaspar

  The first days of spring in the year 1892 found me very alone. Not only had I lost my close friend Sherlock Holmes the previous year, but this past winter had deprived me of beloved wife Mary. I will not go into the details of her passing, as they are very difficult for me to relate. Suffice it to say, that spring I had never felt so alone in my entire life.

  Each day felt much like the one previous, and so the days, weeks, and months strung together like one long day of simply existing. I had taken a sabbatical from my practice, as I did not believe I was in the best frame of mind to make important medical judgements. I tried the best I could to carry on a normal existence. I saw regularly to my toilet and was dressed by breakfast. The only activity that gave me any satisfaction during that time was to take up my pen to record the adventures I had shared with my friend Sherlock Holmes.

  One day toward the middle of April I sat at the table drinking my coffee and reading The Times when an article in the paper caught my attention. The article ran thus:

  LAMBETH POISONER STRIKES AGAIN!

  Mrs. Vogt, who runs a rooming house on 118 Stamford Street, was awakened the other night by a ghastly shriek that had issued from one of her lodgers, Alice Marsh. Mrs. Vogt found Miss Marsh writhing in agony upon the hallway floor.

  In a room upstairs, Mr. Vogt found another female lodger, Emma Shrivell, was also suffering from which appeared to be the exact affliction. Though food poisoning was first suspected, the police have now attributed the deaths to strychnine poisoning.

  Both Marsh and Shrivell are young women residing in South London and are known to be members of the legion of the lost.

  Readers will remember that in October of last year, another women of dubious distinction, also living in South London, died of strychnine poisoning.

  It is clearly evident that a killer is loose, poisoning the unfortunate nymphs of the pavement in Lambeth.

  No one in London is soon to forget the tragic and horrific killing of several women in 1888 by the killer Jack the Ripper, who was never apprehended. So far police have not admitted any connection between those killings and these latest poisonings.

  As I sat there reading my article, I shook my head, and I could have sworn I heard my wife’s voice say, That sounds like a story that would interest your friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

  So certain that I had heard her say it, I found myself replying, “Yes, indeed it would.”

  With a start I looked across the table, but, of course, she was not there. A deep melancholia came over me. I knew the best medicine for my condition was some kind of work, something to occupy my mind, but I did nothing.

  I thought little more about the newspaper article until several days later, when I received an unexpected visitor. Answering a knock upon my door, I was surprised to see a gentleman of my own profession, Dr. Joseph Harper. I had not seen Dr. Harper since my training days at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital almost twenty years ago. The last I heard of him was that he had a good practice in Devonshire. He was an elderly gentleman, distinguished-looking, but whose face displayed deep concern.

  “Dr. Watson, is it not?” he asked, hopefully.

  “Dr. Harper, I am Dr. Watson. Won’t you come in?” I said, holding the door open wide and ushering him inside.

  He removed his hat and gave the interior a cursory glance, quickly assessing his surroundings.

  “Pardon me for intruding,” he said, “but I find I am in need of advice over a very delicate and personal matter.”

  I gave him a curious look, wondering why he would come to me, an almost perfect stranger, over a something of such importance. He glanced about uncomfortably.

  “Please, come in and have a seat,” I said, bringing him into the small sitting room off the front hall.

  Joseph Harper sat with a heavy sigh. “Thank you for seeing me. I was not certain where else to turn. I thought of the police...”

  “I am most curious how you ended up on my doorstep,” I said with a grin, hoping to put him mind to ease.

  “After receiving the letter, I thought I would consult a detective, and I was given the name of one, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and his Baker Street address, but upon arriving there, I was informed by the woman of the house...”

  “Mrs. Hudson.”

  “Yes, that is the name. Mrs. Hudson informed me the Mr. Sherlock Holmes was out of the country and she had no idea when he would return.”

  I had not the inclination to give Dr. Harper the details of Holmes’s death. It occurred to me that Mrs. Hudson also did not want to stir up such a painful memory.

  “The woman mentioned your name and that you had worked closely with Mr. Holmes. She gave me your address, so I decided to carry through,” he said. “As a fellow medical man, I was hoping you might advise me.”

  “Advise you as to what?” I asked. “What is this letter of which you spoke?”

  From inside his jacket, he removed an envelope, and after a slight hesitation, he handed it to me. The envelope was addressed to Dr. Joseph Harper in a thick, bold hand. London postmark. No return address. From inside the envelope, I removed several newspaper cuttings and a handwritten letter. I read the letter aloud.

  Dr. Harper, Barnstaple

  Dear Sir,

  I am writing to inform you that one of my operators has indisputable evidence that your son, W.J. Harper, a medical student at St. Thomas’s Hospital, poisoned two girls named Alice Marsh and Emma Shrivell on the 12th inst., and that I am willing to give you the said evidence (so that you can suppress it) for the sum of £1,500 sterling. The evidence in my hands is strong enough to convict and hang your son, but I shall give it to you for £1,500 sterling, or sell it to the police for the same amount. The publication of the evidence will ruin you and your family forever, and you know that as well as I do. To show you that what I am writing is true, I am willing to send you a copy of the evidence against your son, so that when you read it, you will need no one to tell you that it will convict your son. Answer my letter at once through the columns of the London Daily Chronicle as follows:

  - W. H. M. - Will pay you for your services. Dr. H.

  After I see this in the paper, I will communicate with you again. As I said before, I am perfectly willing to satisfy you that I have strong evidence against your son by giving you a copy of it before you pay me a penny. If you do not answer it at once, I am going to give the evidence to the Coroner at once.

  Yours respectively,

  W. H. Murray

  I briefly scanned the newspaper cuttings. They were cut from several different London newspapers, but they all dealt with the deaths Alice Marsh and Emma Shrivell, who died of strychnine poisoning a few weeks ago, and another woman named Ellen Donworth, who was also poisoned last October. I vaguely remembered reading about these terrible murders.

  “Well, Watson, what do you think?” Harper asked anxiously.

  “I assume your son is not associated with these deaths,” I said.

  Harper stifled a cry of indignation against my comment.

  “He most certainly is not!” the older man proclaimed. “I do not have to ask my son about this to know he is in no way involved.”

  “And you do not know anyone named Murray?”

  “No, I do not.”

  “It is obviously an alias,” I said, absentmindedly. I was studying the letter. “Strange,” I uttered.

  “The entire matter is strange,” Harper said.

  “I was alluding to the letter,” I said raising it to eye level. “It was written by a man, but this man is peculiar. He is not uneducated, but his repetitiveness and wording caused me to consider he is not worldly or cultivated, but may suffer from a type of fixation or perhaps a mania.”

  “Do you think he may be dangerous?”

/>   “It is difficult to say.”

  Harper rose and paced nervously while gripping the back of his neck. “I can’t have it. I simply cannot have it,” he said. “This man could ruin not only my life and my practice, but with these allegations, he could also destroy my son’s future as a doctor.”

  “So part of what Murray writes about your son is true? Your son is a medical student at St. Thomas’s Hospital?”

  “Yes, that part is true, though how this man knows that is a mystery.”

  “He may know your son.”

  “It does not rest easy in my mind that my son would know such a person.” Joseph Harper sat down again, a bit more composed. “What do you think I should do, Watson?”

  “You have several options,” I said. “You can ignore it and see what happens next. You can respond and see what follows.”

  “What do you suggest?”

  “I suggest you go to the police. Let them handle it.”

  The man bit his lower lip and turned staring at the floor. “I am not sanguine about asking the London police to get involved. Can’t you do something?”

  “Me? What can I do?”

  “According to the woman on Baker Street, you have worked quite closely with Holmes, the detective. Can you not look into it for me? Perhaps you can find this man and see what his game truly is.”

  The pleading desperation in his voice was reflected in his tired eyes and quivering chin. I assured him that I would do what I could.

  After bidding goodbye to Joseph Harper, I went out. I took a cab from Kensington and travelled east past Victoria Station, Westminster Cathedral, and across the Thames to Lambeth. I had the address where Dr. Harper’s son, Walter, was staying, a modest rooming house on Lambeth Palace Road. It was a nice, neat house close to the river, and not far from St. Thomas’s Hospital where young Harper was training.

  I walked up to No. 103, and my knock was answered by a pleasant-looking middle-aged woman. I introduced myself and she said she was Miss Sleaper, the landlady. I told her I was a friend of Dr. Joseph Harper and was here to see his son, Walter.

  Miss Sleaper raised her hand to the side of her mouth as if she had just heard a minor tragedy. “Young Mr. Harper is not in at the present moment, but I do expect him presently. Would you care to come in and wait for him?”

  I kindly accepted and stepped inside the house. It appeared as nice and neat on the inside as the outside. Miss Sleaper led me into a sitting room on the main floor. Aside from the comfortable-looking chairs and a settee were the usual bric-a-brac on shelves and a vase holding fresh spring flowers.

  Miss Sleaper made tea, and through polite conversation, I endeavoured to learn what I could about Walter Harper.

  He had lodged at the Lambert Palace house for over two years while he trained at St. Thomas’s, and probably would be leaving soon, once he qualified. He was a quiet, amiable young man who had his own latchkey and came and went sometimes without notice.

  Did he entertain young ladies? No, not in Miss Sleaper’s house.

  Did he go out much in the evenings? It was difficult to say, since he had his own latchkey.

  Did he go out much for meals? Not very often, for Miss Sleaper provided breakfast and dinner if her lodgers so desired it.

  Do you happen to know his father, Dr. Joseph Harper? No, she never met the gentleman.

  “I do believe I have seen a photograph of young Mr. Harper and his father,” she said smiling. “I, of course, clean Mr. Harper’s room and have noticed a very nice photograph of his family that he keeps on the mantelpiece. I have a picture of young Mr. Harper here in my album.”

  She went over to a small table and picked up the album off a beaded velvet mat.

  “I like to have photographs of all my lodgers,” Miss Sleaper said as she flipped through to the end and showed me a picture of Walter Harper. It was taken at the seaside. Harper was dressed in a tweed jacket and a straw boater hat.

  It seemed like a long wait for Harper, as Miss Sleaper talked constantly. Finally the young man arrived.

  Walter J. Harper was an average-looking man, slight and pale. His brown mustache lent him a mature countenance, but I saw little resemblance between Walter and his father.

  I introduced myself and offered my card, which was met with a bit of confusion. I told Walter how I had known his father during my training days, and when I heard the name Harper from another doctor just by chance, I decided to pay Joseph Harper’s son a courtesy visit.

  “I am just about to put dinner on,” Miss Sleaper said. “Would you care to stay, Dr. Watson?”

  “That does sound delightful, Miss Sleaper, but I would like to pass on your hospitality and take Walter out for dinner, it he is agreeable.”

  “Thank you, Doctor. I would like that very much,” he said. “I need to go to my room for a few minutes, and then I will be right down.”

  Wishing to remain in the general vicinity, I decided not to take Harper across the river, but enquired of him if he had a favorite restaurant nearby. He suggested the Dominion House.

  During dinner, I gave Harper some background on how I knew his father, but mentioned nothing about his visiting me that very day.

  “Strange that you have not seen my father in so long, but decided to look me up,” Walter Harper said quite innocently. His comment did not betray any suspicion.

  “To be truthful,” I said, knowing that it was only partly truthful, “I was speaking with someone just recently, and the poisoning of some women in the area came into the conversation. I was speaking with a medical man and somehow your name came up.”

  “Truly? In what context?”

  “Only that you lived in the area and are attending St. Thomas.”

  “Who was this medical man?” he asked.

  “A man named Murray. W.H. Murray. Do you know him?”

  Harper cocked his head. “No, I do not believe so.”

  “What do you think about these awful poisonings? You must be familiar with the story, since they occurred around Lambeth,” I said.

  He nodded thoughtfully. “It is a horrendous act, made even more so, so close to home.”

  “Did you know any of the women who were poisoned?”

  He shook his head. “The bodies ended up at St. Thomas’s. Dr. Wyman, the house physician, received the last two. One arrived at the hospital dead, and the other died soon after arrival.”

  “Do you know if the police have any leads?”

  “Not as far as I know. The only thing that seems to link these women is that they were all wandering beauties of the night,” he said with a knowing look.

  “I am certain that you are not familiar with that sort of element, but if you had to guess, where would you say these types of women can be found?”

  Walter Harper looked across the table at me and smiled slyly.

  “Come with me. I will show you.”

  The Canterbury Music Hall sits at 143 Westminster Bridge Road. It is a large three-thousand seat building that features a variety of entertainment from comedians to classical singers. A perpetual gaiety exudes from the place. Mirrors and polished brass reflect the glittering globes of the gas lamps. Thick Persians carpets line the floors, and large oil paintings decorate the walls. The place is the epitome of gaudy excess. Even when there is no one on the stage, the entire place is noisy with laughter and deafening chatter. That day, despite the tall ceilings the air felt damp and hot, and smoke hung heavy throughout.

  Harper and I found a small table and ordered drinks. We watched men dressed in ties and top hats, and women in tight jackets, flowing skirts, and hats with feathers. There was much carousing with blatant womanizing, amid excessive eating and drinking. Here was a modern-day Gomorrah where every carnal pleasure could be realized. It was a veritable hunting ground for the Lambeth Poisoner.


  “If you were looking for wayward women, Dr. Watson, then there they are,” Harper said.

  “Which ones?”

  “All of them, I would wager. They were either brought in here by men who found them on the street, or they came in looking for men.”

  “Do you think the women who were murdered frequented The Canterbury?”

  “They may have.”

  We sat drinking for several minutes without saying anything. Finally Harper asked, “What type of man are you looking for, Doctor?”

  “Who said I was looking for a man?”

  “Aren’t you?”

  The main reason I wished to meet Walter Harper was to determine if he were indeed the Lambeth poisoner, as the letter suggested. I did not believe he was, but I could be mistaken.

  “I must admit that I am more than curious about the identity of this man,” I said.

  “So are the police, but they have not made an arrest.”

  “Maybe the police are looking in the wrong places,” I said, gesturing about the room.

  “Are you saying he could be here? What sort of man are we looking for?”

  I had given it some thought. “I believe he is a man with some medical training. It would take a medical man to know about strychnine and be able to have access to it.”

  “That could fit over a hundred men, including you and me,” Harper said.

  “That is true, but this man, I believe, is mentally disturbed. He has a hatred toward women. Not all women, mind you. Look at his victims. All of them are unfortunate young women. He has little or no regard for them, and may not even see them as human. The man might appear quite ordinary, and can function in society despite his mental problems.”

  “That still does not narrow the field very much,” Harper said.

  I shrugged.

  We stayed at The Canterbury longer than we should have, before leaving the warm moist stale vapours of the music hall and stepping into the cool fresh air of the evening. Harper had hold of my arm and we looked for a cab.

  The streets were busy with people. A man called out Harper’s name and approached us. He was dressed in a top hat and black coat, and was accompanied by a young woman on his arm.