I took the glass. He held his up. “Cheers,” he said.
I raised the glass, but there was something in the man’s face that made me stop. I was shaken with a sudden horror as if I were looking at evil. Things came together in my mind, and I believed I was onto the answer.
The man regarded me questioningly as if wondering why I was not taking a drink. The hand that held my glass began to tremble. I did not know what to do or say. In a clumsy attempt to look clumsy, I spilled my drink.
We were both startled and I repeatedly apologized as he attempted to mop us the spilled drink. As he did so, I fled the room, down the stairs, and out of the house. I ran down Lambeth Palace Road and was fortunate enough to get a cab. I could not help but keep glancing behind me, wondering if Dr. Neill was pursuing me. Even when I stood in Inspector Harvey’s office, I did not feel totally safe.
I told Harvey how Dr. Joseph Harper had come to see me yesterday and showed me the blackmail letter which started my investigation into the matter.
“I think you should definitely keep your eye on Dr. Thomas Neill at 103 Lambeth Palace Road.” I said, and gave the inspector a description of Neill.
“I hope you do not suspect this man because he is peculiar-looking,” Harvey said.
“His strange appearance is only a small part of it,” I said. “For one thing, he is a fellow lodger of the very man accused in the letter. For another, Neill has medical background and is in possession of a sample case containing strychnine. When you and I spoke earlier, we discussed that there were no poisonings between November and March. Neill informed me that he was not in London during much of that time. I found numerous different newspapers in his room. When Dr. Harper showed me the blackmail letter, also in the envelope were clippings from some of the same newspapers that Neill reads. Now this is the one that may be most damning. When I mentioned to Dr. Neill that three women had been poisoned, he told me he knew it was four. How could he know that?
“None of these things by themselves add up to much, but taken together, I believe that he presents a viable suspect.”
Inspector Harvey looked grim and nodded slowly. “Thank you, Doctor. We will certainly follow up and keep an eye on this man.”
After some fine police work, Dr. Neill was arrested, and it was discovered that his true name was Thomas Neill Cream. The mill of the gods and the British justice system grind slowly. When Thomas Cream finally came to trial, the man’s horrid past was revealed. It was discovered that he was also responsible for the deaths of women in Canada and in the United States, where he served a ten-year prison sentence. Cream had not only written the blackmail letter to Dr. Harper, but he had written letters to several people. Some were blackmail letters, and some were letters accusing other individuals of the murders. Cream had also lied about working for the G. F. Harvey Company. He had purchased the wooden sample case on his own.
Dr. Cream was put on trial solely for the death of Matilda Clover, the woman originally thought to have died from alcohol poisoning. A London court found him guilty of her death, and he was executed on November 15, 1892.
For my part in the case, it had been a chilling experience, one where I felt I had looked the devil in the face. I hoped to soon forget it.
A week or so later, I found myself again alone at my breakfast table drinking my coffee. There was another article in The Times about murders and the trial of Dr. Thomas Neill Cream. I shook my head at the tragedy of it all.
I could have sworn I heard my friend Sherlock Holmes say, “When a doctor goes wrong, he is the first of criminals.”
So certain was I that I’d heard him say it that I looked across the table with a start. But, of course, he was not there.
The Confession of Anna Jarrow
by S. F. Bennett
It was on the morning of the 15th April, 1894, that I returned to Baker Street to find that Sherlock Holmes had had a visitor in my absence. Inspector Tobias Gregson, doughty, steely-eyed, and greying around the temples, nodded to acknowledge my presence, not daring to interrupt Holmes’s discourse whilst he was in full flow. Beholding this familiar scene, it was as though the interruption of the last three years had never happened. We had simply picked up where we had left off, and much the better for it.
“The discrepancy between the height of the victim and the length of the ligature should give you evidence enough for a conviction,” Holmes was concluding as I laid down my parcels. “And if old Fazakerley gives you any trouble, you would do well to remind him of that old idiom: Man proposes, but God disposes. That should satisfy his Biblical sense of justice.”
“Well, I never. It seems as plain as a pikestaff when you put it like that, Mr. Holmes,” said Gregson, stooping to up gather up his hat. “It’s just as well you returned when you did, or this fellow might have got away with it.”
Holmes offered him a faint smile. “We are none of us infallible.”
“Even you?”
“I have my moments.”
Gregson allowed himself a snort of laughter before a more sombre expression took shape on his features. “That reminds me,” said he soberly. “Anna Jarrow was released a fortnight ago. I thought, under the circumstances, you’d want to know.”
I fancied I perceived a slight stiffening of Holmes’s back, as though the mere mention of the name had sent a shaft of bitter remembrance down his spine.
“Did she say anything?” said he, turning back to Gregson.
“Not she, Mr. Holmes. Wild horses wouldn’t prise that information out of her. She kept her counsel during her time in prison and never a word from the fellow. I don’t know whether to admire her loyalty or think her a fool. All the same,” said he, “we’re keeping a watch on her movements, in case he tries to make contact. There’s a fish I’d like to see squirming on a hook.”
“I take it your observations have thus far proved unsuccessful.”
Gregson nodded thoughtfully. “She’s never been out of our sight for a moment. And I’ve had good men on the case, I can’t fault them. Her letters have been intercepted and I’ve had several of the lads going through the dustbins. But there’s not been a word from him.”
Holmes accepted this news with equanimity. “Has a direct appeal been made to the lady? It may be that she was waiting for word from him on her release. A slight, after all this time, may prove to be the necessary incentive.”
The inspector looked unconvinced. “You’re welcome to try, seeing as how you have some personal interest in the business. To tell you the truth, I can’t justify keeping men on the case without something to show for it. Well, here’s her address. It’s a lodging house in Portsoken.”
With the interview at an end, Gregson left. Holmes considered the piece of paper before thrusting it into his pocket and turning briskly to me.
“Watson, you are busy this morning?”
“Not at all.”
“Then if you would be so good as to accompany me, my dear fellow, I would be much obliged. I can tell you about the case on the way.”
Once we were installed in a hansom cab and heading eastwards, Holmes began to elucidate.
“As you may have deduced,” he began, pulling on his gloves against the chill of the day, “the Jarrow case is something of a thorn in my flesh. One I class amongst my failures, certainly.”
“The name does not sound familiar,” I admitted.
“You were abroad at the time of the trial, Watson, so we may excuse your ignorance. Anna Jarrow was found guilty of being an accessory after the fact in the death of her husband. But for my intervention, she would have hanged for the crime of murder.”
“That does not sound like a failure.”
Holmes shook his head. “Mrs. Jarrow has spent fourteen years in prison because of her refusal to name her accomplice. The lady’s silence has been absolute and, despite my best effor
ts, I have been unable to put a name to the man. Such results are not to be applauded. They are what might be expected of a second-rate detective, who has barely mastered the ability to tell one footprint from another.”
“But if the lady would not tell, I can hardly see why you would blame yourself. That you saved her from the gallows must count for something.”
My companion released a long, troubled breath. “I have had many years to construct a theory as to the lady’s silence. If she were to at least confirm my suspicions, that would be sufficient. Mysteries are my natural enemies, Watson, and this has eluded me for too long. Well, well, we shall see.”
No sooner had the words left his mouth than the cab came to a shuddering halt. We were almost at the end of Oxford Street, and up ahead I saw a thick cluster of horses and cabman. Impatient passengers poked their heads from cab windows to shout at the medley of men who were attempting to clear the road of broken barrels from a brewer’s dray.
“It appears we have time enough for the telling of the tale,” said Holmes with forced joviality. “If you wish to hear it, that is. I am aware dredging up one’s past is an indulgence which others may find tedious.”
On the one hand, I had little choice, captive audience as I was. On the other, I was full of curiosity. I knew little of Holmes’s cases in the days before I had become his biographer, and the times when he had proved less than reticent on the subject were few and far between. His early life had been as a closed book, seemingly sealed forever after the events in Switzerland. To find myself in a cab with him, with little to do but to listen to the details of a case from years before, was something which only a few weeks ago I could have only imagined with the deepest of regret. I would have listened had he conversed on the most banal subject in the universe and counted myself fortunate for the experience.
“On the contrary, I would be most interested to learn more about the case.”
A smile of deep satisfaction took shape on his features. “Capital!” said he above the shouts and growing dissatisfaction of the waiting throng. He settled back in the seat and let his eyelids droop as he called upon his memories.
“Well, then, the case began for me in somewhat irregular fashion. It was in the early hours of the 7th November, 1879 that I awoke in my Montague Street rooms with the distinct impression that I was not alone. I was confirmed in that suspicion when I perceived a man standing by the open window at the side of my bed. I was less conscious of my need for security in those days, so that my pistol was out of reach. As it transpired, my concerns were unfounded, for my visitor had come, not to harm, but seeking my help.
“‘Mr. Holmes?’ said the fellow as I put a match to the candle. ‘Mr. Shelduck Holmes?’
“‘Sherlock,’ I corrected him. ‘But close enough.’
“‘My apologies,’ said he. ‘You’ll have to forgive my calling on you unannounced, but I’ve been told you do right by the likes of us.’
“In the yellow glow of the candlelight, I perceived a bull-necked man of about fifty years of age, dark-eyed and grizzled haired with a vigorous physique. In any other setting, his rough familiarity might have been vaguely menacing. To my mind, however, he seemed troubled to the point of desperation, so much so, that his manner appeared overly ingratiating.
“‘I assume you require my assistance,’ I replied as I rose and donned my dressing gown. ‘I dare say the contents of my purse would hardly be worth your time or effort.’
“My visitor started. ‘Who told you?’
“‘That you are a burglar by profession? No one. It was a logical deduction based on the facts at hand. You have lockpicks in your pocket - not the first thing a man thinks to take with him when leaving the house, unless he has a particular purpose in mind. If you wish to pass undetected in the future, I suggest you conceal your picks as something other than a moustache curling-iron. Most inappropriate for a clean-shaven man. Then there is your appearance here this evening. Most of my clients are content to use the door in the hours of daylight. The fact you have scaled the drainpipe when respectable citizens are in their beds speaks of a desire for anonymity. However, whilst I do not object to your method of entry, I do require a name.’
“‘Smith,’ he offered grudgingly. ‘Bill Smith.’
“‘Well, Mr. Smith, what can I do for you?’
“I offered him a drink, which he took with shaking hand and downed all at once. I refilled his glass and gave him a moment to compose himself whilst I charged my pipe and made myself comfortable for what promised to be an interesting affair. When a case begins in such a manner, it must have something to recommend it.
“‘It’s as you say, Mr. Holmes,’ said he, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. ‘I’ve cracked a few cribs in my time. I make no apology for that. I only steal from them what have got a few bob to spare.’
“‘The poor, by virtue of their condition, being exempt from your interest.’
“‘Well, Mr. Holmes, there’s no point robbing an empty box,’ said he. ‘But, whatever you may think of me, I do have a conscience. I’d never take a child’s toys or hurt anyone on purpose. I know there’s some folk that do, but that’s not my line. I take what I want and go.’ He paused and hurriedly swallowed the last of his drink. ‘That’s what has brought me here, sir. You see, the other night, I was out near Richmond and I saw something that fair turned my stomach.’
“‘Surrey?’ said I. ‘A little out of your way.’
“‘I take the Metropolitan Railway out west, sir. It’s only a few changes of train from where I live.’
“I could not stop myself from laughing. ‘And they said railways were the wonder of the modern age! How true. As beneficial for the criminal as the average man, I dare say. But please, Mr. Smith, pray continue.’
“He wetted his lips and, in the eyes he raised to mine, I read his depth of emotion as he recounted his tale.
“‘It was several days ago, Tuesday to be exact, the evening before Bonfire Night. I had information from a good friend of mine that there was to be a recital at the church hall in Manstone Green, and a few of the locals were attending, so their houses were empty. The train got in about a half-past-eight, and I took a turn about the streets to see what I could find. It didn’t take me long. A house in Fluxton Avenue, a decent-looking place, the real stilton I can tell you.’ He appeared flustered for a moment. ‘That is to say-’
“‘An establishment worthy of your attention,’ I replied. ‘I understand.’
“He nodded uneasily. ‘Well, I could see a woman at home on the ground floor, but upstairs at the top of the house, someone had put their best lustres on the window sill. I thought to myself, having come all this way, it was worth a look, and so through the back gate and up the drainpipe I went.’ He cleared his throat, for, as I correctly surmised, he was approaching the point in the story that gave him the most disquiet. ‘As it happened, I needn’t have wasted my time. All for show - they were, no gold, no jewellery, nothing worthwhile for me. I don’t like leaving empty-handed, so I went to see if the people on the first floor had anything worth pinching. I had to be careful in case the woman downstairs heard me, but quiet as a church mouse I am. In I goes, and I’m having a poke about in the sideboard and... well, that’s when I seen him, Mr. Holmes.’
“He had stopped abruptly. His face had drained of colour.
“‘Who did you see, Mr. Smith?’ I prompted.
“He swallowed heavily. ‘A tall, clean-faced fellow, sir, stretched out on the floor in the sitting room, dead. He had a towel wrapped around his head, all stained with his blood. Well, that was enough for me, I tell you. I got out of there as fast as my legs could carry me.’ He had the decency to look shamefaced. ‘On the train home, when I had time to think about it, I had my doubts about just leaving him there. I couldn’t go to the police. How would I explain my being there? And anyways, it might have been an acc
ident. But why was he left there, all alone in the dark? It’s been playing on my conscience, I don’t mind telling you, sir. Then yesterday, “Mindful” Jackson mentioned your name to me as being a trustworthy sort who’d have a look into the business but not mention names as to how you got the information. He said he knew you.’
“As you are aware, Watson, I have always cultivated a degree of familiarity with the criminal classes, and, as with the matter at hand, it has proved fruitful, both in terms of cases and information. Jackson was a petty thief and swindler, known as ‘Mindful’ on account of his favourite phrase: ‘Mind how you go’. Good advice, I dare say, given his profession. I had exonerated him some time ago when he was wrongly arrested for the murder of a peer who had once had him whipped for a minor act of larceny. To say he thought himself forever in my debt is something of an understatement. In return for his ongoing assistance as my guide to the nefarious doings of his fellow criminals, I had always been discreet about my sources.’
“‘Jackson was correct,’ I told Smith. ‘On occasion, I have been known to keep a confidence for the benefit of the greater good.’
“‘That’s what I was hoping,’ said Smith eagerly. ‘I thought someone should know what had happened, especially as there’s been no mention of a death in the papers. That’s what made my mind up to tell you about it.’
“‘You are sure he was dead? Under the circumstances, you could have been mistaken.’
“‘His eyes were wide open, and he wasn’t blinking. And what with all that blood, Mr. Holmes, he was dead all right or my name’s not Bill Smith.’
“‘I sincerely doubt it is, but in any case I take your point.’
“‘I’ve seen a few dead ’uns in my time to know what they look like,’ my visitor continued, seemingly unaware of my comment. ‘But I’ve never come across one like this afore. Right upset me, it did.’
“‘I shall look into this business, never fear,’ said I, ushering him to his feet. ‘Time you made your exit, Mr. Smith. If I need to clarify any point, Jackson will find you? Capital. Ah, no, I think the front door would be preferable. I do not doubt your “talents” in your chosen field, but as my landlady is accustomed to my irregular hours, she would think less of a momentary disturbance of her sleep than of having the local constabulary descend upon the premises if you happen to be discovered in the act of leaving over the back wall.’
The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories - Part IX Page 33