by David Marcum
Holmes merely nodded. “Sergeant Rousseau, I understand you are having issues with finding a suspect for this case. While Inspector Lestrade is interviewing the Indians at Earl’s Court, I have been asked to look into the crime and view the crime scene.”
I had to hold back a chuckle as I noted that Holmes did not tell the sergeant who had asked him to investigate.
“It is a rather odd case, indeed,” the white haired sergeant stated, and he scratched at his whiskery chin. “Usually my men and I can solve our own crimes, but there are parts to this case that are perplexing.” The sergeant gave out a loud yawn and apologized. “I was covering for Constable Stevenson last night, and I was the first officer at the scene of the crime. With everyone running about now, I’m not sure when I will be relieved of my shift.”
“Why not tell me the details, and I will do my best to assist you in whatever way I can,” Holmes explained in a humble manner.
Sergeant Rousseau recounted the details Holmes had read in The Times, but he filled in many of the story’s gaps. The gaunt faced man explained, “As I’m sure you know, we have had a terrible time keeping members of our force. I was covering for Constable Stevenson who has come down with a severe case of the flu. While walking the rounds at approximately one a.m., I overheard cries of murder from a fourth floor window of the building in which we are standing. Upon my arrival, I found several residents cradling the dying form of Olivia Smith. After seeing that her wound was mortal - indeed, the life had already fled from the poor girl - I ascended the stairs in pursuit of the criminal. He was easy to track, as I noted a trail of bloody footprints that continued along the stairwell to the roof. On the roof itself, a flat style, the footprints mysteriously vanished. There was no trace of the murderer. I searched every corner of the roof and noted the buildings and alleys surrounding the tenement. There was no movement that caught my eye, no sign of a fleeing suspect.
“I then returned to the Smith’s front room,” he said, motioning to the area he was currently guarding, “and discovered the body of Donald Smith, the younger brother of Olivia. His body was slumped over the sofa. At this point, more officers arrived at the crime scene, in response to the calls for help. The residents also were beginning to come out of their corners to see what all the fuss was about.”
“I suppose you let them trample all over the stairs and the crime scene,” Holmes stated sternly.
“The officers did their best to hold back the curious and helpful, to keep evidence from being disturbed. I think you’ll find they did an exceptional job,” Rousseau said coolly. He did not appreciate Holmes questioning his police work.
“A search of the apartment left no clue as to the motivation of the crime,” Rousseau continued. “There were no missing jewels. A locked safe box was discovered and appeared undisturbed. There was no sign of a break-in. The door to the living quarters was unlocked,” Rousseau finished.
Holmes thanked Rousseau for his information. “I believe it is time for us to have our own look at the Smith residence, aye Watson,” Holmes said to me, and then he whispered, “Despite Rousseau’s assurances, let us hope the constabulary did not do too much damage to the crime scene.”
Rousseau led us into the Smith’s sparsely decorated lodging. The room consisted of a rather shabby, single bed; a sofa coated in the blood of Donald Smith; a central pine table, with a repaired, oak left side leg; a chiffonier adorned with family photos; and a small safe in the corner, with the door now open; yet, as Rousseau had reported, with no valuables missing.
“Rousseau and I will inspect the room,” Holmes instructed, “I’d like you to read over the preliminary autopsy report on the Smith siblings.”
The detective and sergeant wandered about the room. Holmes lifted the family photos, checked the blood stains on the floor, and inspected the contents of the open safe. I read the report on the Smith siblings. Both had been murdered in a most grisly fashion. Olivia Smith had been mortally wounded with a stab to her chest. The knife entered deep, penetrating the thoracic cavity. A pneumothorax developed, causing both lungs to collapse. For Donald Smith, the hatchet had been deeply rooted in the skull and had pierced the brain, rendering death instantaneously. I looked down at the sofa, coated in the man’s blood, and I noted thick gobs that had dried upon the right sofa cushion, clearly indicating this is where the man’s head had slumped when he died.
When Holmes joined my side, I could tell he had seen much more than the sergeant and his police force.
“Well, Holmes and Dr. Watson, have you learned anything that has escaped us?” asked Rousseau. I handed Holmes the police report on Donald Smith, and he examined it closely, then responded, “We still have much more of the crime scene to investigate; however, I can assure you that Donald and Olivia were not brother and sister. They were lovers.”
“Lovers?” Rousseau asked astonished.
“Yes, if you look closely at the family photos you will notice both Donald and Olivia Smith together, holding hands in some of the photographs. The family portrait of all the matriarchs of the family has Olivia’s left hand slightly concealed behind her dress. Even so, the edge of a diamond ring is clearly visible. Lastly, while the bed is a single, clearly it has the impressions of two bodies. Yes, indeed Sergeant, the Smiths were not only lovers, they were husband and wife.”
As my friend explained his reasoning, I could see the truth behind the words dawn upon Rousseau’s face as his look went from one of astonishment to one of being dumbfounded. I sympathized with the sergeant, as I had the exact same feeling, one I’ve had on many occasions with Mr. Holmes.
“That is truly astonishing, Mr. Holmes. I’m not sure how we could have missed it. Does that have any bearing on the case?”
I awaited a sarcastic quip from Holmes, but he was in a serious state, and merely responded. “I’m not sure as of yet. Come Watson. I’d like your opinion of the bloody footprints.”
As we left the Smith residence, I started seeing the faint outlines of the bloody prints. It was just the left foot, in fact just the tip of the left foot. I couldn’t make out much more than the man had stepped in a bit of spilled blood which had remained on his foot. Holmes stopped on occasion and observed the footprints with his magnifying glass, while Rousseau complained about the lack of officers on the force. Apparently, one constable sprained his ankle in all the rushing around the previous evening, leaving the Yard with one less patrolman. Eventually, we climbed onto the roof and were met with a burst of sunlight.
The roof was nondescript, except for one fact. The buildings surrounding this tenement were several floors taller than the current one. An alleyway separated the building on the northeast and southeast sides from the next closest residences. Even if a thief could make the leap across the alleys on either side, they would surely smash into the brick walls of the neighboring buildings. The southwest side of the building was close to another tenement, though this one had an exceedingly steep thatched roof. For one to leap onto this roof and work one’s way down to the ground seemed difficult. To do so without being observed, impossible.
“Our prey is a skilled devil,” Rousseau cursed.
“These are dark dealings, sergeant,” Holmes agreed. I noted that Holmes was looking at a scuff mark on the northeast side of the building. What it could mean, I knew not, but I did notice a glimmer of recognition in my friend’s eyes.
“It’s a shame,” Rousseau lamented. “If Lestrade isn’t able to crack any of the savages at that circus, then this case may never be solved.”
Holmes glared at Rousseau, his mouth turning into a deep frown. “If, by savage, you mean an Anglo man of approximately five feet in height, of a particularly strong and limber body, who is undoubtedly from America, probably New York, and who was associated with the Smiths, then yes, I’d agree with you. As far as the Lakotas from Mr. Cody’s Wild West show are concerned, they are completely innocent.
”
After Holmes’s tongue lashing of the sergeant, we made our way back out of the tenement building. “To me, this killer has done the impossible. Yet you are onto something, aren’t you?” I asked my friend.
“Remember, cases that seem impossible often have the simplest conclusions. I have noted four possible solutions to the case, but I still need more facts before I can deduce the resolution. For now, I need my Boswell’s gift of observation.”
“Whatever I may do to assist you, Holmes.”
“There is a tavern there,” said Holmes pointing to a dingy, dilapidated ground floor establishment almost directly across the street. “I would like you to interview the barkeep and see if he had any notable customers yesterday evening. Take copious notes, and then send them to me when you are finished.”
“Where will you be?” I asked.
“Why, at Earl’s Court, attempting to show our dear friend Lestrade some semblance of reason.”
I nodded and said goodbye to my friend. I expected him to hail a cab, but I was surprised to see Holmes instead enter the building neighboring the northeast side of the Smith’s tenement.
The pub across the way had seen better days. The bar was stained different colors in several areas, crude attempts at covering up its missing chunks of wood. The furniture was a mix of different style tables and chairs from the last thirty years. The lighting was dark, the establishment drab, and the bloated barkeep with three shabby customers were the only people present. I noted that the customers kept their coat collars up and their heads face down in their ale. Not to stay hidden from me, but to stay hidden from the world. Such was the glum life of the alcoholic.
The barkeep, ruddy cheeked and with a crooked smile, lit up when he saw me enter, possibly because of my dress and obvious station in life. I joined the rank group at the counter, ordered a pint, and struck up a casual conversation with the gentleman, who introduced himself as Daniel Spitzer. It was my good fortune to discover the man was not only of jolly spirits but quite a talker. After discussing London’s cold spell for a moment, I turned the conversation towards the Smiths.
“That’s a terrible business, mind you, what with all that hullabaloo last night. Who would have thought that could happen to a nice couple like that?”
“Couple?” I inquired. “The Times said they were siblings.”
“Oh, they claimed that they were brother and sister. Not sure why, not sure what they were fleeing from, really. Oh, don’t look surprised. If a couple is pretending to be siblings, you know that they are hiding from someone. It always puzzled me, but I never asked, though I’ve got an inkling as to what they were running from. You see, the death of the Smiths is terrible for them, but it’s also terrible for me,” he added with a wink.
“What do you mean terrible for you?”
“No shame telling you that the bar is only a portion of my income. A good chunk of my money also comes from the track, and the Smiths were some of my best clients. You see they bet big, but often lost just as big. I’m not sure where all their money came from, but between you and me, I bet they were swindlers. Nice folks here, always stayed out of trouble, but they had something about them, always looked a little haunted, if you ask me.”
Mentioning the tracks and horses led to a separate discussion on the prospects of the thoroughbred Ocean Breeze in the upcoming afternoon race. After placing a small wager with Spitzer, I turned the conversation back to the previous evening, and I was surprised to discover that he had been working during the time the crime was committed. “Yes, sir, I pretty much live here. I have to leave to go down to the tracks on occasion, but there isn’t a day that goes by where I’m not here at least fourteen hours. Anyway, last night, guess it would have been after one, people started flooding in. Some even had blood on their clothes. One poor officer looked stunned and shaken, same with two of the men, their clothes covered in blood. I’m guessing they were kicked out by the police before they had a chance to even change their clothes.”
“Did you know the two men?” asked Watson.
“I know one of them, Abe Bruder, a jeweler near the Black Lion. Can’t miss his flowing beard. Even that had streaks of blood in it. The man badgered on and on with a group of my people. Talked about holding the poor body of Miss Smith as she breathed her last breath. They were most upset, with good reason.”
I pondered this information for a moment. Old Montague Street was known as having a predominantly Jewish population. I wondered if I would need to seek out a translator to assist with the Hebrew of the residents.
Finally, I pressed Spitzer again about anything else unusual that evening. He shrugged. “Nothing more than you’d expect. Lots of wailing and crying about the neighborhood and our lot in life. No one struck me as standing out. Everyone was shaken from the murder.”
I finished my ale and began to say goodbye when suddenly a thought occurred to me. “Do you know of any Americans who frequent your establishment?” I asked.
Daniel’s eyes lit up. “Course I do, know of one man in particular who hails from New York. He’s in here all the time.”
I was surprised by this bit of good luck and asked for this man’s name.
“Course you can have his name. You’ve been speaking to him for the better part of an hour,” Daniel beamed.
Puzzled, I inquired what Daniel meant.
“It’s me, you fool. I’m originally from Buffalo, New York.”
After my interview with Spitzer, I had my notes sent to Holmes, and returned to our residence. Relaxing, I enjoyed a glass of brandy and continued reading of Miss Nellie Bly’s adventures in the book, Ten Days in a Mad-House, an appropriate title to reflect upon while sorting this case. Here was a girl voluntarily going undercover to expose the mistreatment of women in Blackwell’s Island Asylum in New York. I wondered how many monsters lived in that American colony, and in my mind cursed our luck that Britain hadn’t squashed General Washington’s rebellion over a century ago. In due course, the brandy worked its effects, and I dozed off only to be awakened by Holmes shaking me a few hours later.
“Wake up, Watson,” Holmes insisted. “We are to be guests at Mr. Cody’s Wild West Show this evening. Mrs. Hudson is preparing a dinner of roast beef for us, and we should have just enough time to sup before our carriages arrive.”
“Holmes, really,” I started. “Do you have the solution to this dastardly case? Was it one of Mr. Cody’s Indians?”
“I almost certainly do have the solution, and I assure you Mr. Cody’s Indians had nothing to do with the crime.”
“Well, out with it man,” I demanded. “What happened?”
“You will accept my apologies Watson, as I cannot quite tell you the solution yet. There is still one last piece of the puzzle which I shall put in place tomorrow when one of Lestrade’s men will join us. I believe he will identify the killer.”
“But how?” I insisted. “How did the man pull this off?”
“In due time, Watson,” Holmes answered mysteriously. “I believe you will find this evening’s performance most enlightening. It took some convincing on my part, but once I assured Lestrade I’d have the murderer behind bars by tomorrow afternoon, he agreed to let Cody’s show go on. Personally, I think the inspector just wanted an excuse to go home and finally catch up on much needed sleep.”
After a delicious dinner of roasted beef and stewed vegetables, Holmes and I descended the stairs and waited for our coach to arrive. I was taken aback to see not one but three carriages stop in front of our home. Puzzled at why three carriages were needed for two men, I was about to ask Holmes when the answer came round the corner. Jostling towards us was a group of street urchins, dressed in dirty rags and making all sorts of noise as they tramped and jumped excitedly.
Holmes lit up at seeing the rag-tag army marching towards us. “Hello, Thaddeus, hello Barney,” he address
ed two of the older boys in the front. “Is this everyone for the Wild West performance?”
“Yes, Mr. Holmes,” answered Thaddeus, a tall lad, thin - not from his body type but from his lack of nourishment. “There’s a dozen of us, sir.” He paused then quietly added in a tone of astonishment. “Golly, are we really gonna meet Mr. Cody?”
“Of course you are, lad, as long as we make the show on time. Plus, Mr. Cody has agreed to treat everyone to all the snacks they can eat.”
A grand hurrah went up from the children, and then they scrambled into the growlers. I noted how one of the drivers scowled at seeing his passengers, but he kept his mouth shut, and with a crack of the reins, we were all off to the show. Holmes looked rather cheerful. “I wonder Watson, what will be more entertaining, seeing the show, or seeing the expressions of awe on the Irregulars’ faces when they see the performances?” I heartily agreed, but inside I wondered what Buffalo Bill Cody would think of his special guests for the evening.
Fortunately, Mr. Cody was as gracious and kind as the stories in the adventure books make him out to be. When we arrived at the fair ground, Cody was there to meet us, dressed in his stage costume, with his gray cowboy hat, tan shirt with fringe, dark riding boots, and his arms filled with a dozen bags of peanuts for the irregulars. After handing out food and shaking hands with the children, the showman led us to our seats. While the giddy children oohed and awed at the spectacle of the show grounds, Holmes asked Mr. Cody, “Did you honor my request?”
“I sure did, Mr. Holmes. Not exactly an authentic portrayal, but I doubt the audience will mind. I reckon you folks are in for one great show. Now, here are your seats. I best get ready.”
After the showman had left, I asked Holmes about their side conversation. The detective was distracted, beaming with pride at seeing the boisterous excitement of the irregulars.