“It was; however, it was the signature which convinced me that this Roberts was innocent of the crime.”
“How so?” enquired Holmes, now deeply interested in the matter.
“Mr. Holmes, when one is a bookkeeper, one sees many signatures. I noticed that Mr. Roberts’s signature was written pulling the pen across the paper.”
“Is that important?” I asked.
“Quite so, Watson,” Holmes said. “Mr. Tipton has the gift of observation. You see, a right-handed man will sign his name by pulling the tip of the pen across the paper. The left-handed man pushes the tip into the paper. The way Mr. Armstrong was stabbed, the sword having been thrust in below the right front ribcage, implies a left-handed assailant. Impressive, Mr. Tipton, most impressive.
“However,” Holmes said with a clap of his hands, “it is not conclusive. A right-handed man could have stepped to the side and stabbed your employer straight on into his right front side. Also, with a case that appears completed, with a signed confession no less, it is difficult to see how I can help.”
“I don’t want to hire you for this matter.”
Holmes and I exchanged puzzled looks. “Then what do you want to hire me for?”
“For the robbery, of course,” Tipton explained. “After I left Scotland Yard, I went to the Oxford Street shop to get the money for the bank deposit. When I opened the safe, I found that we were short £200. Someone had been in the safe and removed the money. There was still an officer on duty, and I reported the theft to him. He reported it to Cromwell, who then visited me.”
“What is his explanation for the theft?” asked Holmes.
“Oh, he thinks that I miscounted the night before. He also thinks there is a possibility that the murderer took the money, though they found none on him. Cromwell is wrong on both counts.”
“How do you know this?” I asked.
“Because, gentlemen,” Tipton said as he reached into his breast pocket and removed an envelope, “I took the £200!” He slapped the envelope on the table, and four crisp fifty-pound notes slipped out.
I was stunned. Holmes stared at the notes for a moment and then broke into applause. “Bravo, Mr. Tipton! Bravo! You are a man of untapped resources. I shall take your case.”
“Thank you, Mr. Holmes,” Tipton said, letting out a long sigh of relief. “There is one more thing I must tell you.”
“Yes?”
“It concerns Superintendent Cromwell. He is left-handed.”
* * *
We arrived at Scotland Yard late that afternoon. I found the brick façade of the recently opened headquarters welcoming, for here in proper splendour was London’s first line of defence against the criminal elements. Norman Shaw outdid himself creating this monument, a shining beacon of hope to London’s citizens and a symbol of justice triumphant to those who would defy the law of the land.
When we entered the building, we found the place bustling with officers walking to and fro through the sprawling, gleaming corridors. Some of the men were carrying paperwork, others evidence, some were reporting for duty, and one was escorting a prisoner in handcuffs.
Holmes and I so frequently visited the Yard that it was like a second home to us, though I was still adjusting to the new building, with its shiny tiles and ornate chandeliers. We walked up a staircase and approached the office of Superintendent Cromwell. As Holmes had predicted, he was still at work, though with the afternoon becoming late, he would probably be leaving soon.
The door stood slightly ajar. Holmes knocked and the man called, “Come in.”
We entered a small, tidy office. Even sitting down, Superintendent Cromwell was an imposing figure. He had a square jaw and broad shoulders and his thick moustache recalled the army man he had been.
“Who are you and what do you want?” he asked, barely glancing up from a paper before him.
“My name is Sherlock Holmes and this is my assistant, Dr. Watson.”
The superintendent grunted at hearing our names, still not raising his eyes.
“We are here on official business, hired by a Mr. Tipton to investigate a robbery which occurred at the Armstrong Tobacco Shop on Oxford Street,” Holmes stated.
Cromwell bristled upon hearing Tipton’s name, then shook his head slightly. He signed the paper he had been reading, stamped it, and then moved it to the side. Now taking our measure for the first time, he motioned wordlessly for us to sit on the two wooden chairs in front of his desk. We did as commanded, and the superintendent emitted another grunt.
“Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson, you know as well as I that there was no robbery.”
Holmes pretended to be baffled. “What do you mean, Superintendent?”
Cromwell’s cheeks reddened. “What I mean is that Tipton miscounted his money. It is the only explanation that makes sense. No one got into that safe between the time Tipton opened it on Sunday and the time he reopened it on Monday morning. There was a guard there all through the night; no one could have entered without being noticed.”
Holmes nodded. “I agree with you, Superintendent, but could the man who killed Mr. Armstrong – Roberts, I believe the papers called him – not also have taken the £200?”
Cromwell squinted. “We did not find any money on the man when we arrested him.”
“No money. None at all? And here I thought he had sold Armstrong’s rare yatagan blades.”
“He had, Mr. Holmes, but what the fiend did with the money is anyone’s guess. He confessed to the crime and will meet his end soon.”
“Could you tell me which jail he is in? I’d like to pay him a visit.”
Superintendent Cromwell’s cheeks flared again. “You cannot see him, Mr. Holmes. The man is housed in one of our old jail cells for now. I do not want him mixing with other prisoners. He’s too important. And I’ve forbidden anyone without official business from seeing him.
“Now, gentlemen, as you can see, I am rather busy. If you want to continue tilting at windmills, so be it. Though I must say, it isn’t really Tipton’s business to hire anyone at all.”
“What do you mean, Superintendent?”
“I mean Armstrong’s wife should be the one concerned with any matters related to the finances of the businesses. After all, she is the one who owns them now. Ah, I can see from the looks on your faces that Tipton omitted this pertinent fact.”
“Please explain,” said Holmes.
“Before Lory and I went to see Armstrong on Sunday, he had mentioned to us in a wire that he had exciting news. I had known him for a long time, and I could tell there was enthusiasm there, more enthusiasm than the yatagans merited. We didn’t find out what that news was until Monday. It turns out that Armstrong tied the knot a few weeks ago. He hadn’t told any of his friends, nor invited them to the wedding.”
“But surely the banns were read,” I interjected.
“I doubt there was anything unusual in that regard – none of us live in the same parish, and we attend different churches.”
“But why would he keep his marriage a secret from his friends?” Holmes asked.
“With Armstrong, you never knew. He was a queer fellow; most men who are brave are a little queer as well. Risking their lives and all that. Anyway, he had married the charwoman who took care of his Whitechapel shop.”
“The charwoman?” I asked.
“I know, I know,” Cromwell said, waving his hands over his desk as if he could erase the information. “I told you he was a little queer. That’s just like Armstrong, not caring about the station of his missus. Just like he gave all that money to the orphans. A waste, if you ask me, but that was Armstrong.”
“So why do you think Armstrong wanted to tell you of his marriage on Sunday?”
“Why, because Mrs. Armstrong is with child.”
* * *
After leaving Cromwell’s office, Holmes and I walked through the halls of the Yard at a brisk pace.
“I don’t understand it, Holmes. Why didn’t Tipton tell us about Mrs. A
rmstrong?” I asked, doing my best to keep up with my friend. “It certainly adds suspicion to the case.”
“Because, my dear Watson, as Superintendent Cromwell noted, had Tipton revealed this information, I would have denied his request. I was hesitant to take this case and even with his flamboyant reveal of the stolen money, I would have said no without Mrs. Armstrong’s consent. It is, after all, her husband and now her business we are investigating.”
“And what of it now, Holmes? Perhaps we should return to Baker Street, so you can turn your attention to other matters?”
Holmes scratched his chin. “Not just yet. Excuse me a moment, Watson.”
I stood by as Holmes walked away from me to a constable sitting at a desk. I saw Holmes speak to the man, but from my position I could not hear their words. I took a moment to study the intricate symmetrical design in the tilework of the flooring and the elegant metalwork on the walls and ceilings, and then found Holmes returned to my side.
“Come along, Watson,” he said.
“Were you enquiring about the case?”
“Yes. It is quite interesting how easy it is to deceive a man. A stern air of authority sprinkled with half-truths is often all it takes to find answers to information deemed secret.”
“You know the location of the accused?”
“I do. But before we proceed to see Armstrong’s supposed murderer, we need to gain the means to converse with him.”
I was not sure what Holmes meant. We had wandered into a dark corner of the Yard. There were two offices next to each other; both had their door closed, and no light came from inside.
My friend held his index finger to his lips and then nodded towards one of the doors. The sign on it indicated that this was the office of Inspector Lestrade.
“A pity he is not in. Perhaps we can return tomorrow,” I said.
“I agree, Watson,” Holmes said rather loudly. “We shall have to speak with Inspector Lestrade tomorrow. I thought he had said he would be in this afternoon, but perhaps he was delayed…”
As he spoke, a constable and a fellow of Mediterranean complexion walked past. The fellow was gesticulating wildly, his arms flailing about like tentacles, and I caught a few Italian expressions. The constable, a man of rather serious demeanour, nodded once with terse weariness.
Holmes waited for them to turn a corner, their shadows moving across the gaslit wall before disappearing after their owners.
“Watson, keep a lookout,” Holmes commanded. He pulled a small lock-picking tool from his coat pocket and shoved the device into the door’s mechanism. The door sprang open and Holmes, with the stealth of a bat, disappeared into the office. He emerged again within a minute.
“Holmes,” I hissed. “Whatever did you do that for? I know you’ve had your differences with Lestrade, but that was uncalled for.”
“Nonsense, Watson,” Holmes said, walking away. “I have done him a great service and shall recommend that the locks at Scotland Yard be changed at once. Any street urchin could break in with a common screwdriver.”
We entered a busier hallway. Two constables were approaching.
“But I don’t see why you could not have waited for the inspector,” I said in a harsh whisper.
“Because sometimes the inspector is more useful when he is absent.” The constables passed us, and Holmes removed a rolled document from beneath the lapel of his coat.
“What is that?”
“One might call it a passe-partout.”
He handed me the document, an official form granting us permission to see Mr. Roberts. The bottom was stamped and signed by Inspector G. Lestrade.
I started to voice my concern, but Holmes raised a forefinger to his lips. I held my tongue and followed Holmes out of New Scotland Yard. As we stepped onto the Embankment, we discovered that it had begun to rain lightly. Fortunately, a hansom was pulling up to drop off a man in a top hat, and we boarded the vehicle.
We were then off to meet the allegedly nefarious Mr. Roberts.
* * *
The travel from the Yard to the jail was brief. On our journey, Holmes explained that Roberts was housed in a small building several blocks away, used to isolate dangerous criminals.
“This makes it much less likely that he will receive visitors, or be found by reporters.” He pointed. “Tell me, Watson, does this look like a prison?”
We had arrived at a dilapidated single-storey building.
The cobblestones that led from the road to the door were crumbling, with grass jutting out between them. The roof sagged, causing the rain to spill like a tiny waterfall from above the door. The door itself was heavily chipped and the exposed wood had fungal growths of various sizes upon it.
Holmes stood to the side, avoiding the cascade from the roof, and knocked. We waited and heard nothing. Holmes knocked again with more force. We waited. Holmes was about to knock a third time when we heard several creaks from inside. Then the doorknob turned and the door opened a few inches.
From where I was standing, I could not see into the entryway, and the gruff cockney voice that addressed Holmes seemed to come from the rotten building itself.
“Who’re you?”
“My name is Sherlock Holmes. I am a detective, and I have been sent to meet with a prisoner here, a Mr. Archibald Roberts.”
“Don’t know anything about a visitor,” the voice responded.
“I have permission,” Holmes replied and passed the forged document into the building.
The door opened wider and Holmes stepped inside. I was about to follow, but a grizzled man in a constable’s uniform stopped me. His face was lined and shrivelled like a prune.
“Who’re you?”
“My name is Dr. Watson.”
“Ah, a doctor. Now I know why you’re here. Down the hall, gents.” He pointed. “Last door on the left. Stairs’ll lead you to the basement. You’ll find Roberts there.”
We walked along the hall. I was impressed at the cleverness with which the jail had been camouflaged, for anyone entering the building at first saw nothing but a row of empty rooms. The true purpose of the building lay below our feet. Holmes pulled open the door to the basement. We were met by a burst of musty air. A rough stone stairway led downward. “After you, Watson,” said Holmes, and we descended into the abyss.
I sneezed several times as we plodded down the damp steps. The humid air was affecting my sinuses. I had to walk carefully, for the murky light made it difficult to see.
We finally reached the bottom of the stairs, where two jailers sat at a rough wooden table in a short entryway. They eyed us suspiciously, for we had no officer accompanying us.
The burlier of the two rose from his seat and approached us. He was slovenly dressed, his uniform half open, perhaps due to the heat from the lamp they had on the table. I could see from the folded cards spread before them that we had interrupted a game of Old Maid.
“What’re you doing here?” he asked, none too pleased at our interruption of the game.
Holmes handed him our permit, whereupon he quipped, “Better see that man now while you still can.”
He unlocked the rusty door to the cells. It swung open with a creak. The foulness of the air had me thinking that we had somehow wandered back in time to a dungeon of the Dark Ages.
The jailer walked us past three empty cells. I began to shiver, for the cold was biting. Puddles covered the uneven stone floor, and water seeped through cracks in the walls. There was none of the splendour of New Scotland Yard in this place.
The jailer stopped in front of the fourth door, pulled a huge ring of keys from his pocket, and rammed one into the rusty lock. When the door swung open with a loud creak, I immediately understood his snide comment about the prisoner.
Even without seeing the man, I could tell that Roberts was in terrible health. The cell stank of blood and stool. In the half-light, I could make out a man lying on a cot. He was covered with a heavy blanket. A bucket in the corner, which acted as the privy, had d
iarrhoea and globs of blood sticking to its side. Flies buzzed about the bucket and the man himself. Roberts was sleeping, and his breathing came in harsh wheezes. I had heard these sounds from many patients upon their deathbeds and feared he was not long for the world.
We stepped into the cell and the jailer, keeping his distance, used a stick to poke the sick man. “Visitors for you, Roberts.” Once Roberts stirred, the jailer turned. On leaving the cell, he muttered, “Let me know when you’re done with him. No fear locking the door. He’s not going anywhere less it’s with ol’ Scratch.”
“Johnny… Johnny,” moaned Roberts in a soft voice. I recognised his accent as that of a Yorkshireman. “Is that you, son? Have you come to see your pa?”
“I am afraid not, Mr. Roberts,” Holmes said. “My name is Sherlock Holmes and this is my associate, Dr. Watson. We are here to ask you a few questions.”
Roberts pushed himself up on his cot. His hair was greasy, knotted strings of grey and white, his face ashen with sunken eyes. He was shaking and sweating profusely. He coughed and caught his mucus in a handkerchief. I could see oozes of black speckled with red.
“Sorry… I hoped you were my boy. I’ve come so far to see him, and I fear I may never lay eyes on him again. Do you know my boy? My Johnny?” he asked, now sitting up fully and wrapping his body in his blanket.
“Unfortunately, no, my good man. We have some questions about your arrest.” Holmes spoke warmly, trying to be comforting.
I stepped forward. “I am a doctor. May I?”
He nodded, and I checked his pulse. It was weak. His lungs were raspy and I saw that his lips were bloodstained. There was a bright red, bumpy rash on his chest and neck. I noted the bloody stool as well. I was not certain as to the exact cause of his distress, but I suspected he was suffering from consumption in conjunction with a stomach flu.
While I examined Roberts, Holmes began his enquiry. “Could you tell us what exactly transpired on Sunday?”
“Don’t know why you ask. Everything is in the statement.”
“Indulge me.”
The man let out a series of hard coughs and spat up more dark mucus and blood. “As I said, Mr. Holmes. I came here looking for my son. I’ve been a Yorkshire miner all my life. Wanted the same for my Johnny, but he had different ideas. Much as I tried to get him to stay on with me, he had his eyes on city life. Johnny always had a gift with food, often cooking for the men in the camp. He was hired on as an assistant, and then he started experimenting with pastries and such. I thought it odd, but the men all liked Johnny’s cooking, said he was like one of them fancy Parisian bakers. Made them feel a bit proper, I think.
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