“Then, as I said, ten years back, Johnny began catching the attention of some of the women of the camp. He was a bit more unique than the miners. He had his fair share of romances, before breaking my heart.”
“How so?” asked Holmes.
“Out of all the women in the camp, Johnny settled on an Irish gal. A redhead, and you know what they say about the Irish, Mr. Holmes, they have a passion as fiery as their hair. I’m sure that’s how the hussy got her hands onto my Johnny. Despite my threats, he went and married her. If my dear Marigold were still here, God rest her soul, she’d have died of a broken heart. We may be poor miners, Mr. Holmes, but we Robertses have always been proud of our heritage. It is British blood and only British blood for us. To have us mixed with bogtrotters was too much to bear. I threw my son out, Mr. Holmes, and I haven’t seen him since.”
Roberts let out another series of long, hard coughs and then gasped for air.
“But you are here now looking for your son.”
“That’s true. Johnny’d write to me, maybe once every two or three years. He had made his way to the city, had become a baker’s apprentice, then a baker, and then opened his own bakery. That’s where you folks found me. You see, as I became sick, Mr. Holmes, I reflected on my life, on my son’s accomplishments. I reckon he’s made more of a name for himself as a baker than he would’ve in the mines, and Fiona, his wife, why, she’s made a good life with him. Four children, three boys and a girl, no less. Grandchildren I’ve never met. When you reach life’s end, Mr. Holmes, you get to reflecting on what’s important. You find forgiveness in your heart. You find that pride makes one the biggest fool of all.”
“You came to make amends with your son,” I said softly. It is difficult to admit one is wrong, but Roberts had done so, something most men cannot do.
“Yes, Doctor, I did. I made my way to the city getting rides in the backs of carriages, sometimes sitting on bales of hay. Took some time, but I made it, and went right to my Johnny’s business, and that—” here Mr. Roberts paused, tears welling up in his eyes before he continued – “that’s when I found his shop closed. His bakery was gone. I couldn’t believe it. I found the lock on the back door was broken, and so I went inside to see if there was any clue as to where my Johnny’d gone. I stayed there that night, still searching. I started a fire in the stove from some leftover wood. I’m guessing that’s how you folks found me.
“Now, I’ve told you my story again, just like the one the copper typed up and I signed. I gave you all the money I had. Surely it was enough to pay my fine. Please, I need to see my boy one last time. I need him to know how proud I am of him, and that I know he made the right decisions with his life.”
I was baffled by Roberts’s statement and was going to ask him about the murder, when Holmes held up his hand to stop me.
“Thank you for answering our questions, Mr. Roberts. One last thing. Did you read over the statement you made before signing it?”
Roberts shook his head. “I’m sorry, Mr. Holmes, but like I told the superintendent, I learned how to make the squiggles to sign my name, but I never learned how to read.”
* * *
We said our goodbyes to Roberts, and Holmes assured him we would do our best to have him released as soon as possible. His jailer made some quip about making sure we bathed when we got home. Neither Holmes nor I responded.
“These are dark matters, Watson,” Holmes said quietly as we made our way back up the steps. I nodded. I was uncertain whom to trust; indeed, I eyed the constable at the entryway with suspicion. Holmes and I tipped our hats and exited the building.
“Watson, when we were at the Yard, did you notice how Superintendent Cromwell gritted his teeth and flushed at some of my questions?” Holmes asked as we boarded the waiting hansom.
“I noticed that he did so at most of your questions.”
Holmes chuckled. “Very good, my dear man. That is so. Did you also notice how his eyes shifted ever so slightly to the left at some of his answers?”
“I did not,” I confessed.
We were now sitting comfortably in the carriage. Holmes gave a knock on the roof with his cane and we started on our way back to Baker Street.
“The superintendent’s behaviour, Watson, is that of a man who is not entirely forthcoming.”
“I deduced as much from the fact that Mr. Roberts is illiterate.”
“Yes, but there is more. The superintendent was honest in telling us of the isolation of the prisoner, but he also said Roberts was ‘too important’ to be exposed to other prisoners. That is nonsense.”
“What do you mean, Holmes?”
“I mean that we were permitted to see Mr. Roberts with a notice from an inspector, not a very high-level authority, and no police escort. If Roberts were so important, that would not have been the case.”
“I believe my being a doctor played a role.”
“No, Watson, I was permitted to see Roberts before the constable knew you were present.”
“What does it mean, Holmes?”
“It means that the superintendent does not want the man to have any visitors, yet he is careful not to allow much attention to fall towards Roberts. Cromwell assumed that anyone trying to visit Roberts would seek his permission as we did. He would thwart the attempts without drawing the attention of the jailers or other officers.”
“But why this elaborate charade?” I asked.
“Because, my dear Watson, it is Cromwell’s hope that Roberts’s cell will be his grave.”
* * *
We rode the rest of the way in silence. Holmes’s face was intent, but expressionless. He was analysing the information he had received, reading it as though it were laid out before him. I tried to do the same, pondering all the evidence and the inconsistencies.
Tipton knew of Armstrong’s recent marriage, yet had withheld that information from us. It made me question how much more he knew which he did not share. Was he completely trustworthy?
The hidden wife herself was highly suspicious. What man would keep his wedding secret from his friends? Was she really married to Armstrong, or was this story part of Cromwell’s charade?
Cromwell, now, there was a man up to no good. He was keeping Roberts locked away for a crime he most assuredly did not commit. Roberts did not appear to have any knowledge of the Armstrong murder and had signed a false confession. What was Cromwell’s purpose? Was he the real killer? He was left-handed, after all. But why kill his dear friend? Was there some connection between Cromwell and Mrs. Armstrong? Did Holmes have enough evidence, enough clay to make bricks?
“Not quite, Watson,” Holmes said, startling me as we reached Baker Street.
“What’s that, Holmes?”
“Not enough clay just yet.”
* * *
After we had stepped out of the carriage and ascended the stairs to Holmes’s rooms, I asked my friend about the holes in everyone’s stories. “There is little I can conclude except that everyone apart from Mr. Roberts seems to be lying or is at least dishonest in some way.”
“Best to put it out of your mind for now. I say, did you read about the upcoming performance of Wagner’s Ring?”
Holmes and I spent the remainder of the afternoon and early evening in discussion. We both admired Britain’s progress in Asia, debated whether France or Britain had the finest theatres in the world, and discussed which team would take the Association Football Cup.
With droplets of rain still falling outside, Holmes and I decided to dine in that evening. He entertained by playing the violin, demonstrating the fiddle style so popular in America. We concluded the evening with some brandy, cigars, and reading time. Holmes studied a piece on a recent Scottish invention which miraculously converts the power of wind into electricity. My reading, I admit, was far from scholarly; it was a penny dreadful entitled Murder at Bloodgood’s Pond, based on the true story of a woman found brutally stabbed to death near New York City.
I tend to read widely in the
area of crime stories, as there is always something to learn from other practitioners of the craft. The adventure, however, appeared melancholic and overly descriptive and did not hold my interest. I ended up dozing off in my chair.
I awoke three-quarters of an hour later to find that the rain had ceased and that Holmes had gone out. I was not concerned. This kind of behaviour was not unusual for him, and he might have disappeared for reasons unrelated to the Armstrong case. With the hour being late, I thought it best to spend the night at 221B. I went to my former room, dressed for bed (I still kept a small wardrobe at my former residence), and quickly fell into a deep slumber.
I awoke early the next morning and went to my practice in Paddington. I suspected that after such a damp day, things would be very busy, and indeed the patients thronged my waiting room. At around eleven, I received a note from Holmes. He let me know that he had scheduled a late-afternoon appointment with Mrs. Armstrong and asked me to accompany him to Whitechapel.
I replied that things depended on how much longer my services would be required. As fortune would have it, the number of patients decreased after lunch, and by mid-afternoon, my schedule was empty. After half an hour with no walk-ins, I closed my practice and returned to Baker Street. I caught Holmes as he was leaving, and we travelled by Underground to Whitechapel together.
The carriage was half empty at this time. Holmes and I had no trouble finding seats. “I have much to tell you, Watson,” Holmes said and explained that he had been very busy throughout the day.
“I began by visiting Mr. Lory at his shop on Church Street. A well-to-do shop it is, Watson. His craftsmanship is exquisite. He makes a fine pair of shoes. He deserves his good reputation.”
“And you questioned him about Armstrong?” I asked, wondering if the cobbler had been able to bring more light to the case.
“Not in the least.”
“Then what did you do there?”
“I threw shoes at him.”
“You what?”
“I threw shoes at the man, Watson.” Holmes had a large grin on his face.
“And what did Mr. Lory do?”
“Why, caught them, of course. After that, I ventured to the residence of Mr. Armstrong,” Holmes continued.
I had plenty to ask about his encounter with Mr. Lory, but I knew better than to interrupt Holmes as he related the events of his day.
“Armstrong’s house is not far from Mr. Lory’s cobbler shop. Armstrong certainly did well for himself. There are only a few servants, and the place is not overly large, but everything is of the finest. His story of success is one for a Dickens novel.
“I saw upon the door a wreath of laurels tied with long black ribbons. After knocking, I was greeted by a butler who led me to the drawing room where Armstrong’s wake was being held. All was as dour as could be expected. The mirrors were covered, the clock was stopped at 10.30 a.m., the estimated time of Armstrong’s death, derived from the temperature of the body as measured by the coroner. Two portraits of Armstrong were displayed on the wall: one a more recent depiction of the man in his business attire, the other a depiction of him in his decorated uniform. Stern and imposing he looked, Watson. I could see courage in those features. There was something more, though, a darkness beyond his eyes. And they did not quite look at you, but a little sideways. Odd…” My friend’s voice trailed off. After a moment he continued, “The upper half of the casket was open. The undertaker had done his best to cover up the signs of trauma, but one could still see the large lump on Armstrong’s head.
“Watching over the body was Armstrong’s cousin Beatrice Mulvaney, who’d travelled from Manchester to attend the funeral.”
“The cousin, not the wife?” I questioned.
“Indeed, Watson. Not the wife. Mrs. Mulvaney was the only woman in the house; however, she explained that Mrs. Armstrong had watched over her husband dutifully for two days. She had a business to run, though, and so Mrs. Mulvaney offered to take over from her for the day.
“Mrs. Mulvaney spoke highly of Mrs. Armstrong. Clearly the two women have bonded over this tragedy.
“I asked if Mrs. Armstrong had received many visitors, and she told me it had been a steady stream of dignitaries, business associates, and veterans.
“As she spoke, a trio of men arrived. They were business partners of Mr. Armstrong and all spoke of his kindness, even calling him a saint. Mrs. Mulvaney also spoke highly of her cousin, explaining that many children would be destitute and on the streets if it weren’t for his charity.
“After leaving Armstrong’s home, I spent the remainder of the morning and early afternoon visiting orphanages, a group of Dr. Barnardo’s Homes, to which Armstrong had generously donated. I spoke with headmistresses, caretakers, and principals. They all said that if it weren’t for the likes of Mr. Armstrong and the good Dr. Barnardo they would have to close their doors. All were nervous to hear whether Mrs. Armstrong planned on continuing her husband’s legacy.
“Ah, Watson, this is Whitechapel. I shall tell you more later. Our appointment with the missus awaits.”
* * *
Armstrong’s tobacco shop was only two streets from the station, so it did not take us long to walk there.
The shop was much smaller than the one on Oxford Street. It had a display case in the window, showing a selection of tobaccos from the four corners of the world. Most of the shag sold here was of lower quality than at the Oxford Street shop, as few of the inhabitants of Whitechapel could afford fancy products. The product was still of much better quality than any other shop in Whitechapel. When we entered, a man was buying a few ounces of a Turkish blend. The cockney lad behind the counter appeared to be in his early twenties.
“Good morning, gents,” he said. “What can I do for you?”
“We have an appointment to see Mrs. Armstrong,” Holmes said.
“Oh, that’s right. Come along then,” the lad said, gesturing for us to step behind the counter. Once we had joined him, he pointed towards a corridor. “Straight back there, office on the right.”
The corridor was lined with cedar boxes of cigars and pouches of tobacco. At its end, we found the office to which the young salesman had directed us. It was tiny, no more than a desk crammed into a hole. A filing cabinet stood behind the desk, also a bookshelf, and wedged between the desk and these items sat Mrs. Armstrong, poring over a book by the light of a gas lamp. In front of the desk stood two wooden chairs. I could tell that these had been brought in specifically for our meeting as they blocked the door.
Mrs. Armstrong rose. “You must be Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson,” she said with a slight cockney accent, as we removed our hats. “Welcome, and please…” She offered the two chairs.
I admit that I was taken aback by Mrs. Armstrong’s appearance. I had expected a woman of some grace and beauty, as she had, after all, become the wife of a gentleman. Her black bombazine dress, which reached up to her chin, was indeed finely made, and elegant black gloves covered her hands; her widow’s cap had a long veil of white crêpe that descended over her face, rendering her features almost invisible. Yet I could tell that life had been hard on her. Her shoulders slouched, her back was bent, and her arms and hands were far from dainty. Even through her veil, I could see she had a plain face with heavy lines under her eyes.
We sat down and Holmes noted the book Mrs. Armstrong was reading.
“Not much of a reader myself, Mr. Holmes. Only can read because my Pa taught me when we were taking care of my Grampa. Always liked to be read to at night, my Grampa.” Mrs. Armstrong shut the tome; it was heavy enough to make a loud thud. “Now I got a business to run,” she continued. “Never knew how much there was to this tobacco business. Can’t just grow the plants anywhere. You got to have the right soil. If the dirt ain’t right, then the tobacco ain’t right neither.”
“Fortunately, you have Mr. Tipton to assist you as you become a businesswoman,” Holmes reassured her.
“That’s right,” Mrs. Armstrong agreed, face
downward. “He misses my husband almost as much as I do. He ain’t been around much since the tragedy when my husband, God rest his soul, was stolen away. You said it was Tipton that sent you?”
“Yes,” replied Holmes. “I am investigating a robbery, which unfortunately, was not discovered till after your husband’s death. It appears that someone stole £200 from the safe at the Oxford Street shop. Do you know who would have had access to the combination?”
“Just my husband and Mr. Tipton, I believe. Even I don’t have the combination yet. Still don’t rightly know the names of the workers outside this shop. After the funeral tomorrow, Mr. Tipton has promised to take me round to meet them. Like I said, I’ve got a business to run now. Didn’t expect to be a widow carrying a child, neither.”
Holmes leaned forward in his seat. “I am truly sorry you are suffering such a tragedy, Mrs. Armstrong. Your husband was a gentleman. I knew him not, but I’ve heard the stories of his kindness towards others.”
“Thank you, Mr. Holmes,” Mrs. Armstrong whispered, still keeping her eyes down. I could tell Holmes had upset her as her body shook slightly.
“I’m sure it was difficult for you to come here today.”
“Oh, yes, Mr. Holmes. It was hard to leave the vigil. I am fortunate to have Cousin Mulvaney. I know my dear Cal would want me to make sure his business continued on. After all, the money does help the children.”
“So, you intend to fund the orphanages?” Holmes asked. “I’m sure they will be most relieved to hear it.”
“Course I’ll keep paying them. That is my husband’s legacy, after all,” Mrs. Armstrong said, sounding a bit cross.
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