“As I investigated the dead man, I began to visit the orphanages he so loved and his tobacco shops and noticed a common feature. While everyone spoke highly of Armstrong, their manner differed depending on whether I was speaking to a man or a woman. Women who knew Armstrong well would lower their eyes or frown, sometimes praising the man through gritted teeth. You may have noticed it this morning, gentlemen, at the funeral. Many women walked out when they heard the praise being heaped upon Armstrong. Some who remained, however, did talk to me in private, in harsh whispers, explaining that Armstrong was a very demanding and forceful man. If a woman rejected his demands, he would become violent. Sometimes he even did so if she relented and allowed him to do what he wanted.
“Is that not true, Mrs. Armstrong?”
Mrs. Armstrong was trembling. Her late husband’s friends had averted their eyes. Tipton clasped his hands in his lap, his right leg jerking up and down rapidly like the tail of a dog. Cromwell was looking at his shoes and shaking his head. Lory was sweating profusely, occasionally mopping his brow with a handkerchief. Lord Forster was the exception; he continued puffing on his cigar, as though Holmes were explaining an upcoming change in his schedule.
“You don’t need to answer, Mrs. Armstrong,” Forster said forcefully. “In fact, none of us has to put up with this.”
He stood and motioned to the others to do so as well, when a soft, shaky voice said, “It is true, Mr. Holmes.”
All turned to Mrs. Armstrong. She lifted her eyes and pulled back her veil. With the crêpe no longer hiding her features, even a thick layer of powder could not cover the bluish bruises.
Tears began to well up in her eyes, yet she maintained her composure. “I did not… I never allowed…” Then she pointed to her belly, amidst a torrent of tears.
I was stunned, too horrified to move. To my surprise, Mr. Lory went to soothe her and tell her all would be right.
“Do you see what you have done, Mr. Holmes!” snapped Lord Forster. “Do you see that your meddling only causes pain and suffering?”
“Pray allow me to continue,” Holmes said calmly, and when he did there was an edge to his voice. “I believe you will all be interested in what I have to say.”
Mrs. Armstrong stopped crying and looked up at Holmes, her eyes red and puffy.
“Mrs. Armstrong, you came here last Sunday. You knew of your husband’s monthly gatherings, and you also knew he would be alone before his friends arrived. You confronted him, told him that you were carrying his child. He did not take the news well.”
Mrs. Armstrong stood, removed her veil, and undid the buttons of her collar. When she spoke, there was a touch of venom in her words. “You can see how well he took my news.”
We saw clearly the imprint of fingers around her throat.
“He laughed, Mr. Holmes. Said no one would ever believe a charwoman such as myself, mocked me. So I got in a rage and told him I’d talk to the orphanage directors, even Dr. Barnardo himself, tell them what a brute he really is. Warn the girls not to be alone with him. I…” She paused to control herself. “I called him a coward, and… and I’d never seen such fury in a man’s face, more like a beast. He pounced on me, hit me, threw me against the wall, started choking me. I thought myself a goner.”
Here, Superintendent Cromwell interrupted her. “We came upon this scene. Lory and I got between them and separated them.”
“But why did you stab him?” I asked Cromwell.
“He didn’t stab him,” called Mr. Lory, who was now holding the weeping Mrs. Armstrong in his arms. “I did.”
“Lory, stop!” commanded Lord Forster.
“No, I take no shame in what I did. You see, Mr. Holmes, we knew. We all knew of Armstrong’s other side, yet we could never fully believe. Several months ago, in July, my sister was visiting from Bristol. I was out with my father, and when we returned home, we found Cal in the sitting room and my sister in her chamber. She was not herself that evening nor the next day. I asked what Armstrong had done to her. She just shook her head and wouldn’t talk about it. I knew he had harmed her. I confronted him, and he denied it, said I was imagining things, called my sister a liar and worse. I was angry, but had no evidence, no proof.
“When I saw the rage in his eyes and saw what he was doing to Mrs. Armstrong, it was as though my dear sister were there in her place. We had pushed Armstrong away, but he raged uncontrollably. He charged like a bull seeing red. He threw Cromwell to the ground and came straight at me. I could have dodged him. I saw the handle of the yatagan jutting out over the edge of the table. Suddenly, the knife was in my hand. I plunged it into Cal, stepped to the side, tripped him up, and threw him forward onto the ground, just as they drummed into us in close-combat drills. His head smashed against the table as he fell.
“There it is, Mr. Holmes. It is out, and I am done with it, and I will swear before a magistrate that is what occurred.”
“And you shall,” raged Tipton. “To think, betrayed by his dearest friends. I’ll see you all hang!” Tipton stood by Holmes’s side. “Mr. Holmes, shall I call for a constable?”
“I think not, Mr. Tipton. Return to your seat, all of you, for I have not quite concluded my tale.”
“But, Mr. Holmes, we have a confession. You heard it! We must call the police.”
“I believe you will change your mind after I finish my recounting of that night’s events.”
Tipton meekly returned to his seat. Everyone was now looking up at my friend.
“After Armstrong had fallen to the floor, you realised the extent of his wounds. Pandemonium broke out. I am sure, gentlemen, that Mr. Lory here was terrified, Mrs. Armstrong was shocked, and Superintendent Cromwell claimed his role as officer of the law. He would have gone for help, had it not been for Lord Forster. Isn’t that right, sir?”
“You are correct, Mr. Holmes. They did not see the scandal that would ensue.”
“But you did. You knew that the man you had worked so hard to portray as a hero to Buckingham Palace would now be seen as a common brute. Your judgement would be questioned, your associates would avoid you, and your life would come crashing down. So you stopped your comrades from revealing the truth, and together you concocted a story which exonerated you three from any wrongdoing and concealed Mr. Armstrong’s true nature. A burglar had killed Mr. Armstrong. The suspect would never be caught. With this narrative, Mr. Armstrong would remain a hero in the eyes of the public. It was a simple matter of deception.”
“Yes, it would have been, but we still had one loose end,” Lord Forster stated matter-of-factly.
“He is referring to me,” Mrs. Armstrong responded.
“Yes,” Holmes agreed. “You had no reason to agree to this version of events. So Lord Forster and Superintendent Cromwell, knowing their connections, saw fit to come up with a forged marriage license. You have a judge or two in your pocket, Lord Forster, and you a few who owed you favours, Superintendent, so creating this fake marriage would not be too difficult.”
“It gets worse and worse,” muttered Tipton. “Worse and worse.”
“But the story does not end there,” continued Holmes. “Once the papers became aware of the murder, Cromwell feared that someone might have heard something, be it a shriek from Mrs. Armstrong or the sounds of a scuffle; he did not want his men investigating too thoroughly. When he came upon Mr. Roberts, laid up in the closed bakery, his prayers were answered. Here was a man on death’s doorstep who could take the blame. You arrested Mr. Roberts for breaking and entering, locked him away where no one could question him, and waited for him to die. You had him sign a false confession and then purposely neglected to file paperwork that would allow the courts to schedule a hearing for him. You thought he probably only had a day or two to live. Once the man had died, with the signed confession, no one would question his guilt. All would be wrapped up neatly.”
“But he didn’t die,” Cromwell said bitterly.
“No, he did not. He outlived and continues to outlive a
ll our expectations. Perhaps it was his will to be reunited with his son. What matters is that the man goes free, and I think for his pain and suffering Mrs. Armstrong could give him the missing £200. It would be a rather kind end to the story, and show you continuing the compassionate work of your late husband.
“Now, gentlemen and Mrs. Armstrong, I await which version of events you wish for me to convey to the papers. Since the second version implicates all of you in some action against the law, then—”
“Not me, Mr. Holmes,” interrupted Mr. Tipton. “I am innocent, and I’ll be damned if these scoundrels get away with murder.”
“Still your tongue for a moment, Mr. Tipton, and think. Mr. Lory did kill Mr. Armstrong. He could argue, however, that it was self-defence. Superintendent Cromwell arrested an innocent man. Mrs. Armstrong agreed to a fake marriage. Lord Forster concocted the entire scheme. But you, Mr. Tipton, why, you may have done worse than all.”
“Why is that?” he said, puzzled.
“Because you knew about Mr. Armstrong’s behaviour, knew specifics. You knew about women he assaulted, and you did nothing to stop him.”
“They were nothing, Mr. Holmes. They were beneath him.”
“You might believe that, Mr. Tipton, but if the second story were revealed to the public, think of the scandal that would ensue. Think of your dear employer’s name being dragged through the mud. Think of the women who might emerge to tell their story.”
“The papers wouldn’t care about them.”
“Are you sure, Mr. Tipton? They care about selling copies, and a scandal like this would sell many. Why, it would be in the headlines for weeks. And think of your own name.”
“My name?”
“Yes, after the press have left no stone unturned in their investigation, your name would be brought into the light. Your knowledge of events revealed. In the end you yourself would be charged with a crime. You’d be an accessory to Armstrong’s acts.”
Tipton opened his mouth, caught himself, tried again, then sat in silence like the others.
After several moments, Superintendent Cromwell rose from his chair. “Excuse me, everyone. I must return to Scotland Yard and secure the release of Mr. Roberts. A good night to you all.”
They left without making a sound. Mr. Tipton was the last, having to lock up the business. Holmes and I followed him down the stairs and stepped outside. As Tipton stood in the entryway, he looked at Holmes and me and said, “I don’t like this, Mr. Holmes. Not one bit.” He locked the door, tipped his hat, and repeated, “Not one bit.” Then he disappeared into the night.
“Do you think he will go against them?” I asked Holmes.
“No, Watson. He is upset now, but he is a rational man. He will ruminate on what I said. He will come around.” Then Holmes continued, “Now, I must hasten over to The Times, Watson. Shall I meet you at your home?”
“Yes, Holmes, for there is much I still want to know.”
* * *
“Solving this little puzzle involved more than I laid out in the tobacco shop,” Holmes began telling me after he had stopped by my house that evening. We were both smoking pipes filled with Armstrong’s Oriental blend and rested in our armchairs.
“You see, Watson, when I went to Mr. Lory’s cobbler shop—”
“You mean when you threw shoes at him,” I interrupted, bemused.
“Yes,” continued Holmes, as he stuffed more tobacco into his extinguished pipe. “I wanted to check on a fact I’d learned about Lory from some of the soldiers I’d met at the bar the previous evening. You see, Mr. Lory used to entertain the troops by juggling.”
“Juggling?”
“Yes, and so I wondered if he might be skilled with both his left and his right hand. When I threw the shoes at him, he caught some with his left and some with his right hand. I also noted his handwriting in a ledger. Some of the strokes were pulled across the paper as does a right-handed person, while other letters were slanted in a backward direction, which indicates a left-handed person. You see, Mr. Lory is ambidextrous.”
“Really, old chap,” I said, astonished at this revelation. “I had wondered how Lory could have been the killer if he was right-handed.”
“From speaking with Beatrice Mulvaney at Armstrong’s house, I learned that she loathed her cousin. Before you and I travelled to see Mrs. Armstrong, I had spoken to a number of women who had confirmed what I had begun to suspect, that there was a more sinister side to the hero tobacconist.”
“Hero!” I grumbled. “He was no hero! He was a tyrant! He was born a monster and he died a monster.”
Holmes’s brow furrowed, his eyes gazed at me intensely, and then he slowly shook his head. “Do you not recall our conversation about the St. Leger’s Stakes?”
“I don’t see what that has to do with—”
“And,” Holmes cut me off, “do you recall how the conversation led to our discussion of Hugo Baskerville and my explanation that criminals do not sire criminals? My point, my dear Watson, is that no man is born a monster. Not a single one. Armstrong was born as innocent as you or I. His wickedness developed over time.”
“But you agree he was a terrible man,” I huffed.
“Of course I do. Had I met the man, he would have been one of the worst villains I’d have ever encountered.”
“And yet, a moment ago, you called him a hero. Surely a man cannot be both.”
“That is where you are wrong.” Holmes paused to take a smoke from his pipe. I was baffled by his contradictory statement and told him so.
“Let me explain. The people who would call Armstrong a hero know not of his malicious deeds. They know him only as the man on the battlefield who saved them from the jaws of death. Those men would have been killed in combat – shot, gutted, or worse – if it hadn’t been for Armstrong’s bravery. Those men owe Armstrong their lives.
“But then there is the dark and brutal side of Armstrong, the violent side which he unleashed upon the fairer sex. He committed unspeakable, unconscionable crimes. Crimes which left the deepest scars upon his victims. Crimes for which he paid the ultimate price.
“This Calyxtus Armstrong was a complicated man. I think of the fear I saw in the eyes of his victims, but I also think of the love I felt from the people he saved. It is a reminder that even the wickedest men can commit acts of kindness.”
* * *
I have often thought of Holmes’s words that evening, and every time we faced a great villain, be it a Moriarty, Milverton, or Moran, I have always tried to see that spark of humanity within the evil.
But let us turn to better things. The former Mrs. Armstrong continued to provide funding to the orphanages of London from the profits of her tobacco shops. I say former Mrs. Armstrong because two years after Armstrong’s death, she became Mrs. Lory. As for Mr. Roberts, he lived a full three months after being released. He wrote to Holmes weekly for the remainder of his life, informing him of his relationship with his son. Though Holmes always claimed not to be sentimental, I noted that he kept all the letters neatly tied together in his bottom desk drawer.
THE DARK CARNIVAL
ANDREW LANE
“Good Lord, Prince Henry of Battenberg has died!” I exclaimed, crumpling my copy of The Times on my lap and staring over at my friend, Sherlock Holmes.
He too was reading The Times. We had recently taken to having separate copies delivered to our rooms at 221B Baker Street, given that his inclination on receiving a newspaper was to take a pair of scissors to it and cut out any and all articles which he felt might reside better in his comprehensive filing system, while I preferred to sit in leisure and work my way through the paper from beginning to end without having to negotiate my way around the holes he left behind. I was on page ten of the morning edition, looking at the main news stories, while he was still perusing the classified advertisements on the first page.
“Who?” he muttered without taking his eyes off the newspaper. His scissor-wielding right hand was raised up by his right e
ar.
“Prince Henry. Son-in-law of the Queen. Husband of Princess Beatrice.”
He shrugged. “I am not familiar with the man. I find the lives of minor royalty to be of little interest. However,” and he tapped the newspaper with the scissors, “I note that an organ grinder is advertising here for the return of his marmoset. Tell me, what organ grinder could afford to take out an advertisement on the front page of The Times? For that price he could buy a new marmoset! Every second ship that arrives from Africa has several of the creatures on board. The sailors take them as pets on the voyage, then sell them for pennies on the docks which they then exchange for small beer. Organ grinders buy them for their novelty value, women buy them as exotic pets and, I am reliably informed, the Africans and Lascars working in and around the docks use them for food. ‘Bush meat’, they call it.”
I sighed. “This is history, Holmes! A member of the British Royal Family has died!”
“Tittle-tattle,” he responded. A moment later he frowned, then glanced hopefully at me over the top of the broadsheet. “Unless he was murdered. Was he murdered?”
“No, he was not murdered. He contracted malaria while serving as the military secretary to General Sir Francis Scott during the latest phase of hostilities in the Ashanti War. He died aboard the cruiser HMS Blonde, just off the Gold Coast of Africa.”
“Hmm. Not murder then,” my friend mused. “Unless, of course, the murderer was very clever and arranged for him to be exposed to the malaria parasite and somehow also reduced the efficacy of the quinine the prince would have been taking. Unlikely – I can think of fifteen better ways to kill a minor member of the royal household.”
I sighed. Sometimes I wondered if Holmes had spent years playing an elaborate joke on me, trying to convince me that his interests were channelled solely towards such things as poisons, weapons, and the history of crime and the law, while he knew nothing of literature, philosophy, astronomy or politics. Every now and then, however, I would catch him quoting some Greek philosopher, or making a point about the mathematics of asteroidal motion. I was gradually coming to the conclusion that – despite his protestations that his brain was like an attic, and that any fact memorised meant that another had to be forgotten – he was interested in, and remembered, every fact that crossed his path, up to and including the names and dispositions of every single member of the Royal Family.
Sherlock Holmes Page 19