Sherlock Holmes

by Martin Rosenstock

  * * *

  Once more in the room where the murder had occurred, Holmes stood in the centre and gazed around. He was obviously taking note of things that neither Hopkins nor I could see. At length he pointed to the mummy case. “Do you notice the carpet beneath the sarcophagus? There is a slight ridge at the right-hand side and an unfaded section of carpet has been exposed by about half an inch, which suggests that the artefact has been moved recently.”

  Hopkins and I stared at the base of the sarcophagus.

  “I see what you mean, Mr. Holmes,” said the policeman.

  “So do I, but what does it tell us?” I asked.

  Holmes approached the case and examined its edge. He tugged at the lid and, as it swung open slowly and noiselessly, a large object fell out on to the carpet with heavy thud.

  It was a body, and obviously Sir Ronald Martin’s. He was still wearing his pyjamas and his hands were tied behind his back. A band of rough material acting as a gag covered his mouth. It was clear from the man’s features and posture that he had been dead for some time. Rigor mortis was already setting in. A scarlet stain had spread over his chest, suggesting that he had been stabbed.

  “Great heavens,” cried Hopkins, kneeling down by the body.

  “I think this eliminates Sir Ronald as a suspect in the murder of Langton,” said Holmes glibly, and then drew a deep breath.

  “What is it, Holmes?” I asked.

  “Look at the face. And at the man’s physique.”

  I did so but could see nothing of relevance and shook my head to indicate as much.

  “Look! The grey thinning hair, the slender build and the height.”

  “Ah, I think I understand, Mr. Holmes.” Hopkins nodded towards the fireplace where the body of Langton the butler was still lying. “These two men are very similar in appearance.”

  “Exactly.”

  “What are you suggesting, Holmes?” I said.

  “Suppose the murderer came into this room for the sole purpose of luring Sir Ronald downstairs in order to kill him. The murderer did so by overturning that display case. Sir Ronald’s bedroom is directly above this study. Anyone sleeping up there would hear the racket – anyone, that is, who was not wearing earplugs. So Sir Ronald slumbered on. However, to his credit, the ever-efficient butler Langton, who heard the sound, felt it his duty to investigate. He entered the darkened room with only a candle for illumination. In the gloom he could easily be mistaken for Sir Ronald.”

  “Great heavens, Holmes! You mean he was killed by mistake?” I cried.

  “That explanation certainly fits the facts. Who would want to kill an innocent butler? Once the killer then realised his mistake, he had no option but to go upstairs and attack his victim in his bedroom. See, there is an abrasion on Sir Ronald’s forehead, which suggests that he was knocked senseless in order to be moved to the study quietly. Once placed in the sarcophagus, he was stabbed. It had to be here, for there is no sign of blood elsewhere.”

  “But why not carry out the murder upstairs? Why stow the body away in the mummy case?”

  Holmes shrugged. “There are a few possible reasons: to delay discovery, on a whim, to add further drama to the affair.”

  Hopkins rubbed his bristly chin with frustration. “All these things do not bring us any closer to resolving the problem of who committed these murders.”

  “Ah, Hopkins, a tangled skein is not unravelled in an instant. One must assemble all the facts, examine all avenues before one can reach a conclusion. But each revelation, each clue, helps.”

  “So, what do we do now, Mr. Holmes?”

  “I would like to have a talk with Sir Ronald’s niece, Miss Celia Martin.”

  * * *

  Inspector Hopkins informed us that Miss Martin had her own private quarters on the second floor. We made our way there and the detective knocked gently on the door. After a short interval, it was opened and to my surprise a man stood on the threshold. He was tall, young and handsome, though with a rather saturnine expression. He did not speak, but raised his brows quizzically as if to enquire who we were.

  “I am Inspector Hopkins and these are my associates. We would like a few words with Miss Martin.”

  “Let them in, Alan,” came a female voice from inside the room. With some reluctance, the man stood aside and allowed us to enter. A young woman, who was seated on a chaise longue, rose to greet us. She was slender and neatly attired, and though her face was rather plain her demeanour was strangely attractive.

  “Have you made any progress, Inspector?”

  Hopkins shook his head. It was an awkward gesture and for a few moments he seemed lost for words. Holmes had suggested that we should not inform the young woman of her uncle’s demise until the end of the interview.

  “The news will distress her and therefore any chance of obtaining sensible answers would be lost,” my friend had affirmed. I knew he was right, of course, yet I could not help but feel that this pragmatic approach, so typical of Holmes, lacked empathy with Miss Martin’s plight.

  She gave a tight smile and gazed over at the young man. “Oh, I am forgetting my manners. Let me introduce you to my fiancé, Mr. Alan Sanderson.”

  The young man stepped forward and shook our hands in a stiff manner. “Gentlemen,” he said, “I beg you to be brief. Miss Martin is most distressed by the events and requires peace and quiet to recover.”

  “I fully understand, sir, and we will not detain her longer than is necessary.”

  “Don’t fuss, Alan. I want to help the inspector all I can.”

  “Thank you, Miss. I am being assisted in this case by Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson.”

  At the mention of our names we each gave a quick bow.

  “Good gracious,” said Miss Martin. “Of course, I have heard of you, Mr. Holmes, and of you, too, Dr. Watson. If you are able to bring some sense to this terrible incident, I would be most grateful.”

  “What I would like to know, Miss Martin,” said Holmes, “is a little about your uncle and his relationship with his son.”

  Celia Martin’s face clouded. “He had no relationship with his son. They fell out about six months ago and Simon left.”

  “What was the cause of this rift?”

  “I don’t really know. It happened shortly after I came to live here. I think it was something to do with money, but I was not privy to the details.”

  “Did this state of affairs pain your uncle?”

  “He never much talked about it. After Simon left, it was as though he had no son.” She paused for a moment, considering whether to say more. “There was one occasion…” she said at length. “My uncle seemed upset at dinner and had drunk rather heavily. I asked him what the matter was and he said it concerned Simon. Apparently, when he had been into town that afternoon, he had caught a glimpse of him from across the street. This had distressed him greatly. He said that he had felt an impulse to rush and greet him, but he just couldn’t. When I asked him why, he fell silent and then left the room.”

  “Do you know where Simon is now?”

  Miss Martin shook her head. “No. He dropped out of university some years ago and never had any occupation. He depended entirely on his father’s allowance and lived in an extravagant fashion, I’m afraid. I don’t know how he survives now that he does not have that source of income. But why are you so interested in him? Surely you cannot think that he was involved in the… in the death of Langton?”

  “In investigating crime, Miss Martin, one must examine all avenues.” Holmes glanced at Hopkins before continuing. “You see, there is more to this dreadful matter than you know at present.”

  The young woman’s face darkened.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I am afraid I have some terrible news to impart.”

  “What… what news?” Her voice was tremulous now and Alan Sanderson rushed to her side.

  “There has been a second death in the house…”

  Miss Martin’s hand flew to her mou
th in shock.

  “I am sorry to report that your uncle…”

  The young woman gave an inarticulate cry and slumped back into the arms of her fiancé.

  “What are you saying, sir?” he cried. “That Sir Ronald is dead?”

  Holmes nodded.

  Miss Martin began sobbing into Sanderson’s shoulder. He gazed with some anger at Holmes. “I don’t understand…”

  “The facts of the matter can be conveyed later. At the moment I think it best to leave so that you can comfort Miss Martin.” By his voice and manner I could tell that Holmes was ill at ease.

  With some awkwardness, we left the room.

  “That is quite a burden the young lady has to carry. Two deaths in her house,” I said.

  “Yes,” agreed Holmes. “The house of which she is now mistress.”

  * * *

  As we moved towards the stairs, Hopkins stumbled and grasped the bannister rail to steady himself.

  “I think you should go home and get some sleep, Hopkins,” said Holmes, “before you collapse on us.”

  The inspector sighed heavily. “I must admit I am exhausted. I last saw my bed at five o’clock yesterday morning. But I cannot abandon this investigation.”

  “There is little else we can do at this precise moment. I would like to have a few words with Langton’s widow and then spend some time contemplating what evidence we’ve managed to assemble. I suggest you arrange for your men to remove the bodies to the morgue and then refresh yourself with something to eat and a few hours’ sleep – that balm of hurt minds, you know. Come round to Baker Street first thing in the morning and we will discuss the case further.”

  Holmes’s suggestion was so sensible and practical that Hopkins made no argument against it. He simply nodded and said, “Very well.”

  “Good man. Now, if you will point us in the direction of Mrs. Langton’s quarters.”

  * * *

  Mrs. Cora Langton greeted us cordially, as we entered the small sitting room. It was clear that she had been crying and although she tried hard to behave according to her role as practical housekeeper, one could tell that her nerves were shattered.

  “I’ll help you all I can,” she said, unprompted. “I want the devil who did for Alf to be caught and then strung up.” She turned her head away and dabbed at her eyes.

  “We shall not keep you long,” said Holmes softly. “I fully appreciate what a terrible time this must be for you.” He reached out and touched the lady gently on her arm. There were moments when my friend could be sensitive and sympathetic. However, I knew that this was not a natural trait in him, but a considered gesture to put her at some sort of ease so that she might be more forthcoming with her answers.

  “Thank you, Mr. Holmes. I have not yet fully accepted the awful situation in which I find myself. I half expect Alf to walk through that door at any moment…” There came some additional sobs before Mrs. Langton bravely composed herself once more, gave us a tight smile and said, “Very well, gentlemen, what would you like to know?”

  “I am very interested in Sir Ronald’s relationship with his son and the reason for their estrangement. Could you tell me about it?”

  Mrs. Langton seemed surprised at Holmes’s request. “Well,” she said, “that took place some six months ago.” Then, however, her line of thought veered off in another direction. “You know, of course, that Sir Ronald was a highly respected archaeologist specialising in Egyptology. He conducted many excavations in Egypt and made some great discoveries, including the tomb of Ramesses VIII. It was because of this that he was awarded his knighthood. There had been a kind of a race between him and another archaeologist, Hugo Carrington. They had both been pursuing the same goal, but Sir Ronald pipped him at the post, as it were.”

  “There was bad blood between Carrington and Sir Ronald?” Holmes suggested.

  Mrs. Langton nodded. “Initially they were working together but, after some quarrel, Sir Ronald set off on his own with just a few workmen. Carrington said that he stole the calculations he had made regarding the site of the tomb – but there was no evidence to prove this. I think he was simply jealous. Sir Ronald is a fair and honest man.”

  “What upset him so much that he disowned his son?”

  “Well, most of the treasures of the tomb he sold to the British Museum, but Sir Ronald kept a few for himself. You will have seen some of them in his study. His prize artefact was a gold amulet worn by the pharaoh. It was a wonderfully worked bracelet. Simon stole it and sold it to fund his gambling mania. What is worse, he sold it to Hugo Carrington.”

  Holmes leaned forward with interest. “How did Sir Ronald find out?”

  “Carrington told him! He boasted of it. Crowing that Sir Ronald’s own flesh and blood had stolen the amulet and sold it for ‘forty pieces of silver’, as he said.”

  “Why did he not sell it on the open market? I am sure he would have received a good return?” asked Holmes.

  Mrs. Langton nodded. “I suppose so, but I don’t know. Of course, Simon denied the whole incident. He swore that he did not take the amulet, but as it was in Carrington’s possession and he assured Sir Ronald of the means by which he had obtained it, there appeared to be no doubt that Simon was the thief. It wounded Sir Ronald greatly that his own son had been so treacherous and that he had lost his most precious treasure.”

  “Why didn’t Sir Ronald go to the police?” I asked.

  The lady shook her head sadly. “He had no stomach for the upset and scandal that would result. He just accepted the matter, but he could not forgive Simon.”

  “So he cast his son out into the wilderness,” said Holmes. “Simon was, in essence, a good man, Mr. Holmes, but this gambling bug robbed him of the finer moral sensibilities. His father had bailed him out of several large debts in the past, but stealing this amulet was the final straw. He simply threw him out of the house. ‘You are no longer my son and I never want to see you again,’ he said. ‘You will not receive another penny from me – not even when I’m dead.’ I saw it all. It was a very upsetting scene. Simon left and has never returned. How he exists now, I have no idea.”

  “Do you know where he lives?”

  “I am afraid not. In the old days he was a habitué of the Cavalier Club; perhaps they will know of his whereabouts.”

  Holmes rose to go and then paused. “Tell me, between ourselves, what is your opinion of Alan Sanderson, Miss Martin’s fiancé?”

  Mrs. Langton’s face clouded for a moment and she sniffed in a derogatory fashion. “It is not really for me to pass judgement…”

  “Of course not,” said Holmes. “An opinion is all I require.”

  “I am sure that he is a decent fellow. But I find him rather a cold fish. He certainly has made all the running in the affair. I am sure Miss Martin would have been happy to wait a while before she got engaged. They had only known each other a few months when he proposed. Indeed, Sir Ronald advised restraint, but Mr. Sanderson pressured the girl. He is rather manipulative and Miss Martin is so easily swayed.”

  “Do you suspect a motive in this haste?”

  Mrs. Langton’s features produced a wry smile. “I can tell you’re no fool, Mr. Holmes,” she observed. “Yes, Miss Martin is a bit of a prize. She is likely to inherit Monkton House and probably most of Sir Ronald’s fortune. Who wouldn’t want to marry into that kind of situation? They intend to be married in the summer.”

  The housekeeper paused for a moment as though considering whether she should speak further. Holmes gave her his most charming smile.

  “There was something else?” he prompted.

  “Well,” Mrs. Langton responded hesitantly, “it is only my impression, but… I was never fully convinced of the romance between the two of them if I’m honest.”

  “Honesty is the best policy,” murmured Holmes.

  “It may be my imagination, but I believe Miss Martin’s real affections lay elsewhere.”

  “With whom?”

  “Ah, that I do
not know. It may very well be just my fancy – it is something I feel, rather than know.”

  “Thank you for your frankness, Mrs. Langton, it is much appreciated. We will leave you now with our sincere condolences.”

  The housekeeper bowed her head. “Thank you, gentlemen. I would rather like to visit my sister in Peckham for a few days to rest and gather myself. Miss Martin is quite agreeable for me to go.”

  “That would be fine. Please just leave your forwarding address with the police should we wish to contact you again.”

  “Thank you, sir.” The lady dabbed her eyes again and forced a little smile.

  Holmes rose and was about to make for the door when he paused. “One last question, Mrs. Langton. Can you think of anyone with a grudge against your master, like Hugo Carrington, for instance?”

  “No, no. Sir Ronald has a good reputation and is well liked. I know of no enemies. As for Hugo Carrington, he died three months ago of a heart attack.”

  * * *

  “Well, that is one door closed to us,” said Holmes as we descended towards the hallway.

  “Hugo Carrington?”

  He nodded. “One can imagine the fellow smouldering with anger at the way he believed he was cheated out of the treasures and the recognition that came with the discovery of Ramesses’s tomb, until he finally snapped and sought revenge on his one-time ally. But, the dead do not rise from their grave, and so that is a theory one must discard.”

  As we entered the hall, we heard quick footsteps following in our wake and the cry of “Mr. Holmes, wait!” echoing in the stairwell.

  We turned and saw Alan Sanderson descending the stairs at some speed. “Mr. Holmes, may I have a brief word?”

  “Certainly,” responded my friend coolly.

  “Thank you, sir,” said Sanderson, catching his breath. “I am most concerned about the effects these terrible events are likely to have upon my fiancée. She is a sensitive creature and the loss of her uncle is a blow.”

  Holmes raised a quizzical eyebrow.

  “I fear for her state of mind.”

  “The matter is a complex one, Mr. Sanderson, but I assure you I am giving it my full attention.”