“Elementary, Watson. Mrs. Hudson told him,” said Holmes smugly.
Hopkins nodded in agreement, still catching his breath.
“Well, Inspector, what is so urgent that it brings you here to interrupt our lunch?”
“Dramatic developments, Mr. Holmes.”
“Oh?”
“Not two hours ago a body was fished out of the Thames. It is that of Simon Martin.”
* * *
Holmes and I gazed down upon the body on the slab. It was Simon Martin who lay before us, the young man we had interviewed in Wandsworth only the previous day. There was a savage wound to the chest where a blade of some kind had been lodged.
“He was obviously attacked from the front by someone approximately six inches taller.” Holmes pointed. “See the position and angle of the wound. A knife was driven downward, suggesting the assailant’s height in relation to the victim.”
The inspector and I nodded.
“However,” continued Holmes, “I gather that although Martin was severely injured by the attack, his death was brought about by drowning. Where was he found?”
“On the lower reaches by Putney Bridge.”
“Near Wandsworth, where the fellow lived,” I said.
“That’s right, Doctor,” said the inspector. “He must have been despatched sometime mid-morning. I suspect that he was lured beneath the bridge away from the sight of passing pedestrians and stabbed there.”
“You are no doubt correct, Hopkins,” said Holmes.
“I went round to his diggings after I left you this morning and was told by his landlady that he received a telegram very early and left in a hurry.”
“A summons,” observed Holmes.
“A summons to his death,” I said.
“Already composing the prose for your account of this case?”
I did not respond.
“But you are right, Watson. It would seem this poor fellow was lured to his death.”
“But by whom?” asked the inspector, tipping his bowler to the back of his head in a frustrated motion.
“Ah, when we know that, we can all go home, Hopkins.”
“Have you really no theories, Mr. Holmes?”
“Of course I have, but I require further clues to make one of them watertight. Like a cautious gambler, I need to have secured all the winning cards before laying them on the table. However, I can say this: I am convinced that the person who murdered Sir Ronald and his butler was also responsible for the death of Simon Martin and, indeed, the theft of the amulet. Now, I would like to examine the dead man’s garments.”
Without a word, Hopkins removed a set of damp clothing from a cupboard at the far end of the chamber. Holmes studied these sorry articles thoroughly, then searched the pockets of the jacket and the trousers.
“Here is the telegram,” he said, extracting a soggy scrap of paper from a wallet in the back pocket of the trousers. He flattened out the telegram on a table.
“What does it say?” asked the inspector.
Holmes lifted his face and beamed. “It says: ‘You are a wronged man. You shall have the amulet. Meet me under Putney Bridge on the south side at ten o’clock this morning to receive your just desserts. A friend.’”
“Some friend,” sneered the policeman.
“It seems to me, Hopkins, that someone is determined to destroy the Martin family, and therefore it is likely that Miss Martin is at risk. I suggest that you place a very reliable constable on watch at the house and keep her under surveillance.”
“Right you are, Mr. Holmes.”
“In the meantime, I will continue my enquiries. I have high hopes that within the next twenty-four hours you will be placing the darbies on the person responsible for all three murders.”
* * *
“Where to now?” I said as we stood on the pavement, waiting to catch the attention of a passing cabby.
“I suggest you return to Baker Street while I carry out my errands. You know it is in the hour of action that I value your services most.”
“I was hoping that I could follow this case through at all stages.”
“Fear not, Watson. I will keep you apprised of all developments, but he who travels alone travels fastest. Time is of the essence. I need to acquire such information as will assist me in preventing a fourth murder. My first task, a tedious and mundane one, is to establish who benefitted from Hugo Carrington’s will. Who knows then where my track will lead? Here’s a cab for you. I’ll take the next one.”
I resigned myself to Holmes’s injunction to return to our quarters. As I drove off, I gazed back at the tall, spare figure of my friend standing in the gathering dusk of a December afternoon waiting for a hansom.
* * *
“This case grows more intriguing and certainly more complex as it progresses, Watson. I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.” These were the first words my friend spoke upon his return to Baker Street some time after eight that evening.
“You have more data.”
“Indeed, I do,” he cried, whipping off his outer clothes. “Another strand to add to our tangled skein.”
He donned his dressing gown and lit his black clay pipe. “According to the records at the Public Records Office, Hugo Carrington left the whole of his estate, which was quite considerable, to a certain Sergeant Amos Wilkins.”
“Great Scott. Who is he?”
“Well, I deduce that he is Carrington’s illegitimate son. He certainly would not bear his father’s name. Bastards rarely do. It could be his mother’s or, more likely, an assumed one.”
“And ‘Sergeant’?”
“Remember Pike suggested that because of his irrational behaviour, Carrington’s son was taken to an institution?”
“Yes, I do.”
“What more suitable institution to send your wayward son to than the army? The rigour, the discipline, the restrictions – all perceived as ideal to correct the delinquent idiosyncrasies of a petulant youth. I am sure that your experiences with the armed forces allowed you to observe examples of irresponsible and troubled young men being transformed into decent and reliable fellows by dint of army life and discipline.”
“I must admit that I did see those benefits in some instances.”
“It would seem that young Wilkins came up trumps… after a fashion.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Well, he is a sergeant. You do not achieve that rank without sense and merit.”
“And where is this fellow now?”
“He has disappeared. His given address does not and never did exist. I visited the solicitors who dealt with the will and they have no details of Wilkins’s current whereabouts. He is a will o’ the wisp.”
“How do you think that he figures in this case?”
“Significantly, yet at the moment he is lurking in the shadows on the periphery of events.”
“Do we know him?”
“I believe we do.”
“Who?”
“Just a few more facts before I am prepared to say.”
I was about to press further when there was a ring at the doorbell.
“A possible client,” I suggested.
“More likely one of Mrs. Hudson’s cronies. I hope so, at least. The last thing I need at the moment is a client.”
However, seconds later there was a tentative knock on our door.
“Certainly not one of Mrs. Hudson’s friends,” I observed as I rose to admit our visitor, Captain Henry Carmichael.
“I’m very sorry to bother you gentlemen at such a late hour…” he began.
“Come in, take a seat by the fire,” said Holmes warmly.
The captain did as instructed.
“Now, sir, what brings you to our humble abode?” asked Holmes.
Carmichael produced a copy of the evening news from his overcoat pocket. “I read the report in the paper tonight of the murder of Simon Martin. This is most terrible. I feel like I have lost a brother. He was reckless at times, but a good
man. I am shocked, saddened…” He slumped back in his chair, unable to continue.
“Brandy, Watson.”
I did as requested and pressed a glass into Carmichael’s hands. He thanked me and took a large gulp. “The item in the paper is very sketchy. Because of our earlier meeting, I knew that you would be involved in the case and so I wondered if you could give me further details. Have you any idea who carried out this terrible crime?”
Holmes held his hand out for the newspaper. “May I?”
Carmichael passed it to him. “A small item in the stop press.”
Holmes perused it and handed the paper back. “The item presents the basic facts. Simon Martin’s body was fished out of the Thames late this morning down by Putney Bridge. He had been stabbed and dumped unconscious in the river.”
“What was he doing down there? Who lured him to that spot?”
“We are still assembling details to help us reach a conclusion.”
“You must have a theory?”
Holmes gave a dark smile. “Must I? Well, a theory is only a theory and can only be something more with appropriate evidence. Can you suggest anything to help our enquiries?”
“It seems to me, Mr. Holmes, that if you are seeking a motive, surely it must have something to do with the death of Sir Ronald Martin and the likelihood that Simon would inherit his estate.”
“You are not suggesting that Miss Martin is involved in this business!” I said.
Carmichael shook his head wearily. “Good heavens, of course not. I don’t know what I mean. I am too upset about poor Simon’s death to think straight.” He took another sip of brandy. “All I ask is that you keep me informed on this matter, and if you think I can be of any help at all, please do not hesitate to ask.”
“It may be that your knowledge of Simon Martin and his relationship with the inhabitants of Monkton House could be of use to us in the future. I shall certainly consult you if the occasion arises,” announced Holmes in a matter-of-fact fashion.
Carmichael rose in readiness to depart. “That is most reassuring.”
“If you would be so kind as to provide us with an address where we may contact you urgently if needed,” said Holmes.
Instinctively, Carmichael swept back the flap of his overcoat and withdrew a card from his waistcoat pocket, but then hesitated. “Well, actually, I spend most of my days at the Cavalier Club. It is more likely that you will find me there than at home.”
Holmes nodded. “Very well. Allow me to show you out.” He brushed past our visitor and opened the door of our sitting room. The two men shook hands.
“I wish you well in your investigations,” said Carmichael as he departed.
“The poor man,” I observed. “He really is most distressed about the death of his friend.”
“Certainly, that is the impression he gave. Now, Watson, I recommend an early night for us. I suspect we will have a very eventful day tomorrow and we must be alert to face its challenges.”
* * *
The next day I rose bright and early, but I found that Holmes had already breakfasted and was seated by the fire with his first pipe of the day.
“Good morning, my dear fellow,” he said heartily at my entrance.
“By Jove, you appear to be in a cheerful mood.”
“More optimistic than cheerful. I do believe we shall put the lid down securely on this case today, if events fall as I expect them to.”
“Really? You know who the murderer is?”
“Oh, yes. It is proof I am after today. Accusations without proof are like dust in the wind: easily blown away.” So saying, he extracted a small piece of white card from his waistcoat pocket and waved it in my direction.
“What do you have there?” I asked, pouring myself a cup of coffee.
“It is a visiting card. The very one that Captain Carmichael appeared so reluctant to give me last night.”
“How did you obtain it?”
“I dipped him, my dear Watson.”
“You picked his pocket?”
“It is a facility I developed in my youth when preparing for my life as a consulting detective. I had a very good teacher in Sam Rawlins, one of the best. If you remember, as Carmichael was leaving last evening, I brushed very close to him. A fellow should have many illicit skills as well as legitimate ones in order to be a successful investigator.”
“But why take the fellow’s card?”
“It was important to find out where he lives. He was very reluctant to give me his address. And I believe I know why.”
“But what need have you of his address? You can find him at the Cavalier Club.”
“It was necessary so that we can burgle the place.”
“What?”
“It will be a unique adventure for us: burgling a house in broad daylight.”
“What on earth for?”
“All will be revealed once we are inside the property.” He glanced at his pocket watch. “I think we should be safe effecting an entry around eleven this morning. By that time the captain will be comfortably ensconced at the club. However, perhaps I am being a little presumptuous in assuming that you will accompany me on this little jaunt.”
I grinned. “In the service of justice, I am happy to come along. And, I must admit, I am also most intrigued.”
“I knew I could rely on my Boswell.”
* * *
“If I am to commit the crime of burglary, may I be permitted to know why?” I asked Holmes as we sat in a hansom en route to Captain Henry Carmichael’s house.
“Of course, old chap. I regard our military friend as a most suspicious character. Have you observed his hands – his left one in particular?”
“I can’t say that I have.”
“It is adorned with a very attractive ring. It is obviously of Egyptian origin. In fact, it is similar to one I saw in Sir Ronald’s study in Monkton House. I am not saying that Carmichael stole it; it may well have been a gift from his friend Simon Martin, but nevertheless he is wearing stolen property.”
“That is rather a slender reason to force an entry into his home.”
“There is more. Did you not notice his slip last evening when we were discussing Simon Martin’s murder by Putney Bridge? He asked who had ‘lured him’ to that spot. Neither I nor the newspaper report had made reference to the fact that Martin had been ‘lured’ there. This suggests that he knew more of the crime than he admitted. Then there was his reluctance to give us his home address. Why? Our visit there may well provide the answer to that question and many more.”
* * *
Captain Henry Carmichael lived in a mews house in Chelsea. Holmes and I left our cab a few streets away and sauntered along chatting in a casual fashion, looking for all the world like two city gentlemen taking the air rather than two investigators intent on burglary. Once we had located Carmichael’s house, Holmes knocked hard on the front door.
“What if the fellow is at home?” I asked.
My friend shrugged. “Then we are here for more information regarding Simon Martin, but I am sure your fears are unfounded.”
The lack of response to Holmes’s knocking seemed to prove that he was correct.
“Keep a lookout for any stray passer-by, while I attend to this lock.” So saying, he extracted his small burgling kit from the innards of his coat. He plucked a thin metal pin with a hooked end from the leather wallet and applied this instrument to the lock.
“Watson, keep your eyes on street,” he snapped in a hoarse whisper.
As luck would have it, the mews was empty and our felonious activities were undisturbed. In less than two minutes we were inside the bijou residence, which was, as one would expect of a retired army officer, well ordered. There were touches of militaria everywhere: pictures of battles, maps, some ancient weaponry.
“What exactly are you looking for, Holmes?” I asked as he ranged around the sitting room at some speed, eyeing all the items on view.
So preoccupied was he in his inv
estigations that he ignored my enquiry. At length he gave a grunt of dissatisfaction. “We had better try the fellow’s bedroom.”
This chamber by contrast was sparsely appointed. There was a bed, a large chest of drawers, a wardrobe and one hardwood chair. The walls were panelled and devoid of any hangings or pictures. Carefully, Holmes pulled open all the drawers and examined their contents. It was clear from his stern expression that he was discovering nothing of significance.
“I am beginning to think that I have made a blunder,” he muttered more to himself than to me as he approached the wardrobe. Pulling open the doors he revealed a range of men’s clothing, including two uniforms.
“Ah, this is interesting,” he cried, pulling out one of them. “Not the outfit worn by a captain, would you say, Watson?”
I examined the item. “A sergeant’s uniform.”
“Indeed. Carmichael’s true rank, achieved under his real name: Amos Wilkins.”
“Hugo Carrington’s son.”
“Yes. He changed his name and promoted himself in order to gain membership of the Cavalier Club, which was less than scrupulous in checking his credentials. But for the moment I am more concerned about…” His voice faltered and his brow contracted in thought as he sat down on the bed. “There must be something…” he said, gazing around the room in a distracted fashion. He broke off and gave a sharp laugh. “Ah, look, Watson, look.” He pointed to the base of the wardrobe. “Castors.”
“Yes, but I do not see—” I began.
“Castors, Watson. Who has castors on the feet of their wardrobe?” He knelt down and examined them. “The wardrobe is old, but these castors have been added quite recently.”
“For what purpose?”
“So the wardrobe can be moved easily. If you look carefully, you can see the tracks in the carpet where the wardrobe has been pushed aside. The grooves are quite deep, so this is a regular practice. Now, why should anyone wish to do this?”
“To reach behind it!”
“Right you are, Watson. Come on, old fellow, give me a hand. It should be easy to shift if Carmichael can do it on his own.”
Holmes was correct; it was a simple task to move the wardrobe.
“There’s nothing here,” I observed, “just the continuation of the panelling.”
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