Sherlock Holmes

by Dick Gillman

  Holmes reached into a drawer in his desk and removed from it a very handsome diamond and ruby tie pin. “Well, Watson. In the light of your great sacrifices in this affair, I think that it is only right that the tie pin should become yours.” and he passed it to me. I was initially somewhat reluctant to accept it but Holmes insisted. For a year or so it remained in my collar drawer but I wear it now with pride as a memento of the 'Case of the Bishop's Tie Pin'.

  ~~~***~~~

  Miss Violet Dixon (deceased)

  Chapter 1 – A proof of innocence

  It was in the autumn of 1896, at the close of a case that Holmes had found interminably dull, that we became embroiled in another which, I have to say, was perhaps one of the most harrowing and wicked that I have hitherto recorded.

  I had risen quite late that fateful morning and, on entering our sitting room, I found myself alone. From the look of our dining table, it would appear that Holmes had had some small semblance of breakfast. The butter dish was awry and his place at the table was covered in crumbs from his toast. His half-drunk cup of tea was in evidence, his chair askew and his napkin tossed roughly aside as though he had left somewhat in haste.

  I was but part-way through a fine pair of 'Arbroath Smokies' when I heard our front door slam and the sound of seemingly angry, though familiar, footfalls upon the stairs.

  Holmes burst into our rooms, crying, "Utterly incompetent, Watson!" He threw his hat and coat in the general direction of the coat stand before angrily collapsing into his leather armchair. "I am beside myself with contempt for minds that decide to prosecute a clearly innocent man! They may look but they have not an inkling as to what is plainly there before them!"

  I put down my knife and fork and regarded Holmes. "Is it the Stanton case?" I asked, hoping for an explanation for his obvious foul mood.

  Holmes looked across at me and it was though the mere act of concentrating on something other than his own anger had seemed to calm him. Reaching for his pipe and his Persian slipper pouch, he began to fill the bowl with fresh tobacco.

  Now a little more at ease, he answered, "Indeed. I found it necessary to almost drag Lestrade to Hammersmith mortuary to explain to him that, if he continued with the case, Scotland Yard would be made a laughing stock by any half-decent defence counsel. What do you recall of the case, Watson?" asked Holmes as he struck a match against the fender and drew strongly upon his pipe.

  I had managed a further mouthful of kipper but again put down my knife and fork. Sitting back, I thought for a moment whilst dabbing the corner of my mouth with one of Mrs Hudson's fine, damask napkins. “Well, let me see… you have been retained by the wife of one Samuel Stanton, a petty larcenist who has been accused of the murder of his drinking companion, Henry Squires. As I remember, Holmes, Stanton had had a drunken altercation with Squires in 'The Moon and Sun' public house one evening. Squires was subsequently found dead with a head wound the following morning in an alley behind the establishment. Murder was presumed and Stanton, who had no alibi, and, indeed, no memory of the evening whatsoever, was found to have blood on his clothes."

  Pleased with my résumé of the case, I once more picked up my knife and fork and continued with my breakfast.

  Holmes nodded and blew out a thin stream of blue smoke before asking, "And what of this head wound, Watson? It was examined during the post mortem and found to have caused a deadly bleed to the brain. It was assumed to have been caused by some blunt object, wielded by Stanton, though none was found."

  I sat forwards, a little alarmed by this new information. "Assumed? Was it not so?" I asked.

  Holmes barked out a scornful laugh and then smiled grimly, shaking his head. "No, Watson! After a brief visit to ‘The Moon and Sun’ public house and the most elementary of enquiries at his workplace, I found out that Squires was a sign writer for a local tram company. Two days before the evening of the argument with Stanton, Squires had had an accident at work. A sign that he had just painted became loose from its fixing and had struck him heavily on the back of the head.”

  I nodded and considered this, waiting for Holmes to continue. “Based on purely circumstantial evidence and, by association, The Crown, in their wisdom, decided to prosecute Samuel Stanton for murder. It was only after I had examined the head wound that I was able to establish beyond doubt that Stanton was not responsible. However, I found it necessary to demonstrate my findings to Lestrade this morning at the mortuary.”

  Holmes sat back and puffed contentedly upon his pipe. I, however, was none the wiser, asking, “Forgive me Holmes, I am still in a fog. What did you show Lestrade?”

  Holmes sighed, saying, “Firstly, there was grit within the wound to Squires’ head. In the alleyway at the rear, where the body was found, I discovered a smear of blood where the back of Squires’ head had impacted the cobbles. Secondly, the wound contained a small quantity of white paint… the pigment used in the paint was white lead.”

  I jolted upright, saying, “Lead? So, over the two days before the altercation, he was being slowly poisoned by the paint!”

  Holmes again nodded. “I believe that, on leaving the public house after his fracas with Stanton, Squires collapsed due to the effects of both the alcohol he had consumed and the lead poisoning from the paint. His subsequent fall caused, I believe, the fatal bleeding to his brain.”

  I considered this for a moment before asking, “Was Lestrade convinced by this new evidence?”

  Holmes now had a strange, distant look in his eyes as he replied, "Yes, even he could see the truth of the matter and that there was now sufficient doubt to prevent a successful prosecution.”

  Holmes then paused before continuing, “It was something that he then showed me that I found quite disturbing. On the mortuary slab next to that occupied by Squires was the body of a young woman, only her head and shoulders were visible. Lestrade reached forward and swept back the mortuary sheet, revealing her body. As he did this, he made a facetious comment that her death, that at least, was a straight-forward suicide, adding that during the post mortem, she was found to be three months pregnant."

  I looked at Holmes and he was clearly disturbed by what he had just told me. I pursed my lips as I thought this over, asking, "Was she a street girl?"

  Holmes shook his head. "No, I believe not. She seemed quite well-fed and clean. Close to the head of the slab was a small, marble-topped table where the small bundle of her clothes and possessions had been placed. I did not examine them but a cursory glance showed that they seemed quite ordinary...and yet... I felt that something was wrong, Watson. What would drive a young woman not just to take her own life but also that of her unborn child?”

  Holmes paused slightly before asking, “I would be most grateful, Watson, if you would accompany me this afternoon as I wish to re-visit the mortuary at Hammersmith?"

  Seeing his concern and as I had nothing of great import to do, I readily agreed.

  Chapter 2 – Hammersmith mortuary

  Luncheon was taken almost in silence and it was only as we travelled towards Hammersmith that Holmes turned towards me, asking, “You, no doubt, will have seen young, unmarried, women in such a predicament Watson. In your experience, what becomes of them?”

  I was, at first, surprised by his question but then realised that over the years that I had known him, my friend had had little exposure to what one might call everyday family life. I, on the other hand, had experienced the full gamut of happiness, woes and tragedies befalling the stream of humanity that passed through the doors of my medical practice.

  I thought for a moment, puffing out my cheeks a little and exhaling before answering, “Well, it depends. Some young women are accepted by their families and continue to live at home. Other families feel ashamed and the girl is sent away to relatives in the country until the child is born. They then return after a respectable period of time. A few desperate souls seek to have their pregnancy terminated by having an illicit, back-street abortion.”

  Holmes nodded in
silence as he absorbed this information. He then pressed me further, asking, “You have known some to take their own life?”

  I nodded, gravely. “Sadly, yes. It is not common but I know of a case within my own practice where the young woman was shunned and cast out by her family. Suicide, it would seem, was her only escape.”

  I looked towards Holmes and saw that he was indeed troubled. He sat back in the cab, a gloved forefinger to his lips, staring straight ahead. He would say no more until we had reached our destination.

  Hammersmith mortuary was a low, grey, stone building that passers-by did not give a second glance. It crouched, furtive, like some small rodent, almost hidden behind a row of wizened plane trees. Holmes led the way to a side entrance and rang the bell. He was, of course, known to the attendant from his previous visits and, within a few minutes, we were shown into the mortuary proper. Only one of the two slabs was now occupied and the outline of a slight figure could be seen beneath the mortuary shroud.

  We stood in silence, save for the hiss of the double mantled gas light above the slab. Holmes gave the slightest of nods and the mortuary attendant pulled down the sheet, revealing to us the pale figure of a young woman. The body was now brightly illuminated and lay before us as if in perfect peace. Standing respectfully to one side, the attendant looked on as we began our examination.

  To my eyes, she appeared to be aged in the region of twenty-five years, auburn haired and of slight build. My examination was intimately thorough and, apart from the crude stitching from the post mortem, I found nothing out of the ordinary. Thankfully, the foetus had been removed and placed elsewhere and not left on the slab with its mother. Holmes nodded towards the marble-topped table close to the head of the slab. Silently, we proceeded to examine the young woman's clothes and the contents of her small handbag.

  Holmes inclined his head slightly as if to prompt me to present my findings. I obliged saying that I thought her to be aged in her mid-twenties. I had found nothing worthy of comment except for the fact that she appeared to have unexplained spots of coloured paint on the soles of both feet. She had worn spectacles, and, from her belongings, had been named Violet Dixon.

  Holmes I could see was a little displeased, saying curtly, “Well, Watson, perhaps forensic science is not your forte. Let us begin. This woman is, as you say, aged around twenty-five years. From an examination of her hands, she was a left-handed seamstress. There is a clear indentation on one finger from where she had worn a thimble for many years.

  The marks behind her ears and the indentations on the bridge of her nose do confirm that the corrective spectacles in her belongings were hers. The prescription suggests that she was myopic due to the close work required by her occupation."

  I smiled, at least inwardly, for some small part of my observation had been found to be correct.

  Holmes continued, "She was sentimental and her ring finger shows the single mark of an engagement ring but no corresponding mark for a wedding ring. She had been engaged but was, at the time of her death, both unmarried and un-betrothed. It suggests to me that she had recently broken off her engagement to a gentleman who, I believe, is an undiscovered artist who still has, so to speak, to make his mark on the world. I also believe that Miss Dixon recently modelled, perhaps unclothed, for her artist beau. The small patches of paint on the soles of her feet are oil based and of several colours, undoubtedly from drips on his studio floor. The soles of her shoes, show slight traces of a similar residue.”

  Seeing my blank look, Holmes sighed and continued, “The flesh on her ring finger showed only a slight indentation which indicates that the engagement ring had been worn for some time but had been removed for some weeks. In her purse I found a shirt button bearing a partial fingerprint in blue paint. The button had some worn thread attached which had been cleanly cut with scissors. I deduce that she had replaced it with a new one and had kept the old one for sentimental reasons, a memento of her sweetheart. Successful artists wear an artists overall. This was a button undoubtedly from the old shirt that our penniless artist wears to protect his clothes whilst he paints in his studio.”

  I stood in amazement and waited for my friend to complete his remarkable presentation. “A fresh, used, penny bus ticket indicates that she probably only travelled a mile or so from her home. A distance far enough for her not to be recognised but close enough to preclude a journey through the city. There is also a receipt for thirty shillings from a boarding house in Edith Road. It would seem that she had recently rented a furnished room for a period of one week.” Holmes turned towards the mortuary attendant and asked, “I presume that that was where the body was found?”

  The attendant nodded, saying, “Yes, Mr Holmes. She was found in her room two days ago when she didn't appear for breakfast. The post mortem revealed that she had taken an overdose of Laudanum.”

  Holmes turned back towards me. His face was now grim. “And finally, I suspect that she had recently tried in vain to terminate her own pregnancy.”

  I stood mortified, gasping out, “...but… but I looked particularly, I saw no marks on the body to suggest this.”

  Holmes shook his head, saying, “No, for there were none. However, tucked out of sight within the lining of her purse, I found this.”

  He held out to me a scrap of paper which I took. Moving a little closer to the gas light, I examined it. The item appeared to be a small advertisement that had been neatly cut from a newspaper or periodical. Holding it up to the light, I read aloud, “Lady Cardswell's Female Pills, guaranteed to gently and safely dissolve and remove unwanted...” I could not continue. I shook my head in disbelief. “This is outrageous, Holmes! These pills purport to arrest pregnancy and promote abortion! Who would offer such a thing?” I stammered.

  Holmes’ face was rigid with anger. “There are those without scruples in our society, Watson, who are happy to prey upon the weak and helpless. In the case of Miss Dixon, they took her money and provided false hope for the poor unfortunate... and we see before us the result of their trickery and greed.”

  I handed the paper back to Holmes who carefully folded it and placed it in the pocket of his waistcoat. With a nod of thanks to the mortuary attendant, we left and, on hailing a Hansom, were soon on our way back to Baker Street.

  For most of the journey, Holmes was silent. I could see that he was still angered by what he had found and it was not until we were but a hundred yards from or rooms that he spoke. “We must obtain some of these 'miraculous' pills, Watson. I doubt if any reputable chemist would stock them. Indeed, I would imagine that it would be a serious offence so to do.”

  I nodded, saying, “Yes, I noticed that there was no address for the supplier save only a post office box number from whence they could be purchased.”

  As we neared the corner of New Street, Holmes hammered on the roof of the cab with his cane. The cab pulled sharply to a stop and Holmes leapt from it, heading towards the post office whilst shouting over his shoulder, “I think, Watson, that we must risk ten shillings on a postal order!”

  Chapter 3 – A taste for Chemistry

  That evening we sat and smoked. The air in our sitting room soon took on that familiar blue haze and we were lost in our own thoughts. As I turned over the events of the day in my head, I found myself troubled. Although we knew the identity of the young woman, we had no notion of where she might have lived or, indeed, who might be searching for news of her.

  Holmes had settled back in his armchair with his eyes closed and was humming softly to himself. He had taken his pipe from his mouth and was to be seen conducting some piece of music with the stem.

  I was a little reticent to disturb Holmes’ enjoyment of the moment but I felt I needed to know how he intended to proceed.

  "Holmes? What do you see as the way forward in this case? I assume that you wish to learn more?" I asked.

  Holmes paused, replaced the pipe between his lips and drew deeply upon it before saying, "It is a necessity, Watson. I cannot allow this vil
e trickery to continue. In the morning I will place a carefully worded advertisement in several newspapers asking for the whereabouts of Miss Violet Dixon. My hope is that our artist friend will respond, as might her parents. You, on the other hand, will endeavour to order some of these miraculous pills... under an assumed name, of course."

  I was indeed relieved to hear this concession to my professional standing. As a doctor, I could not be seen to be purchasing such quackery!

  The morning came and, after a hearty breakfast, we each set about our tasks. Facing each other across our dining table, Holmes carefully crafted an advertisement that he hoped would elicit a response from those close to Miss Dixon. I, on the other hand, simply wrote a letter requesting a supply of the pills and enclosing the payment of ten shillings by means of the postal order. On finishing our respective tasks, Holmes rang the bell for Mrs Hudson in order that our mail might be despatched.

  We heard nothing for the following two days. Whilst we waited, I busied myself, catching up on my reading of ‘The Lancet’ and the continuing task of cutting out and cataloguing items of interest from our daily newspapers. These tasks, I found, kept me quite occupied and I was unaware of the time passing.

  Holmes did not fare as well. He spent some time readying his chemicals and assembling his apparatus in anticipation of the analysis of the pills. He was also seen to spread out a map of London on our dining table. With a compass, he drew a circle around the address in Edith Road to indicate the maximum distance that you could ride on an omnibus for a penny fare. He plotted upon the map the various routes that could be taken and, whilst it filled his time, he found it hugely vexing. Looking at the map, I understood his frustration. The circle encompassed a considerable area of the city and many hundreds, if not thousands, of homes.