by Dick Gillman
"Watson, you are injured!" gasped Holmes and quickly replaced his revolver. He tried the back door of the house but, as expected, found it to be locked. However, after a well-placed kick to the lock from Holmes, we were soon inside.
"I am all right, Holmes!" I cried and steadied myself by resting a bloodied hand upon the kitchen table. "You must go after them!
Holmes shook his head, saying, "No, Watson, you are infinitely more important. There will be another day for Moriarty."
Gently, he manoeuvred me closer to the gas light and removed my blood-soaked handkerchief. Immediately I could feel a fresh flow of warm blood down the side of my head. Holmes looked around and snatched up a kitchen towel, pressing it firmly to my scalp. Holmes patted me on the shoulder with his free hand, saying, "You will live, old fellow, I have no doubt, but I fear that you will need a stitch or two to close that wound."
And so it was. Holmes left me for a few moments whilst he went to the front door and blew three sharp blasts on his police whistle. Within but a few minutes, two constables were at the door. Holmes explained our presence and asked that Inspector Lestrade be informed. With the house now secured, a cab was hailed and I was conveyed to a local hospital where my wounds were promptly stitched and dressed.
Arriving back at Baker Street, I washed and, after having changed my bloodied clothes, I collapsed into my chair, exhausted. At dinner, Mrs Hudson was heard to 'tut' several times as she served the meal, observing the dressing on my head from different angles as she moved around the table. However, the gentle squeeze to my arm as she passed Holmes the gravy boat did not go unnoticed... by either of us.
It was during the afternoon, a full two days later, that we received a visit from Lestrade. He arrived in our rooms in particularly high spirits, rubbing his hands and saying, "Well, Mr Holmes, Dr Watson, I think we have done our country a great service. Not only has Scotland Yard broken up a ring of drug pedlars but we have also caught a blackmailer who has preyed upon so many vulnerable women."
I looked across at Holmes who, I could see, was maintaining his composure with great difficulty. He had taken up his pipe and appeared to be biting down hard on the stem in an attempt to hold his tongue.
Finally, he seemed compelled to speak. "So, Lestrade, the wretch that you captured at the post office was the mastermind behind this villainous blackmail?" asked Holmes, his voice having an edge like that of a cut-throat razor.
Lestrade shuffled slightly before saying, "Well... no, I cannot say that, Mr Holmes, but he was clearly one of ringleaders!"
I stifled a chuckle as Holmes drove home the point, saying, "Rather like our postman collecting the mail is not far removed from the position of the Postmaster General?"
Lestrade again shuffled before saying proudly, "We do have information regarding those who fled from the house you discovered. They took a cab to Cheapside."
Holmes took his pipe from his mouth, asking, "Really? And then…?"
Lestrade seemed to shrink visibly before my eyes and a deafening silence filled the room. I looked at the rather deflated figure and decided to encourage him by asking, "The letters and the ledgers at the house, they were of use to your investigation Inspector?"
Lestrade instantly brightened, saying, "Indeed they were, Dr Watson. Over the last three days alone, more than six hundred pounds has been received from further blackmail victims. The ledgers listed all the receipts and were neatly cross-referenced against the sale of the pills. You will not believe this, gentlemen, for I did not, but it would appear that some five thousand women throughout Great Britain have bought the pills over the last twelve months!"
As he said this, I almost dropped my pipe, gasping, "Surely not! I cannot believe it! That is some ten thousand guineas in blackmail payments alone... plus the thousands of pounds from the sale of the pills!"
I looked to Holmes and saw that he too was surprised by the scale of the deception. Holmes nodded appreciatively and was sincere in his praise when he said, "It is a job well done, Lestrade. I congratulate you."
Lestrade's face lit up and he managed to stammer, "Thank...thank you, Mr Holmes. I am grateful for your... involvement." Holmes smiled. Little more was said of the affair and, on shaking hands and saying our goodbyes, Lestrade left our rooms a happy man.
Holmes, however, was not so easily pleased. He had returned to his leather armchair and had drawn up his knees to his chest, gazing into the distance. As I watched, he seemed to be turning the case over in his mind, saying, "This affair still troubles me greatly, Watson."
I looked at him closely as I asked, "Is it the involvement and escape of Moriarty?"
Holmes nodded slowly before replying, "It is partly that, Watson. She will reappear at a later date; of that you can be certain... but it is something more. It is her involvement in the underlying ethics of the case. We have removed a menace that both exploited and offered false hope to desperate women. Furthermore, we have upheld the law of the land and spared them from the ensuing blackmail…but at what cost?"
I sat and pondered what he had said for several minutes before asking, “Whilst the law may be satisfied, do you not think that by removing this sworn undertaking, we have lost an element akin to ‘conscience’? Something that might cause some women to think again before contemplating taking an unborn life?”
Holmes’ brows furrowed as he considered this.
I continued, “Will women without this element of 'conscience', this solemn promise, even though obtained under duress by Moriarty, be driven to ever more desperate measures? Have we, by our actions, somehow failed these desperate women that we sought to protect?” As I finished speaking, I shook my head, adding, “In truth, Holmes, I am unsure."
Holmes did not reply and remained silent for several hours, deep in thought.
For my part, I sat and smoked steadily. This case had raised questions to which I had no answers. Even now, years later as I write this, they still trouble me.
~~~***~~~
The Bulgarian Clockmaker
Chapter 1 – A friend in need
It was a most distressing event late one evening in the early days of April, 1898 that marked the beginning of the case that I have here recorded as that of “The Bulgarian Clockmaker”.
Holmes and I had settled down after a rather splendid dinner of Dover sole followed by one of Mrs Hudson's most excellent rice puddings. The air in our sitting room had begun to take on a delicate, blue haze from our pipes when we heard the sound of galloping hooves in the street below. This was immediately followed by a frenzied cry of “Whoah!” together with the screech of iron clad wheels and the clatter of similarly clad hooves on the cobblestones beneath.
Holmes sprang from his chair and hurried towards the window, pulling aside the heavy curtain and peering into the street below. “Hello! That is the cab of Henry Wiggins and he seemingly has a fare in some distress.”
No sooner had Holmes uttered these words than our doorbell rang in a fearsome manner as though someone’s life depended upon it being heard. On reflection, this was not far from the truth! Holmes and I hurried from our sitting room and were barely halfway down the stairs as Mrs Hudson opened the front door. We stood aghast as she was almost knocked to the ground as Henry Wiggins staggered across our threshold. He tottered into our hallway, supporting the almost lifeless figure of a black coated, stocky man.
Holmes took but a brief glance at the haggard face of Wiggins and his burden before rushing to assist him. “Your bag, Watson! Quickly, man!” I thundered back upstairs whilst Holmes and Wiggins followed me to our rooms with their burden. I had hastily moved some chairs to clear some little space before Wiggins and Holmes gently laid the man upon the carpet in our sitting room.
It was immediately obvious to me from the pallor of the man and his blood soaked coat that he was most grievously wounded. Tearing at his outer garments and then his shirt, I soon revealed a wound of a kind I had so often seen whilst serving in Afghanistan. Blood was pouring from the exit woun
d caused by a gunshot. I quickly gathered a dressing from my bag and pressed hard upon the wound in an attempt to stop further blood loss. The man coughed and I saw bloody froth form upon his lips. His eyes flicked open and then locked on mine. He grabbed my jacket sleeve, crying out in heavily accented English, “They have them!”
Holmes was kneeling opposite me, one arm supporting the man’s shoulders. On hearing this, he gently patted the man's arm, saying, “You are safe here, friend.”
The man’s head turned. He looked at Holmes and then gasped, “They have them, the mules…. both… both of them. They must be stopped. It is my fault!” His eyes closed momentarily and he continued to speak quietly in a language that I did not know. Holmes, however, spoke softly to the man, seemingly in the same tongue.
I looked down at my hands; blood was oozing freely through my fingers from the now sodden dressing that I had applied. The flow was unquenchable. Holmes turned towards me with a questioning look and I briefly shook my head. All colour had drained from the man's face. With a final gasp, he whispered in English, "You must find Pavlin… O’Leary... he is the one." With that, the man sighed and was gone.
I looked up and cried out to Holmes as I saw the legs of Henry Wiggins begin to buckle. Holmes made a grab for him and was just able to guide him to a chair before Wiggins collapsed. Seeing that I could do no more for the injured man, I now turned my attention to Wiggins. Reaching into my bag, I located a small bottle of smelling salts which I swiftly uncorked and waved beneath his nose. Within a few moments, Wiggins was once again conscious, coughing and wiping his eyes that were now streaming from the effects of the ammonia salts.
Holmes had already rung the bell and had scribbled a telegram to Scotland Yard. A clearly shaken Mrs Hudson appeared in our doorway. She took the telegram and then was swiftly despatched to prepare some tea. For my part, I went to Holmes’ room and returned with a blanket to cover the corpse. This was rather more for the benefit of Henry Wiggins than for any other reason. I knew that Holmes would want to examine the body in meticulous detail once Wiggins had departed.
We sat almost in silence until the tea arrived but once each of us had a steaming cup in our hands, Holmes, I could see, was keen to question Wiggins regarding his fare. After a sip of tea, Holmes asked, "Tell me, Wiggins, where did you pick up this fellow?"
Wiggins seemed somewhat revived by the tea and shuffled in his chair before answering. "Well, Mr Holmes, it was like this. I was coming along Dorset Street when this fellow lurches out into the road, right in front of Daisy."
I sat, puzzled for a moment. "Daisy?"
Wiggins gave a weak smile, "It’s the horse… the horse what pulls my cab." I nodded and Wiggins continued, "Well, I shouts out and curses at him something rotten. I thought he'd been at the drink and had too much. Anyways, he stands there, staggering and then he grabs the horse’s halter. I was having none of it so I gets down off the cab and is about to push him away when I sees the blood. It fair turned me, Mr Holmes. I knew it was bad so I helps him into the cab and as I wasn’t far from Baker Street, I comes straight here at the gallop."
I looked across at Holmes; he was now sitting with his knees raised and a forefinger to his lips. "Did you see anyone else around?"
Wiggins answered straight away, "No, Mr Holmes, nobody."
Holmes leaned forwards slightly. "You seem very sure!"
Wiggins smiled weakly. "It had been a bad night for me, even before this. I had had only one other fare since six o'clock so I was watching out all the time for a customer. Cabbies are always on the lookout for a fare Mr Holmes." Holmes nodded.
"You did not hear a shot?” Wiggins slowly shook his head. Holmes considered this reply before saying, “Well, Wiggins, we will detain you no further. No doubt the police will require you to make a statement in the morning. You had better get back to Daisy and be on your way."
I looked towards Wiggins, his expression made it clear that he did not relish the prospect of contact with the constabulary. He nodded and sighed. With a touch of his cap and a quiet "G’night", he was off down our stairs. In truth I felt sorry for him. His night’s work would now be to try and clean the bloodstains from the inside of his cab and from his clothes.
Chapter 2 – Mihail Konsulov
Holmes and I sat in silence for perhaps a minute or two before we set about the grim task of examining the dead man lying on our carpet. Holmes removed the blanket that I had placed over the body and began by examining the outer garments of the man. I stood back to give Holmes a little more room and for the first time, I looked in detail at the man before us. He was well built; his age I would estimate to be around fifty years. His complexion was slightly dark, almost Mediterranean and his hair was black, oiled and greying at the temples. The face was round and bearded and had brown eyes that now gazed blankly at our ceiling. I reached down and closed them and in doing so, I noticed that upon the sides of his nose there were slight red marks from wearing a pair of spectacles, although none were in evidence. His hands, I saw, were well manicured and appeared to be quite soft.
After some ten minutes, Holmes had completed his examination and was once more seated in his leather armchair, drawing steadily upon his pipe. Holmes had carefully laid out the contents of the man’s pockets on our dining table. There seemed to be little of particular interest save for a small leather-bound notebook. This Holmes had spent some minutes examining closely. The rest of his possessions amounted to a handkerchief, a pair of spectacles, a used tram ticket, a few coins and a silver pocket watch and chain.
At last the silence was broken by Holmes turning to me and asking, “What do you make of this fellow, Watson?”
I thought for a moment before replying, “Well, he is late middle aged, well built and well nourished. He wears glasses with a strong prescription. His hands are soft and so I assume then that he carried out some clerical task. From his skin tone, language and accent, he appears not to be a native of Britain.”
Holmes nodded. “Yes, but there is more. Did you notice, for example, the indentation in the flesh of his forehead above his right eye?” I had not and shook my head, waiting for Holmes to enlighten me.
Holmes continued, “This man was originally from the Balkans, although he had lived in England for many years. You heard him speak briefly in his mother tongue in a dialect, I believe, common to the region that is now the Principality of Bulgaria. The English that he spoke had a trace of the accent prevalent in the East End where, no doubt, he had learned it. Indeed, the tram ticket I found in his waistcoat pocket was from Hackney.”
I nodded in wonder at Holmes’ linguistic knowledge and urged him to continue. “The case of his pocket watch has European silver marks and the movement carries the name of a well-known maker, Moritz Gottlieb of Banja Luka. Our late guest was, I believe, also a watchmaker. The very strong prescription of his spectacles suggests that his eyesight may have been compromised by years of intensive close work. The indentation in his forehead was caused by a watchmaker’s loupe, which is worn on the forehead when not in use.”
Again I nodded but then asked, “Why a watchmaker rather than, perhaps, a jeweller …and what about his notebook?”
Holmes smiled and wagged a forefinger in my direction. “An intelligent question, Watson! I do not believe him to have been a jeweller as, when I examined his clothes, I detected the distinctive smell of a very light machine oil. This is used when repairing and servicing watches and clocks. It was particularly noticeable around his shirt cuffs which would have been in contact with his work bench.” After saying this, he sat back and drew on his pipe before blowing out a thin stream of blue smoke.
Holmes paused for a few moments, seemingly deep in thought before adding, “The notebook is most intriguing, Watson. It bears the name of its owner, Mihail Konsulov. It contains many diagrams of mechanisms that at first I thought were those of clocks… but there is something more… something that I have yet to find a use for.”
I was still puzzled. Why w
ould a watchmaker come into contact with mules? Were they his and had they been stolen? Who was Pavlin O’Leary? I scratched my head. My mind was a whirl and these were questions that I felt I would have to ask in the morning.
It was perhaps some thirty minutes later that there was a ringing again at our doorbell. We heard the heavy steps of three people ascending to our rooms. Two of these were the coroner’s mortuary assistants who placed the body on a stretcher and then carried it away to the waiting closed van in the street below. The third person to enter our rooms was a police sergeant. With the body now removed, he saluted smartly to Holmes who, within a few minutes, had apprised him of the evening’s events. The sergeant asked a handful of questions and made some preliminary notes in his pocket book before again saluting and wishing us goodnight. On his departure, I felt drained of emotion and was glad the evening’s events had drawn to an end and that I was now able to retire to my bed.
Chapter 3 – A summons to Scotland Yard
The following morning there was little to show of the events that had haunted my thoughts as I had tried to sleep. The only evidence now was the large, dark stain on our sitting room carpet. Even that was destined to disappear as I watched Mrs Hudson’s maid enter our rooms with a bucket of steaming hot water in one hand and a large bar of carbolic soap in the other. On seeing me she stopped but I waved for her to continue.
I rang the bell for breakfast and settled into my chair. Holmes, I could see, had already breakfasted and was sitting back in his chair, eyes closed and with an almost totally blank expression upon his face. This was something, that over the years, I had become accustomed to. It occurred whenever he mentally retreated from the world around him and was engaged in considering all the known facts and contemplating a seemingly infinite range of possibilities. The only sign of consciousness was the occasional puff of tobacco smoke from the pipe which was supported by his hand and clamped between his teeth.