by Dick Gillman
My breakfast arrived and it was only after I had finished and was wiping my lips with a serviette that Holmes spoke. “Watson, do you find the name Pavlin O’Leary incongruous?”
I thought for a moment, “Well, O’Leary is a common enough Irish name but I must admit it does seem a little strange. I have not heard the name Pavlin before and I have little idea as to its origin.”
Holmes nodded and seemed to be considering what I had said. “Pavlin is the Slavic form of Paul and has its origins in both the Ukraine and Russia.” Taking a draw on his pipe, Holmes paused before saying, “It seems to me to be an unlikely combination with the surname O’Leary. I suggest then, that these are in fact two different individuals: the first being someone from within Konsulov’s own circle, the other, O’Leary, being the one responsible, perhaps, for taking the mules.”
I considered this and it was indeed a plausible explanation. My doctor’s instinct prompted me to consider the wound and the final moments of the victim. “Why do you think Wiggins did not hear the shot that killed Konsulov? With such a wound and the resulting blood loss, he cannot have travelled far along Dorset Street.”
Holmes had once more become more contemplative. He now continued as though speaking aloud his thoughts, “Yes, it is something I had thought strange. The sound would have carried to Wiggins…but consider this: Konsulov was shot in the back. I suspect that he was shot inside a building as he was leaving…or perhaps even escaping. In his last few moments, it seemed to me that Konsulov was indeed apportioning blame to this O’Leary. Perhaps he is the murderer? Also, Wiggins saw nobody else, nobody giving chase. Dorset Street was not the scene of the crime but perhaps a building in some side street close by.” Holmes would say no more. For the next few hours he simply sat and smoked in silence with his eyes closed.
We were indeed surprised that we had not been asked to make a full statement on the day following the death of Konsulov. It was a further two full days before a telegram arrived asking us to attend at the office of no lesser a person than Inspector Lestrade at Scotland Yard. In truth, Holmes was not well pleased to be summoned to Scotland Yard but he seemed to put on a brave face.
Being April, we still needed to be prepared for some inclement weather. Gathering our hats and waterproof coats, we hailed a cab in Baker Street and within a few minutes, we were climbing the stairs to Lestrade’s office. A burly constable had escorted us from the front gate and now rapped on the navy blue, half glazed door which bore the name plaque ‘Insp. G. Lestrade’. From within the room a voice shouted, “Yes?” The constable opened the door, saluted and ushered us inside before quickly shutting it again.
The room before us had that oppressive gloom that only government buildings could manage to impose. High windows in one wall allowed some light to enter but not sufficient to provide anything like an adequate working environment. Behind an old, Government Issue desk, piled high with papers, sat a lean, thin-faced man that we knew to be Inspector Lestrade. Lestrade was, as Holmes had once described him, ‘a tenacious plodder, a reliable policeman but one whose ideas are as constrained as a railway engine is to its tracks.’
Lestrade looked up as we entered and rose from his chair. “Mr Holmes, Dr Watson, please come in. Sit down, sit down. I will be with you in a moment.”
I looked around and, after moving several piles of files, I managed to acquire two rather rickety chairs for Holmes and myself. After waiting two or three minutes, I thought that Holmes was trying to lift the gloom when he asked, “You seem to be having a somewhat busy time Lestrade. Apart from the pressing matter of a body in our Baker Street rooms, what else is taking up your time?” Clearly Holmes was becoming impatient but it was as water off a duck’s back to Lestrade.
Looking up from the papers on his desk, Lestrade pointed towards an open cardboard file, saying, “Ah, there is still so much wickedness in London. Take yesterday for example. The lads of the River Police fishes some poor young girl out of the Thames, hands tied behind her back, lump on the back of her head. No reason for it that we can see. Dreadful! …And then there’s the Fenians with their dynamite.” Lestrade shook his head, closed the file and now gave us his full attention.
Holmes was becoming increasingly displeased. “I take it that you wish us to give you a full statement regarding the events, as we know them, regarding the death of Mr Konsulov?” His tone was such that even Lestrade was now aware of his displeasure.
Lestrade nodded and shouted “Jenkins!” at the top of his voice. Within moments, a sergeant appeared with a notebook at the ready. “Escort Mr Holmes across the hall and take a written statement from him.” The sergeant nodded. Turning to me as I rose from my chair, he added, “No need for you to bother yourself Dr Watson. I’m sure that Mr Holmes’ statement will be full and complete in every respect.”
I looked across at Holmes and saw that his arms had become two rods of iron by his sides and his hands had become fists of ivory, white with tension. I nodded and seated myself once more as Holmes left with the sergeant.
Chapter 4 – The mysterious engine
It was whilst I waited and idly looked around Lestrade’s dingy office that I spied a strange item on a shelf to one side of the office. Its presence was totally incongruous: a bright, shiny, metal artefact within this sea of gloom. From where I was sitting, it appeared to be a model of an early steam locomotive with four large wheels… but lacking the smoke stack. I was intrigued and eager to examine the object. I coughed slightly and Lestrade looked up from his work. I raised my arm and pointed towards it, asking, “Do you have an interest in model engines, Inspector?”
Lestrade followed my gaze and gave a thin chuckle. “Well, it is an engine of sorts, Dr Watson, but its precise use is baffling.” Lestrade rose and took the engine from the shelf and passed it to me. “Have a care, Doctor, for it has a surprise for the unwary.” At this, he chuckled again and returned to his work.
I held the ‘machine’ in my hands. The workmanship was superb. However, for a model, I was surprised by its weight; it seemed to be a good few pounds. The body of the engine was a beautifully turned brass cylinder, being about twelve inches in length and six inches in diameter. Attached to this were four large, spoked wheels with flat rims that were covered with what appeared to be abrasive grit. This was, I supposed, to enhance its traction. At what I presumed to be the front end, was a brass cap over the cylindrical body and within the cap was a recessed button. I tried pressing the button but nothing happened. On the top of the body was a sliding switch that I assumed controlled any mechanism within. It was at this point that I noticed that Lestrade had stopped working and was sitting back in his chair and observing me with something of a smug expression upon his face.
Working my way along the cylindrical body, I noticed that there was a ¼” hole drilled in the top surface and another drilled in the bottom surface of the cylinder. Similar holes were apparent on opposing sides of the cylinder. The purpose of these seemed a mystery. Beside each wheel was a round keyhole with a square shaft within. At the opposite end of the cylinder was another brass cap upon which was mounted a small shackle. A little to one side was another hole from which protruded a rod, upon the end of which had been soldered a small brass ring. I was about to investigate its operation when Lestrade quickly bent forwards and took the engine from my grasp.
I was shocked and sat blinking for a few moments. Lestrade was now standing and his face bore a grim smile. “I’m sorry, Doctor Watson, I could not let you harm yourself.” He held the engine at arms length with one hand and with the other he pulled upon the ring on the small rod. Immediately, four spring-loaded steel spikes sprang from their holes around the circumference of the cylinder.
I leapt up in my seat at their appearance, crying, “Good Lord! …Is it…is it some kind of booby trap?”
Lestrade leaned his head to one side, saying, “It is a possibility, but we think not. It may, however, be some kind of grappling device… but we are unsure.” As I looked once again
, I saw that a circular plunger had emerged from its recess in the front-end cap of the engine. Seeing my interest, Lestrade turned the engine towards me whilst, at the same time, he applied pressure to the plunger. With a metallic click, the steel spikes were seen to retract and latch back into place within the body of the engine.
I sat intrigued! Now once more composed, I asked, “Does the engine move?”
Lestrade smiled. Pushing back his chair from his desk, he opened the top drawer and from it produced a large key of the type commonly used for winding clocks. Picking up the engine, he inserted the key into the keyhole beside each of the four wheels. Each time he gave the mechanism only three or four turns. Seeming satisfied, Lestrade stood the engine on its wheels upon the floor, pointed it towards the door of his office and slid the switch. I watched in amazement! I had imagined that the engine would hurtle off at great speed but instead, it slowly but surely travelled across the floor. Lestrade saw my look of disbelief. “Try putting your hand in front of it to impede its progress, Doctor.” I looked briefly towards him. He nodded and I warily placed the palm of my hand against the front cap of the engine. The engine now pressed steadily against my hand. I was indeed shocked by the force that the mechanism was able to apply. What it lacked in speed, it most certainly made up for in strength.
The engine had travelled the fifteen or so feet of the office in under a minute and was now to be seen pressing steadily against the door. Lestrade retrieved the engine and switching off the mechanism, he returned it to its shelf. “How far would it travel if you were to wind the mechanism completely?” I asked.
Lestrade smiled, “Well Doctor, we wound it up fully and it easily travelled the length of the corridor outside and that is some sixty feet.”
“Wonderful!” I cried, for the engine fascinated me… “but how did you get it?”
Lestrade face bore a grim smile. He patted a pile of cardboard folders on his desk, saying, “See these? They are just some of the files we have on the Fenians. Two nights ago we raided a house in Rosemary Lane along with the Special Branch. One of our lads picked up the engine. Special Branch showed little interest in it and so here it is.”
Our conversation was cut short by the return of Holmes, accompanied by a rather red-faced sergeant. Holmes, it seemed, had made his feelings plain to the sergeant and he was now eager to return to Baker Street. In clipped tones, Holmes addressed Lestrade. “If there is nothing further, we will go. In future, Lestrade, unless Britain itself is about to fall, please arrange for one of your officers to attend at our rooms in Baker Street. Come Watson.”
With that Holmes turned on his heel and, after a brief nod to Lestrade, I followed in his wake. Quickly finding a cab, we headed homeward. Holmes was still ruffled. “It is the stupidity of it all and the timewasting that I abhor, Watson! A statement could so easily have been taken in our rooms.” I nodded and thought it better to allow the dust to settle a little before recounting my experience at Scotland Yard.
Chapter 5 – The death of Catherine Ward
After luncheon, it was a little calmer in our rooms. Holmes had settled into his leather armchair and was to be seen conducting some imagined piece of music with the stem of his pipe. For my part, I sat back and read the newspaper. It was as I idly scanned the paper that an item caught my eye. “Holmes, do you recall Lestrade mentioning a girl’s body being retrieved from the Thames?” Holmes paused in his conducting and nodded briefly. I read aloud from the newspaper… “At Bethnal Green Coroner’s Court today, the inquest into the death of Miss Catherine Ward, residing at number 14 Waverley Gardens, was adjourned. Miss Ward, aged 23 years, was an employee of the London Hydraulic Power Company. She was discovered floating face down in the Thames near London Bridge by the River Police and pronounced dead at the scene by Dr Alfred Bennett, a police surgeon, who had been summoned. The circumstances of Miss Ward’s death lead the court to deliver a verdict of murder by a person or persons unknown. Sergeant Peters of Thames Division, representing The Metropolitan Police, informed the court that the crime appeared to be motiveless and that enquiries into the death continue.”
Holmes leapt from his chair crying “Motiveless? Great heavens! From what we have already heard from Lestrade, the poor girl’s hands were bound behind her back and she had received a blow to the head! There must be a motive!” Holmes paced across our sitting room, clearly enraged. “I cannot stand idly by, Watson. Gather your hat and coat. We travel to Bethnal Green mortuary.” I stirred myself and whilst I retrieved my coat, I noticed Holmes dashing off a telegram before ringing the bell for Mrs Hudson.
We waited but a minute or so in Baker Street before we were able to flag down a Hansom. However, the ride to Bethnal Green mortuary seemed interminable, taking almost forty-five minutes. The mortuary had opened in 1880 and contained both the mortuary itself and facilities to undertake post-mortem examinations. It was a fine building, clad in Portland stone, and stood within the churchyard of nearby St Matthew’s. The building style was in keeping with that of the church and indeed it went some way towards showing a little respect and dignity for the dead. This was something that was clearly lacking in many of the mortuaries or ‘dead-houses’ spread across the metropolis.
After a brief walk, Holmes and I were soon able to seek out the mortuary guardian, a Mr Cyril Thomas. We had visited the mortuary perhaps two years previously whilst engaged upon another case. Mr Thomas recognised us immediately, shaking our hands and saying, “Why, Mr Holmes and Dr Watson, it is indeed a pleasure to meet you both again. I received your telegram and all has been prepared. This way, gentlemen, if you please.”
Mr Thomas led us through a side door and into the post mortem room. Inside were two marble slabs that were adequately illuminated by both high windows and also a double gaslight fitting that was suspended from the ceiling. Upon one of the slabs was a slight figure covered completely by a once white cotton sheet. Mr Thomas stood to one side whilst Holmes and I removed the sheet and we began our examination.
The body of Catherine Ward was naked except for a mortuary towel that covered her from chest to mid-thigh. After our brief, though thorough examination, we respectfully covered her to the neck with the sheet. Holmes turned towards me, his gloved right forefinger held upright as though questioning himself. “Tell me, Watson, what are your thoughts?”
I stood for a moment, “Well, I believe that she was dead before being dropped into the Thames. When I compressed her chest there was little sign of water in her lungs. She had not been in the river long before she was found and I believe that the heavy blow just behind her right ear was the one that killed her. The skull is gravely depressed and the flesh heavily bruised. Her wrists show marks from a ligature and in places the flesh is raw where she seems to have tried in vain to escape from her bonds. Clearly she was thrown into the Thames as a convenient way of disposing of her body.”
Holmes nodded. “Yes, I agree… but did you notice the skin beneath the nails of her right hand? Clearly she was a spirited girl and had struggled and fought before her hands had been bound behind her back.” Holmes paused for a moment… “I also noticed faint chafe marks at the corners of her lips where some kind of coarse fabric may have been used as a gag. This implies that wherever she was held prior to her death, it was somewhere where she might have been heard had she been able to call out.”
On hearing Holmes’ additional observations, I returned to the body. Finding the evidence just as he had described, I cursed myself inwardly for having overlooked it. Our examination of the body being completed, we thanked Mr Thomas and made our way through St. Matthew’s churchyard. On Bethnal Green Road, Holmes hailed a passing Hansom and I was surprised to hear him direct the cabbie to Waverley Gardens. For a moment I was puzzled but then recalled that this was the address given for the victim in the newspaper.
As we travelled in the cab, I turned and asked, “What do you hope to find there, Holmes?” I was concerned. Only a few days had passed since Catherine Ward had died and her f
amily, presuming that she had one, had had little time to come to terms with their loss.
Holmes looked grim. “It will be difficult, but I am trying to find some possible motive for her death. Perhaps she had some knowledge or had seen something… something so important that if she mentioned it, even in passing, it might have compromised her killer. She had to be silenced.”
Waverly Gardens was a row of smart, Victorian red brick houses. The windowsills and the archways above the front doors and windows were decorated with fine, pale brick. Each house had a small wall in front, topped with cast-iron fleur-de-lys railings. A small plaque set into the brickwork over the front door announced the name of each house. Above the front door of number fourteen, the plaque read ‘Primrose Villa’.
As we approached the front door I felt mounting concern. Who would we be facing? A heartbroken husband? Distraught parents? It was a task that I most certainly did not relish. Holmes had taken one of his cards from his case and held it by his side. With his other hand, he knocked upon the door. After a few moments, the door opened and a haggard looking middle-aged man stood before us. He was unshaven and his clothes were creased. It looked as though he had slept in them for several days.
“Yes?” He asked. I looked at him and his red rimmed, empty eyes looked first at Holmes and then at me. It seemed as if he had cried so much that there was but little left of him.
Holmes touched his hat, saying “Mr Ward? My name is Sherlock Holmes and this is Dr Watson. We would like to speak to you about Catherine.” Holmes proffered his card. The man took it but did not read it.