Sherlock Holmes

by Dick Gillman

  “Are you from the police?” His voice had a slight West Country accent… “Only we have told them all we know…” The end of the sentence trailed off. It was clear to me that the man was still in shock.

  I stepped forwards, saying, “No, but we are here to help if we can. May we come in?”

  The man turned and we dutifully followed him down the hallway and into a cosy front room. “This is my wife, Dorothy. Catherine was our only daughter, you see.” On a chair in the corner of the room sat a woman wrapped in a knitted shawl, her arms foldeded tightly across her body. Her eyes were as blank as those of her husband, staring straight ahead as she slowly rocked back and forth in her chair. Mr Ward looked at us again, saying, “She hasn’t said a word, not one single word since that police constable came round and told us that Catherine had been found in the river.”

  Seldom had I seen such sadness. I felt the need for some slight distraction, asking, “Perhaps some tea?” I was relieved when Mrs Ward stood and disappeared towards the back of the house.

  Mr Ward looked around him, almost as though he were seeing the front room for the first time. “Please, gentlemen, be seated. I am unsure how you might help our poor Cathy.” Again he looked from one to the other of us.

  Holmes sat forwards on his chair. “I see that this is most difficult for you, Mr Ward, but we need to know a little more about your daughter; her work for example, her friends?”

  Mr Ward sat and faced Holmes. “Well, she was a good girl, never any trouble. She worked as a senior filing clerk at The London Hydraulic Power Company. She had been there about five years and used to file the big maps of the pipework, and whatnot, and how they all linked together.” A faint smile appeared on his face when he said, “Me and the wife used to tease her. She wasn’t very big and she told us that sometimes she struggled with the big maps.” We both nodded and let him continue. “To be honest, sir, I hadn’t realised how big them maps were until she brought one home about a week ago.”

  I saw Holmes stiffen slightly. “She had worked at the company for five years and had not brought any work home before?”

  “No sir, this was the first time. I think she wanted to show her young man what she did. I don’t think they have a similar system in Ireland.”

  This time it was my turn to prick up my ears. I edged forward, saying, “Ireland, you say? It is a beautiful country. What was Catherine’s young man’s trade?”

  Mr Ward scratched his head before saying, “Well, I’m not rightly sure, sir… I think it was something to do with plumbing. Cathy said that he was certainly interested in the pipework on the map that she brought home. Sean teased her. He said he wanted to see the most expensive and important map that they had and, by heavens, she brought it! You will never guess where it was of!”

  “Westminster,” said Sherlock in a quiet voice.

  Mr Ward looked completely shocked. “Heavens, sir, how did you guess?” He leaned backwards in his chair and just sat there, open-mouthed in wonderment.

  Holmes’ eyes now burned. “When did your daughter meet this err… this err Sean, was it? Mr Ward?”

  Ward rubbed his chin and said, “Yes, sir, Sean O’Bryan. Well, it must have been about November time. Cathy lost her purse on the underground railway and this handsome young Irish lad found it on the carriage floor. She was so grateful to have it returned that, when he asked if he might see her again, she agreed to meet him for a cup of tea at a Lyon’s Corner House. I suppose their friendship started from there.”

  Holmes now looked gravely concerned. “Tell me, Mr Ward, have you had any word from this Sean O’Bryan since Catherine’s death?”

  Ward furrowed his brow. “No sir, it’s strange for he would usually call round two or three times a week. Perhaps he too is grieving.”

  Holmes looked towards me, raised an eyebrow and inclined his head slightly. Rising to our feet, Holmes edged towards the door, saying, “Thank you, Mr Ward, you have been most helpful. Come along, Watson.”

  As we reached the front door, Mrs Ward could be seen approaching down the hallway with a tray of teacups. With a touch of my hat and a half whispered “Sorry,” we left the Wards house.

  Chapter 6 – A shop in Dorset Street

  As we left Waverly Gardens, Holmes was walking slightly ahead of me and I could hear him raging: “Damn them to hell!” he cried. “These people, Watson! These people who manipulate the emotions of innocents to achieve their wickedness. An innocent young girl, her purse stolen and then tricked into believing it had been found by the thief, simply to make her acquaintance. Her family accepting this murdering villain and then to be so grievously deceived.” I placed my hand on Holmes’ arm but he shook it away angrily. “Once these people had got what they wanted, they killed the girl to protect their own worthless skins. She is tossed into the Thames like so much detritus! Wickedness, Watson! Pure and simple!”

  Holmes’ anger did little to subside during our cab ride back to Baker Street. He was in no mood to talk and did not touch his dinner. I picked at mine but in truth, I had no appetite. I rang the bell for Mrs Hudson and, on seeing our two plates, she raised her eyes to heaven before disappearing downstairs with her tray.

  The following morning found Holmes pacing the width of our sitting room like a caged tiger. He was fully dressed but had his old dressing gown draped across his shoulders. I had slept fitfully and by the look of him, Holmes had had a dreadful night also. At my appearance, he grunted and then blew out a thin cloud of blue smoke. The pacing did not cease and the opacity of the air in our sitting room bore witness to the fact that this was not his first pipe of the day.

  I rang the bell for my breakfast and asked for a pot of coffee, hoping to revive myself from this lethargy. When my breakfast tray arrived, I offered Holmes a cup of coffee. He waved it brusquely away but stopped pacing and stood before me.

  Holmes took the pipe from his mouth and tapped the stem against his fingers. “I am missing something, Watson. I believe we must look back to the start of this case and go forward from there. Eat up, old friend, for we have some business with Henry Wiggins in Dorset Street.”

  It took me but a moment to remember that Dorset Street was the place where Wiggins had picked up the fateful fare. Once we had donned our hats and coats, we headed down the stairs and out onto Baker Street to find cabbie, Henry Wiggins. After ten minutes or so, Holmes spotted Wiggins’s cab coming towards us. Raising his arm, he yelled “Wiggins!” at the top of his voice. Wiggins looked up and, with a crack of a whip, the Hansom hurried towards us.

  Pulling to a halt, Henry Wiggins climbed down, touched his cap and looked quite relieved to see us. “Mr Holmes, I had no end of trouble with the police after the other night. I makes a statement at the police station and they wants to look at my cab. They was making some serious hints that I might have been involved! You know me, Mr Holmes, I might know a few shady folk but this? Never!”

  Holmes placed a hand on Wiggins’s arm, saying, “Calm yourself, Wiggins. I have made a statement which fully exonerates you.” Holmes smiled before continuing, “Indeed, I felt it my duty to praise your valiant effort to save the gentleman’s life.”

  I could not resist a smile as Wiggins instantly brightened. Touching his cap, he said, “Blimey! Thanks, Mr Holmes, it’s much appreciated. Now, where do you gents want me to take you?”

  Holmes and I clambered into the cab and Holmes directed Wiggins to take us to the exact spot where he had picked up Konsulov on Dorset Street. It was but a two-minute ride and we were soon standing on the pavement. “Are you sure it was here, Wiggins?” asked Holmes, looking about him.

  “Certain, Mr Holmes. I’d gone past the Barley Mow Pub and it was just before the corner of Montagu Row that he staggers into the road.” Holmes tossed him a shilling and, with a crack of his whip, Wiggins went on his way.

  Holmes looked down at the cobbled street and then was suddenly on all fours, pointing: “There, Watson! You can see deep grazes on the granite cobbles from Daisy�
�s shoes when she stopped so abruptly.” Holmes stood and once more looked about him. “Now, given the victim’s wound, he cannot have travelled far. So where did our friend Konsulov appear from, I wonder?” Turning around, Holmes’ head jerked up and then he shouted, “This way!” and ran towards a white painted stone archway.

  Once through the arch, a street sign, high on the wall, indicated that we were now in Montagu Row. With a cry of triumph, Holmes pointed to a small shop front. The Georgian bowed window and the front door were both painted black. On a board above the shop window was a sign in fine gold lettering that announced ‘M. & P. Konsulov – Watch and Clockmakers.’

  I stood looking at the sign for a moment. “P. Konsulov… Pavlin!” I cried.

  Holmes beamed, saying, “Exactly. I suggest that they are either brothers… or perhaps even father and son.” I stopped in my tracks. This was a relationship that I had not even considered. Holmes continued, “In Eastern Europe it is quite common for a son to be apprenticed from a very early age and become part of the family business. What better way to learn than to sit beside your father, a skilled craftsman, and observe the secrets of the trade?” I nodded and followed Holmes towards the door of the shop. Mounted on the inside of the shop window was an iron grille and from it hung a small sign that read ‘Closed’. Holmes turned the decorative, brass doorknob but the door was locked. Holmes looked around and instructed me to stand in front of him so that I screened him from view. Looking over my shoulder, I observed him reaching into his coat pocket. From it he withdrew an item and inserted it between the doorframe and the lock. There was a slight sound of cracking wood and then the door opened and we hurried inside.

  I was somewhat concerned at what had just happened. “I take it that this method of entry to the shop is not strictly legal, Holmes.”

  Holmes’ face bore a thin smile. “I think, Watson, that we could successfully argue the point that we believed that this was the scene of a grievous crime and our actions were justified in order to apprehend the culprit.” In truth I was not convinced… although I did have complete faith in the actions of my friend. Looking at the back of the shop door, I could see that we had been most fortunate in being able to gain entry. Upon the door were several large iron bolts that had not been used to secure it. Holmes saw my interest and commented, “Yes, what inference can we draw from the shoddy way that the door to a watchmaker’s premises was secured, Watson?”

  I thought for a moment before replying, “Carelessness?”

  Holmes laughed and wagged a finger at me. “I think not. Imagine, if you will, that you are a villain and you have just shot the owner in the back as he runs towards the door and into the street. Has the shot been heard? Have you the time to waste in securing the shop door with a series of heavy iron bolts before making good your escape? No! The villain will have left quickly, using the key to lock the door from the outside before leaving.” Holmes paused for a few moments before continuing, “The assailant is no fool. He knows that an unlocked shop door would immediately draw attention, especially from a diligent constable trying the shop doors on his beat.”

  Holmes slid one of the bolts into place to prevent us from being disturbed. With the door now closed, we could explore the premises. I looked about me. Inside the shop was a panelled counter, behind it were shelves that displayed several clocks, some ticking, some not. These were, presumably, examples of the Konsulovs’ skills. Holmes, I saw, was again on all fours and using his glass to examine the floor behind the door. Rising to his feet, he reached once more into his coat and removed from it a pocketknife. This he used to steadily work at something in the centre of the door.

  “Ah, now we have it Watson.” Holmes held up an object between his forefinger and thumb. I could see that it was a deformed, lead bullet of quite a small calibre. The bullet had passed through Mihail Konsulov and then been retained by the thick oak door of the shop. Holmes stood back some eight feet from the door and pointed to some dry stains on the floor. “The blood trail starts here and leads to the door. I am amazed that he lived long enough to reach Baker Street.”

  We continued our search of the shop. Holmes was examining the contents of the shop counter whilst I had passed through a curtained doorway that led into a watchmaker’s workshop. Before me was a chair and next to it, a bench covered with all manner of tools. Beside this stood another solid, oak door, firmly secured by two impressive locks. This, seemingly, was the back-door to the shop.

  The diminutive scale of the machines that I saw astounded me. All were in miniature. It was almost as if I had stumbled into a workshop in a large doll’s house! There were miniature lathes, drilling machines and all manner of tiny screwdrivers and pairs of pliers, all neatly laid out. It was whilst I was admiring the workshop that I chanced to look beneath the bench. Here, in a small wooden box, was something that was familiar to me. Looking closer, I took from the box a single brass wheel. I knew immediately what it was and that it was identical to the ones fitted to Lestrade’s engine. Indeed, there were other small items within the box: gear wheels, axles and other objects that I did not recognise. It was, perhaps, a box containing spare parts.

  Holmes had completed his examination of the front of the shop and had now entered the workshop. In his grasp, he held a framed photograph. “It appears that our thoughts on the relationship between the Konsulov’s was correct.” Holmes turned the photograph towards me. It showed the figure of a man standing next to a seated, much younger man. I recognised immediately the older man as Mihail Konsulov. He had his hand on the shoulder of the younger fellow whose features showed a clear family resemblance. This person I imagined to be Pavlin Konsulov, Mihail’s son.

  Still looking at the photograph, I asked, “Where do you imagine Pavlin Konsulov to be now?”

  Holmes’ eyes narrowed. He shook his head, saying, “That is something I am unable to answer. Perhaps he managed to escape from the shop before his father or he may be being held against his will. Thankfully, there is no evidence here of any further violence.”

  Holmes looked around the workshop, picking up items and then carefully replacing them. It was plain from his expression that he too marvelled at the intricacy and scale of the machinery and tools. “Did you find anything of interest, Watson?” asked Holmes, almost as a casual question.

  Feeling rather proud of myself, I said, “Well, I found this.” From beneath the bench, I produced the brass wheel.

  Holmes took it from me and examined it closely before saying, “I’m sorry, Watson, I fail to see the relevance of this to the case.” He handed it back to me and then paused. He must have observed some slight disappointment in my expression as he then took the wheel back from me again. Holding it in his hands, he asked, in a somewhat quizzical voice, “Tell me why you deem it to be important?”

  It felt as if the world were suddenly crashing in on me. The pace of events had overtaken me and, in my distraction, I had forgotten that I had not told Holmes of the events in Lestrade’s office. I felt suddenly light-headed and stumbled to sit on the watchmaker’s chair. Holmes was immediately by my side and clearly concerned. I held my head in my hands, saying, “It is my fault, Holmes! I have failed you!”

  Hearing this, Holmes fell to one knee, grasped my arm and said, “That will never happen, old friend. Tell me all.”

  Gathering myself together, I recounted my meeting with Lestrade, beginning at the point where Holmes had left to make his statement. I described the engine as best I could and also how it functioned. It was when I recalled where the engine had been found that Holmes’ face suddenly became as granite. It was not anger at my failure to disclose these events. It was, I believe, more the realisation of the supreme importance of this new information.

  Holmes rose and placed the engine wheel in his coat pocket. I noted the urgency in his voice as he moved towards the door, “Quickly Watson, there is no time to lose. We must return to Lestrade. I need to have sight of this engine and learn more of these Fenians.”

&
nbsp; Chapter 7 – A beast of burden!

  Pulling the shop door fast, as best we could, we hurried out onto Dorset Street. Holmes hailed a passing Hansom, tossed the cabbie a florin, saying, “Scotland Yard, as quick as you like!” With that, the cab lurched and we clattered off at a fearsome pace.

  On arriving at Scotland Yard, Holmes took the steps two at a time. I followed as best I could and was only part way down the corridor to Lestrade’s office when Holmes burst through his door. I could tell from the shouting that Lestrade was not best pleased by Holmes’ dramatic entrance. However, by the time I had arrived, red-faced and panting, some semblance of order had been established. Holmes was now seated and was recalling, at some speed, our recent adventures. Lestrade, I could see, was intrigued as Holmes laid out the information and was to be seen scribbling notes madly.

  Lestrade, for his part, showed Holmes the engine. I could see that he was clearly intrigued. Whilst I watched, Lestrade beckoned to me. “As you were impressed by the engine, Dr Watson, let me show you these. Special Branch picked ‘em up when they raided the house in Rosemary Lane.” Reaching down behind his desk, Lestrade produced two small waggons of a scale identical to the engine. Each one had a connecting shackle at each end, the same dimension as that of the engine. The wheels, I noticed, were quite smooth.

  I was thrilled. “They’re wonderful!” I cried, turning over one of the waggons in my hands. Holmes looked towards us and I immediately saw a change in his manner.

  “Have you tried linking the waggons to the engine, Lestrade?” asked Holmes in what, I thought, was quite a brusque tone.

  Lestrade looked a little taken aback. “Why…err… yes, Mr Holmes. I tried four waggons; I loaded each one with a pound of sand. It pulled them a treat!”