Sherlock Holmes

by Dick Gillman

  Mycroft removed his hat and coat and sat on our settee. "It was not your fault, Sherlock. No-one could have predicted this outcome."

  Holmes shrugged off his dressing gown and threw it angrily across the room. "No, Mycroft! Perhaps not, but it was my responsibility. I used the man as a pawn to draw out the queen. He was under my protection and I failed him!"

  Mycroft was singularly unmoved, saying, "But you saved the nation, Sherlock. Your skills prevented our country from supreme embarrassment at a time of war and we, as a nation, thank you."

  Holmes seemed a little calmed by this but anger still burned within him. Nothing further that Mycroft said would placate him. Unable to do more, Mycroft left and, over the weeks that followed, Holmes gradually appeared to forgive himself. It was during this time that Holmes wrote to Elizabeth Carter to put her mind at rest. He explained, in as gentle a way as he could, that whilst her late husband’s actions may have been illegal, he was not, in any way, implicated in any anarchist activities.

  Holmes had also felt the need to write to Mrs Tindall, expressing his condolences. This he found to be a most difficult task. The guilt he felt still weighed heavily upon him and it took him several days to complete the letter. At Holmes’ request, Mycroft had made the railway authorities aware of the assistance Tindall had given. As a result, they had agreed to pay a small pension to his widow. I learned later, through Mycroft, that Holmes himself had made a very considerable contribution towards this.

  It was some months later, as we sat one evening, enjoying a pipe of tobacco that Holmes suddenly asked, "Why do you think she let us live, Watson?"

  I knew immediately to whom he was referring. I thought for a few moments before answering, "I am unsure, Holmes. Perhaps, as the railway carriage was moving, there was no clear shot and she could not be sure that we would perish."

  Holmes shook his head slowly. "No, Watson, I do not believe so. Once Tindall had been killed, she allowed the train to proceed. She was playing me as an angler plays a trout. She had let me run and wanted me to know that she had beaten me."

  I sat and considered this whilst Holmes continued, "I realise now that a bomb would not have suited her purpose. My destruction has become a personal crusade for her. If I am to die, it must be by her hand and her hand alone."

  Listening to my friend, I found this a most sobering thought... but a crusade was something that Julia Moriarty would find was not her own personal preserve.

  ~~~***~~~

  The Rattle Jacks Affair

  Chapter 1 - Little Alfie

  It was a stormy evening in October 1901, when Holmes and I first became involved in the case I have recorded as 'The Rattle-Jacks Affair'. We had finished dinner and were just relaxing with a pipe of tobacco when a loud ringing of our door bell, followed by raised voices, caused Holmes to become instantly alert. A tumultuous staccato of footsteps on the stairs preceded our door flying open and two bedraggled figures hurtling into our rooms. Both of them were soaked to the skin and their entrance was swiftly followed by that of a clearly enraged Mrs Hudson. "I'm sorry sir, they pushed past me and..."

  Holmes held up his hand, saying, “It’s alright, Mrs Hudson, they are friends.”

  Mrs Hudson still seemed unsure as she watched the two sodden figures steadily drip rain upon our carpet. “If you say so sir...” She looked again at the rain soaked, shivering children standing before her and her heart clearly softened. “I’ll bring some tea and some towels.”

  Holmes had instantly recognised the diminutive figure of 'Little Alfie', a member of the Baker Street Irregulars who was tightly clutching the hand of a girl of about 14 years. Holmes beckoned the pair forward. “Come, Alfie. Bring your friend nearer the fire.” Alfie looked at his companion who towered a good head and shoulders above him. He nodded and, still grasping her hand tightly, he led her towards our welcoming fire.

  It was a good minute or so before Alfie spoke. Steam was starting to rise from the pair as they stood before the fire. “Please, Mr Holmes. This is my cousin Lucy. Her sister Flora is in bad trouble. She has been arrested for murder and she ain’t done it, honest!”

  Holmes put down his pipe and leant forward in his chair. “Murder, you say? When was this?”

  Lucy looked up and, in a quiet voice filled with emotion, mumbled, “Yesterday, sir. They came and took her to Bow Street...in irons, sir.” Lucy began to sob softly.

  Mrs Hudson appeared with a tray of hot tea and with two large bath towels draped over her arm. She wrapped each of the children in a towel and started to gently pat them dry.

  Holmes, I could see, was clearly moved by the children's plight and wanted to know more. He reached out and took Lucy's hand, saying, “Tell me about Flora.”

  Lucy looked up and began to tell her tale. “It was two days ago. I was sleeping at Alfie's ’cos we only have the one bed, see. Flora told me that she was sleeping at the foot of Mum and Dad’s bed. She woke up and our Dad was lying dead across her legs and she couldn't move.” Lucy began to sob again and I was moved to put my arm around her shoulder. “She…she told me that she called out for Mum but Mum just cried, “Help me, I’m dying!” and she fell forward dead on the bed.” Lucy was now inconsolable. Her little body was wracked with emotion and she could say no more. Alfie could only hug his cousin and the pair stood for several minutes, in silence, sipping the tea.

  It was obvious that Holmes was intrigued by Lucy's story. The children were starting to dry off a little and appeared to have benefitted from drinking the hot tea.

  Holmes reached into his pocket and took from it a florin. “Here, Alfie. Take this and go and buy some hot food for you both.” Holmes pressed the coin into Alfie's hand and patted him gently on the head. “I will go to Bow Street in the morning and enquire further.” Holmes rose from his chair and took an umbrella from the large, Chinese jardinière by the door to our rooms. “Take this and return it to me when I send word that I have some news.”

  Lucy handed me the towels and then took the umbrella from Holmes. Looking up, she asked, “Can you help Flora, sir?” Her lip trembled as she spoke and she reached for Holmes’ sleeve.

  Holmes smiled. “I will do all I can for her, Lucy.” With that, the pair of them left. I watched from our window as they walked away along Baker Street, Lucy, being the taller, holding the umbrella with Alfie close by her side.

  Rarely had I seen emotion in Holmes but now he was clearly moved. “This is a strange case, Watson. If what Lucy has said is true, why should Flora have been arrested for murder?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know Holmes...it is a mystery… and how did her parents die?” Holmes was deep in thought but nothing further could be done until the morning and our visit to Bow Street.

  Chapter 2 - Bow Street

  The following morning the rain had cleared and, after a hearty breakfast of bacon and eggs followed by a round of toast smothered with Mrs Hudson’s fine strawberry preserve, we set off for Bow Street Police Station.

  On arrival we presented ourselves at the desk of the duty Sergeant who, of course, knew Holmes. At our approach he stood and saluted. “Good morning, Mr Holmes, Dr Watson. How may I help you?”

  Holmes touched his hat, saying, “Good morning, Sergeant. You have a young girl here called Flora, who, I understand, has been arrested on a charge of murder.”

  The Sergeant looked a little surprised. “Why yes, Mr Holmes...but it is hardly something that you might be interested in.”

  I could see Holmes bristle a little at this. “Never the less, I would like to speak to her, if I may.”

  The Sergeant reached for a large bunch of keys and beckoned us to follow him. “This way, gentlemen, if you please.” He led us down a narrow, stone flagged passage towards the women’s cells where he stopped outside one of the large, iron doors. To one side of the door was a small, framed slate on which had been chalked the name of the prisoner, 'Flora Smith'. The Sergeant looked through the peephole in the cell door. Satisfied, he unlocked the cell an
d turned to us, saying, “Here you are, sir. Call when you are finished.”

  We entered the cell and the door closed behind us with a solid 'clang' as iron met granite. Before us was a slight figure in a coarse, prison dress and sitting on a straw mattress. She was a girl, I would say, of around 16 years, thin faced and with fair hair. As she turned to look at us, I could see that her face was tear streaked. Holmes touched his hat and said, “Good morning, Flora. I am Sherlock Holmes and this is my friend, Dr Watson. We are here at the request of your cousin, Alfie.”

  Flora wiped her face with her hand and gave us a small smile. “Good morning, sir. Would you care to sit down?” Flora moved up a little on the mattress and Holmes sat beside her. I sat on the single chair that was placed beside a small table. Together with the latrine bucket, it was the only furniture present. I looked around the bleak cell. It measured barely ten feet by six feet and was painted a sombre green. The only light to enter the cell was from a small, barred window made from square glass blocks.

  Flora looked at Holmes. “I have heard stories about you, Mr Holmes from Alfie. You are a famous detective.”

  Holmes smiled. “I am here to help you, Flora, if you will let me. You must tell me everything about what happened on the day when your parents died.” Flora’s face clouded over and her head dropped as the memory of her parent's death was clearly painful for her. Holmes reached for her hand. “Tell me what happened...from the beginning.” Flora looked up at Holmes and, again, gave a weak smile and nodded.

  “Well, sir. We had only recently moved to Broad Street from Fairbrother Street where we had been renting a cellar. This new house was much better as we had a front room, a kitchen and two bedrooms. We couldn’t use the front bedroom though as the roof leaked so.

  Anyway, on Friday evening it was windy and quite cold. Dad had not been able to work for many weeks. He used to go door to door selling firewood but he had become so weak that he couldn’t do that no more. Mum used to go with him, she pushed the barrow but that was bad for her. She was always coughing, it was the bronchitis and couldn’t breathe proper. Neither of them had been able to earn a penny in the last week or so. I was the only one earning from hawking drapery… and that paid very little.”

  Holmes was attentive but I could see that he was eager to get to the events leading to her parent's death, asking, “What happened that evening, Flora?”

  Flora began again. “Well, sir. As I said, it was cold so before bed I laid a fire in the bedroom grate. Dad had already had a fall in the cellar trying to get some coke. My brother, Stephen, had brought some Rattle-Jacks the previous week on his cart and...”

  Holmes held up his index finger, and the child paused. It was clear that he did not know the term, asking, “Rattle-Jacks?”

  Flora looked at Holmes, a little bemused. “You never heard of Rattle-Jacks? They're bits of waste coke that you gets from the gas works. They glow nice and warm once they gets going. So, I gets some sticks, breaks up a bit of coal I found in the cellar and, with the Rattle-Jacks, I lights the fire. It was the first time that we had lit a fire in the bedroom grate and we goes to bed about eleven o’clock.”

  Flora paused for breath and, with a sniff, she continued, “Anyways, when we retired, the bedroom was full of smoke so Dad opens the window for a while, just until it clears, like. The wind was strong and there was a fierce draught from the window. Dad had to place a piece of folded newspaper in the gap in the frame to stop it. At about five o’clock the next morning I hears a strange noise and wakes up...and...and...Dad is lying dead across my legs. It’s like he's kneeled up and then fallen asleep. I...I...couldn’t move! I just screamed but I couldn't get up.” Flora began to sob and her poor little body shook.

  Holmes took her hand again, saying, “What about your mother, Flora?”

  Flora wiped her eyes on the sleeve of the prison dress. “I cried out 'Dad’s dead!'... and... and then Mum cries out, 'I can’t breathe, I'm dying! Help me!' and then she collapses on top of Dad and she just died. I tried to get up, Mr Holmes, I really did. I banged on the wall but nobody heard me. I was trapped there for most of the day. I finally managed to get free and I staggered to the shop to get help. I was stumbling...like I was drunk but I hadn’t touched a drop, Mr Holmes, there was no drink in the house."

  Flora gave a huge sob. Holmes patted her hand again and waited for her to continue. "The next thing I know, a police Sergeant had arrived and I was questioned… but I was all confused. He went away and then later he comes back and I was arrested. He put me in hand cuffs and I was brought here!”

  At this point Flora collapsed before our eyes and I rushed to her side. Taking my hip flask from my coat pocket, I forced a little medicinal brandy between her lips. Flora coughed, due to the fiery spirit, but she swiftly recovered. She looked up at Holmes. “Please, Mr Holmes. I ain't done nothing wrong, honest. They put me in this cell and then a little later they said...they said they was going to charge me with murder!”

  Holmes smiled, saying, “I believe you Flora. I will take your case and we will see you again, quite soon.” Holmes stood and called for the Sergeant who promptly arrived to release us from the cell.

  Back at the Sergeant's desk Holmes asked to see the police report of the incident and was given a transcript of the events. “May I borrow this...just for today?”

  The Sergeant rubbed his chin. “Well, it is a bit irregular, Mr Holmes, but as it's you, I suppose it will be alright. As it's here, you might also want to see the result of the post-mortem too.”

  Holmes smiled. “Splendid! I will return them both to you in the morning, Sergeant.” With that he swept from the police station with me hurrying in hot pursuit.

  Chapter 3 - The Post-Mortem

  Back once again in Baker Street, Holmes sank into his leather armchair and reached for the Persian slipper which contained his tobacco. “Something is not right here, Watson. Why should Flora be charged with murder? What have the police found?”

  Holmes filled his favourite Meerschaum and lit it. He puffed steadily upon it and then began to read the police report. “Ah, now we have it. Listen to this, Watson. It is a report by Sergeant Grey who attended the scene. 'When I entered the premises at eight in the evening, I questioned the prisoner about why she had not reported the deaths immediately. She told me that she had been pinned beneath the body of her father for several hours and could not move.'

  "That's just what Flora said, Holmes." I was pleased to hear that her account to us was accurate.

  Holmes nodded and returned to the police report, "The sergeant continues… 'I went into the rear bedroom and whilst the prisoner had said the room had been full of smoke, I could not detect any. There were, however, the remnants of a fire in the grate. I briefly examined the bodies of the prisoner’s parents. There was bruising to the side of the chest and to the head of the father but no marks on the mother’s body. I did, however, find a large hammer under the sink in the scullery. The prisoner seemed confused when questioned about the hammer and, when asked about the bruising to her father's face and torso, said he had fallen down the cellar steps the previous evening. I reported my findings to the Inspector. He was not satisfied with the account given by the prisoner and ordered her arrest'.”

  Holmes now had a frown upon his face. “There seems precious little here to level a charge of murder at the child. Perhaps the post-mortem will enlighten us further.” Taking up the report, he read it in silence. After several minutes his head came up and he tapped his lip with his forefinger, saying, “Hmm, we learn a little more from this. It is the report of the post-mortem carried out by a friend of ours, from the Lymington case, Dr John Parry. Give me your opinion, Watson."

  I nodded in recognition of the name and Holmes read aloud to me. “On examining the body of James Smith his face was pale but showed signs of significant bruising. However, the skull was intact. There was vomit on the right side of his face and in his hair. On the left side of the torso there was serious bruising, though n
ot sufficient to account for his death. The left arm showed a recent long graze from the heel of the palm to the elbow. There was coal dust residue beneath the fingernails of both hands and the nails of the left hand showed signs of tearing. Blood was discovered on the victims left thigh but that could be attributed to bleeding from the nose of his wife as she lay on him. An internal examination showed that he had three broken ribs, the internal organs showed no congestion which would indicate asphyxia. Samples of blood and lung tissue from both deceased were removed for further analysis.”

  Holmes paused. “It is interesting, Watson, that the description of the wife's body is remarkably different. 'Catherine Smith had no bruising to the body, although her face showed a purplish hue. Her nose showed some signs of bleeding and was swollen, as were her gums and lips. Her body looked somewhat 'agitated' as though she had struggled, in contrast to that of her husbands, which looked calm.'

  Holmes leafed through the file, saying, "There is a note here also that the stomach contents were removed for examination by Dr Parry as he thought that this could be a case of poisoning.”

  I reflected on what I had heard for a minute or so. “There doesn't seem to be a great deal of physical damage, Holmes. Certainly not sufficient to cause death. Examining the stomach contents is both prudent and appropriate in order to confirm or eliminate poisoning as a cause of death. However, we know from Flora that both of the parents were inherently weakened by pre-existing conditions. If it were poisoning, it would take but only a little to cause death.”

  I paused for a moment and frowned. “I am concerned regarding the discolouration of the face of the wife. Why just the wife and not the husband also? If they had both been poisoned, would not this poison have engendered the same symptoms in both victims?” I looked across at Holmes who seemed deep in thought and I continued with my assessment. “If Flora had poisoned them both, do you think it plausible that she herself took a mild dose of the poison to appear to have some symptoms, sufficient, perhaps, to put the police off the scent? I think not...although she did behave strangely whilst trying to raise the alarm.”