Sherlock Holmes

by Dick Gillman

  Holmes considered this before saying, “Yes, that is indeed a puzzle. We need to visit Broad Street and the scene of the crime...if, indeed, that is what it is.” I looked quizzically at Holmes. It seemed to me that there was already a solution forming in his head.

  Chapter 4 - The House in Broad Street

  The next day found us back at Bow Street Police Station returning the police report and the result of the post-mortem. Whilst there, Holmes enquired whether it would be possible for us to visit the house in Broad Street. The Sergeant was quite amenable and he wrote us a note which we were to give the constable on duty outside.

  Broad Street was but a few minutes away and, arriving at the house, the constable outside saluted. On reading the note he was content to allow us entry to the premises.

  The house, I observed, was in generally poor condition. The front room was entirely destitute of furniture and, in the kitchen, there was but a small table, two chairs and a stool. Leading off from the kitchen was a door that we found led to a coal cellar. Holmes opened the cellar door and stopped, his arm thrust out so that I could not follow. “Hello? What do we have here? Light a candle, if you please, Watson. I need more light.”

  I searched the room and finally found a small stub of candle on the kitchen mantelpiece. Lighting it, using a Vesta, I passed the candle to him. Holmes firstly examined the steps and then the walls of the passageway leading down to the cellar proper. “Look here, Watson. There is a scrape on the second step where someone has slipped...and here, on the left hand wall, there is a long mark describing an arc where someone has tried to save themselves as they fell. That explains the graze on the forearm of James Smith and would also explain the three broken ribs.”

  Satisfied that nothing more could be gleaned from the steps, we proceeded down into the cellar. At the foot of the steps there were further marks suggesting that someone had, indeed, fallen there recently. Holmes was sure that if James Smith's clothes were to be examined, then the police would find evidence of a great deal of coal dust upon them.

  Moving further into the cellar, Holmes reached down and picked up a handful of coke from a small pile heaped in one corner. Looking up, I could see that this was located just below a circular iron plate which gave access for deliveries from the yard above.

  Holmes held the coke in his hands, saying, “I am intrigued with these Rattle-Jacks, Watson. I think a visit to the local gas works may be in order.” With that, we climbed the cellar steps, snuffing out the candle and replacing it where I had found it.

  The bedrooms on the upper floor were as Flora had described them. The front bedroom was uninhabitable. It was plain that there were slates missing from the roof which the landlord had failed to replace. Consequently, rain had grievously damaged the ceiling and, part of which, had fallen through into the bedroom below.

  The back bedroom, however, was dry. The only pieces of furniture present were a low double bed and a small pine chest of drawers. I noticed that the covers of the bed were blood stained, whether from an in-situ post-mortem or from before, it was impossible to know. Holmes glanced briefly at the bed but seemed more interested in the small window that looked out onto the back yard. It was tight shut and, just as Flora had described, a piece of folded newspaper had been placed in the gap between the window and the frame to prevent any draughts. At the foot of the bed was the cast iron fireplace with a few sticks on the hearth and the remains of a fire in the grate. To one side was a small, wooden box with more of the coke from the cellar below.

  Holmes examined the grate and then took from his waistcoat pocket his silver match case. Striking a match on the bottom of the case, he held it just above the open grate. Almost at once, the flame blew back towards Holmes, before being extinguished. Holmes knelt in front of the fire. “Watson? Be a good fellow and retrieve the candle stub from the kitchen, I need to look up the chimney.” I descended to the kitchen and returned with the candle which Holmes then lit. He removed his hat and, shielding the candle from the down draught from the chimney, he stuck his head into the chimney opening. He emerged a few seconds later with a little soot in his hair but looking triumphant. “I think we have found the murderer, Watson… but I have a little chemistry to do before I can be certain.” I was somewhat mystified by this but Holmes would say no more.

  Chapter 5 - The Imperial Gasworks

  The following morning found us hailing a cab outside our lodgings. As we climbed in I heard Holmes shout up to the cabbie, “Imperial Gasworks, if you please. Just behind St. Pancras station.” And, with a jolt, we were off. As we sat back in the cab, I noticed that Holmes was rolling something between the fingers of his gloved hand.

  “What is that, Holmes?” I asked.

  Holmes smiled. “In the eyes of the police, it could, perhaps, be a murder weapon” and he tossed the item over to me. I looked at it and turned it over in my hand. It was a piece of Rattle-Jack coke from Broad Street.

  I was puzzled. “That? How so?”

  Holmes held out his hand and I returned the coke to him. “I hope you will determine its significance after our visit to the gasworks, Watson.”

  It was not long before we were drawing close to St Pancras station and I detected the distinct tang of tar and burning coal in the air. The gasworks was off Old St. Pancras Road and we walked but a few yards to the offices of The Imperial Gasworks. Outside the offices Holmes put his hand on my sleeve. “We must be careful, old fellow. We have no authority here and I may have to be a little 'inventive' in the reason for our visit.” I nodded and noticed a twinkle in his eye as he opened the door.

  Once inside, I noted that the office walls had been painted a drab, dark burgundy colour which reached up to a moulded, dado rail. Above that, a perhaps once pale cream had now turned a rather sickly yellow by the smoke and chemicals from the gasworks. Everything seemed to be steeped in the cloying odour of tar and disinfectant. We approached the enquiries counter where sat a middle aged lady dressed in a starched blouse and with her hair tied back, rather too severely. She was, it has to be said, sour faced and was wearing a pince-nez upon her nose. She looked at us over the top of this and was, seemingly, unimpressed by what she saw.

  Holmes touched his hat, saying, “Good morning. My colleague and I are shareholders of The Imperial Gas Company and we would like to see a little of our investment.” At this, the countenance of the receptionist appeared to change magically. She beamed a smile at the pair of us and asked us if we would wait for just a moment whilst she fetched the General Manager.

  Within a minute or so, a short, plump fellow appeared from a side office, still pulling on his jacket as he approached us. “Good morning, gentlemen. I am John Oldfield, the General Manager. I understand that you are investors in the company and wish to see the gasworks?” He proffered his hand and we both shook it.

  I left the talking to Holmes as he seemed to be getting into his stride. “Indeed we do, Mr Oldfield. We are considering making further investments, especially in the coke making aspect of the business.”

  Oldfield’s face lit up. “Splendid! Come this way, gentlemen. It will be my pleasure to show you our coking facility.”

  The gasworks encompassed a vast, sprawling site with four enormous gas holders. Buildings were interconnected by lines of pipe work and also by the tracks of a small gauge railway. I have to say that, at times, the smell was intolerable. Indeed, on some occasions, I had to cover my nose with my handkerchief. This was helpful, in some respects, as it allowed me to simply nod rather then get involved in the conversation that Holmes was engrossed in. I was, however, somewhat intrigued when Oldfield took us to the 'coking house' and began describing how the coke was produced.

  He stood by an impressive collection of huge, upright iron cylinders which glowed red hot. Two men raised the lid of one cylinder and a blast of heat, as if from hell itself, came from it. Smoke, combined with the stench of Sulphur, billowed forth and we could plainly see the red hot coke within.

  Holmes shielded hi
s face and shouted to Oldfield. “This seems very dangerous work, Mr Oldfield!”

  Oldfield nodded, shouting in return, “Yes, it is not only the heat itself, but the toxicity of the gases that are driven off during the heating process. A bituminous coal is used and, by heating it, we are able to collect valuable liquors and coal gas. When the coal is heated with very little oxygen, it produces a decidedly poisonous oxide of carbon. We have been indeed fortunate, here, to have had no fatalities. However, there have been many within our industry caused by the inhalation of this gas.” Holmes nodded and looked towards me, with an eyebrow raised, in a truly meaningful way. The implication of this was not wasted upon me.

  Holmes shouted once more, “Can you show us some of the finished product?” Oldfield held up his hand and beckoned us to follow him.

  I must confess that it was a great relief to be away from that hellish place. Oldfield led us to the rear of the building where a small steam engine seemed to be waiting patiently. It was attached to a line of trucks and, as we watched, an avalanche of red hot coke descended from the coking house and into the final, steel sided truck. From above, one of the workers played a jet of cooling water onto the small mountain of red hot coke and immediately, huge clouds of steam billowed from it which completely obliterated our view.

  We walked some short distance further to a storage area where huge iron grids had been set up. These shook continuously to sift and sort the coke. From our vantage point, we observed a man and his wife beside a small hand cart, gathering some coke from a small pile set to one side.

  I thought I might at last be useful and moved to where Oldfield stood. I pointed to the man and woman, asking, “Are these people here to purchase a quantity of coke?”

  Oldfield looked towards the couple. “Why, yes, sir. The coking process is not 100% efficient and there is some waste from the retorts. This is made up of small pieces of low grade coke that cannot be used for industry so it is sold off cheaply. The locals use these small bits of coke for heating. They call them Rattle-Jacks.”

  I looked at Holmes and he beckoned me towards him. “I think we need a sample of these Rattle-Jacks, Watson. Perhaps you might acquire a little.”

  I took my cue and wandered off towards the heap of Rattle-Jacks. I nodded and touched my hat to the couple who were filling their hand cart. Bending down, I picked up a handful of coke. I was acutely aware that I was being observed by Oldfield and, after pretending to examine the coke, I threw a portion back onto the heap. However, I retained a little of it within my gloved hand which I casually thrust back into my coat pocket before strolling back to Holmes. I gave Holmes the slightest of nods before the three of us returned to the gasworks office. Once there, Oldfield offered us some tea but, on the pretext of having to return to St Pancras station to catch an express, we said our goodbyes and made rather a hurried exit before he had chance to ask our names.

  Chapter 6 - A little Chemistry

  Outside St Pancras we hailed a Hansom and were once more on our way home. Holmes leant towards me, smiling. “That was a very adept manipulation of the sample of coke, Watson. May I see it?” I fumbled in my coat pocket and produced the three or four small pieces that I had retained. Holmes selected one and then took from his pocket his magnifying glass. Despite the movement of the cab, he studied the coke for thirty seconds or so before returning it to me. He then did the same with a seemingly identical piece that he had taken from Broad Street. “On the face of it, they do seem to be one and the same… but I must do some further analysis at Baker Street.”

  Holmes has always loved the logic of Chemistry. Over the years, he has steadily increased his knowledge in fields as diverse as rare, South American poisons extracted from frogs to an encyclopaedic knowledge of tobaccos from around the world. Our lodgings have often more resembled a laboratory rather than a gentleman's sitting room.

  On our return, Holmes had quickly set up two retorts, with spirit burners beneath, and was busy heating the samples of coke. From these, he drew off any gases produced, passing them through a variety of liquids. Holmes worked tirelessly. His analysis taking him most of the evening but, eventually, he slumped in his armchair. It was plain to see that, whilst he was exhausted, he was also pleased with the results of his experiments.

  Sitting back in his armchair, he briefly presented his findings to me and, when he had finished, I understood. I was, of course, aware of the dangers of carbonic oxide gas poisoning from cases within my own practice and Holmes would, in due course, enlighten me further. He was now able to present his evidence in such a way that it would convince any court in Christendom. Later that evening, as I idly read the evening edition of the newspaper, I feared that he would need to do so quickly as the date for the Inquest had been set for just two days hence.

  The following morning Holmes sent a message for Alfie to call at Baker Street with his cousin Lucy. At around ten o’clock the doorbell sounded in the hallway below and there was again the thunder of children's feet on the stairs. Mrs Hudson appeared, a little out of breath, and announced our visitors. Alfie had returned the umbrella and, I must admit, they both looked considerably better than the last time we had seen them. Having said that, Lucy did still look a little pale. Her face bore the expression of one who has a great weight upon her young shoulders.

  Holmes stood and greeted them. Alfie, in his eagerness, burst out, “What news, Mr Holmes? When is Flora going to come home? She's going to stay with us until she can find a position.”

  Holmes smiled. “One step at a time, Alfie. We have some way to go yet...but I am convinced that she is innocent and I think I can prove it.”

  On hearing this, Alfie’s face lit up and, as I watched, I saw him give Lucy’s hand a squeeze, saying, “See! I told you Mr Holmes could do it.”

  Holmes cautioned the pair. “We have to prepare our ground thoroughly, Alfie. It is imperative that Flora’s name is cleared. It is vital that I discover the name of the landlord of the house in Broad Street.”

  Alfie smiled. “That’s easy, Mr Holmes. It’s Mr Levy. He lives just two doors away in his Mum’s old house, the one with the blue door.”

  Holmes reached into his pocket and took out a sixpence. “Alfie, I want you to go and see if Mr Levy is at home and then return here and tell me.” Alfie took the sixpence, grabbed Lucy by the hand and rushed from our rooms as if a pack of hounds were at his heels. Holmes laughed heartily and returned to his armchair.

  I have to say that I was somewhat puzzled by Holmes request. I lit my pipe and settled into a chair, trying to reason why knowing the landlords name and, whether he was at home, might be helpful. After five minutes I could hold back my curiosity no longer, asking, “Holmes, I fear I am at a loss to see why you should send Alfie on such an errand?”

  Holmes drew on his pipe and slowly blew out a small cloud of blue smoke towards the ceiling. “I am attempting to show how Flora is in no way responsible for the death of her parents. It is vitally important that I find and talk to the previous tenant of Broad Street. I believe his actions are the key to this whole business.”

  Holmes looked across at me, smiling at my expression of complete befuddlement. With a twinkle in his eye, he said, “Never mind. Watson. All will be revealed once the smoke has cleared!”

  It was a little less than fifteen minutes before the thunder of feet once more sounded upon the stairs. Alfie burst in even before Mrs Hudson could open the door. “He’s there, Mr Holmes!” panted Alfie.

  Holmes sprang from his chair, crying, “Excellent work, Alfie! Come, Watson. We must seek out Mr Levy and, hopefully, question his former tenant!” With that, Holmes gathered up his coat and was out the door. We hailed a cab and were in Broad Street in but a few minutes. The cab stopped outside a property identical to the one we had visited a few days previously. The only difference being that this property had a blue painted door.

  Chapter 7 - A Former Tenant

  Holmes jumped down from the cab and tapped sharply on the house door with
his cane. A minute or so later, an elderly gentleman opened the door. Holmes touched his hat and enquired, “Mr Levy?” The gentleman nodded and Holmes opened his card case and presented his card. “My name is Sherlock Holmes. I am trying to help little Flora Smith but I require some important information."

  The old gentleman looked from the card to Holmes and back to the card. “A detective...you are not with the police?” I could see the door was starting to slowly close.

  Holmes moved a little closer… but not so much as to alarm Mr Levy. “No, no. Have no fear, Mr Levy, I am acting solely on behalf of Flora and her family. I am quite independent of the police.” This seemed to satisfy Mr Levy and the door opened a crack further.

  Mr Levy, I saw, shook his head. “It's a bad business. They had only been in there a few days. My nephew, Benjamin, my brother's boy, he had the place before them but after he and his wife had the baby...well, they needed more space and the front bedroom was somewhat damp.”

  Holmes tensed as he heard this. “Your nephew, has he moved any distance?”

  Mr Levy rubbed his chin. “No sir, just around the corner, in Oak Terrace, number 14. Since he got a good job on the railway, he can afford to rent a better house. Now sir, how can I be of help to you?”

  Holmes briefly touched his hat, saying, “You have already been of tremendous help, thank you.” and with that, Holmes sprinted away leaving me to shake the hand of a very confused Mr Levy and to mutter a hurried goodbye.