Sherlock Holmes

by Lyn McConchie

  “Anyway. A group of five men from his club had agreed to buy a block of flats. I understand that they thought they could smarten up the block and attract long-term tenants. After a year or two they’d sell the block as a going concern, and they expected to make a generous profit on their deal. One of the men had crossed Wimbledon previously; some talk of a disputed call at whist. The owner of the property was old and wanted to retire, and he said that he’d like to travel before he died, so he wanted a quick cash sale. Supposedly, a ‘lawyer’ heard about the deal.” Harrison snorted.

  “I’d say there was no lawyer, no matter what the group were told by one of the tenants. I think it most likely to have been Wimbledon in disguise, although I suppose it could have been an employee. Anyway, whoever it was called on the old man and persuaded him into selling for cash. The owner took the money and was gone when the consortium arrived to meet him a day and a half later. They were ready to pay over their money, have him sign for the deal, and transfer the title.”

  This time his gaze upon me was intense, his tones meaningful. “No one’s seen the old man since, Doctor. It’s been verified that the signature was his, but the lawyer was and is unknown. As I say, I believe there was no such person. We checked the solicitor who arranged the contract, but he hadn’t known either of those involved prior to the signing. At the time all that any of the five men cared for was that the sale had been legal, and that the title deeds had been filed as they should be, so there was nothing they could do about it. However, they weren’t amused when they found who’d bought the place. They suspected Wimbledon had got one of them to talk and they didn’t approve. It was hinted to him pretty clearly that if he didn’t re-sell the property to them he would find himself ostracized and out of his club, and after some heated talk and a few more threats, he sold.” Harrison looked at me.

  “It didn’t occur to them at the time that, yes, he sold, but he still made around two and a half percent on the deal. And the man I talked to says Wimbledon didn’t seem at all bothered. Just said quite casually that he hadn’t realized they were after the same property. Didn’t mean to tread on their toes, and had no problem letting them have the building, if that was what they wanted. They said that it was and he let them have it, all meek and mild. He said that if they came around with the money right now he’d sign, and not wanting to chance him changing his mind, they were on his doorstep an hour later, with cash again, too.”

  “And…” I prompted, guessing from his manner that there was more to the tale.

  “And once they took possession they found that they’d been had. Place was falling down. It looked all right, but the fabric was rotten in two or three places. The old man hadn’t done any maintenance for years, and it cost them a fortune to fix. In the end, they sold it the minute they’d had sufficient work done to permit a resale. They did make a bob or two on the deal, but nothing near what they’d expected.”

  “Ah,” I said thoughtfully. “They couldn’t blame Wimbledon, because he’d bought the place and only sold because of their threats. If they hadn’t demanded that he sell to them, if they hadn’t been so keen to rush him into the sale immediately, he’d have been the one left with all the expense.”

  “That’s right, Doctor. However, in my opinion he never meant to hold on to the building at all. He knew them and what assumptions they’d jump to, knew what they’d do then, so he made a profit still, and they paid dear for their threats and for that trouble over whist.”

  “Clever.”

  “As a wagonload of monkeys,” Harrison agreed. “And the man who told me this still hasn’t realized. He thinks it was just a piece of bad luck, and if he blames anyone it’s the original owner. Mr. Wimbledon dealt in more property after that, and his finances appeared to be in a lot better shape…” He broke off and looked at me significantly again. I must have looked blank because he expanded, repeating two previous items. “The old man was never seen again. Wimbledon had a lot more money after he resold the flats.”

  I gasped. “You mean?”

  “I mean one may have been the cause of the other,” Harrison said quietly, sitting forward and fixing me with a grim stare. “You know, the more I dig into the background of this Wimbledon, the more I find all sorts of odd events, quite apart from not being able to find out where he came from. He bet regularly on his racehorses, same pattern as his card-playing: an attitude that he didn’t care if they won or lost, he was just enjoying watching them run, spending time with all his friends, and having fun. But look more closely at how they won and you find it was like the cards he played. His horses would lose a couple of races where they were at poor odds, and then they’d win a smaller race. They lose again a few times, and win again, on a smaller course.”

  I was baffled as to what he meant and said so.

  “Don’t look at the prize-money, Doctor, look at the possible betting.”

  I suddenly saw his meaning and realized what the man must have been doing.

  “Yes,” Harrison confirmed. “In my opinion he was running them shy in some way, with a ringer, maybe, or a crooked jockey. When he won, he’d bet real money with the bookmakers, and sometimes with his friends. So he lost moderate prizes, and I’d almost gamble myself that he claimed to have bet a lot at such times, but he hadn’t. As for the prizes, you can’t say that you’ve lost money you never had. All he was out was the stable and training fees for the period. Then, when the horse ran at a smaller course, it won. He wouldn’t have cared about the prize, and that was most likely no more than a cup anyhow. But he’d bet high that time, win higher, and rake in a stack of cash. Cash,” he repeated. “That’s another thing about the man. He dealt mostly in cash.”

  “Didn’t he have a bank account?”

  “He did, but it’s oddly uninformative. Cash deposits, cash withdrawals; his friends all say he had some theory that if you dealt in cash the government took less from you.”

  “He may have genuinely believed that,” I offered.

  “And if he did, it could be because he didn’t want any official knowing his business because it was crooked,” was Harrison’s immediate retort.

  I had to agree. Wimbledon was sounding more and more a doubtful character. I said this, and exhorted Harrison to continue the story.

  “Things continued. Wimbledon had lady friends, dumped them with a nice gift and no hard feelings, played cards, bought and sold property, and was regarded as a good fellow by most who knew him. After about fifteen years he fell in—I won’t call it love—but it had to be a strong infatuation at least, since for the first time he was prepared to marry.

  “He was maybe forty, a good-looking, well-set-up man, and he was solidly prosperous with some nice property, easily able to support a wife. Alice Leighton came of a good family. They don’t have much money, but they’re an old lineage and related to a few titles. She wasn’t engaged when Wimbledon met her, and he seems to have taken one look and decided she was going to be his wife.”

  I snorted. “Then he didn’t know how things are done in society.”

  “He found out when her father made a few inquiries and discovered that nothing whatsoever was known of the man’s background. Leighton spoke to Wimbledon, who apparently said that Alice would marry him, not his ancestors. When pressed, he talked vaguely about his name, but nothing that could be verified. Leighton didn’t like any of it. He told Alice that she wasn’t to see Wimbledon again, and according to all reports she didn’t. Her friends said she didn’t like him, had given him no encouragement, and was happy to do as she was told. Wimbledon didn’t accept that. He haunted the girl and kept turning up most places she went. He always spoke politely to her, though, and the poor girl could hardly be openly rude to him without cause.

  “That went on for months, until she announced her engagement to the eldest son of a family friend named Goodwinne. He’d inherit a town house and a nice estate as soon as his childless great-uncle died, and he already had a fair private income. The announcement seems
to have driven Wimbledon frantic. Seems he got the girl to one side at a dance, told her she was being forced into a distasteful marriage, and he could save her if she’d only come to him.”

  “Was she being forced to marry?”

  “No. I’m told that he’d manhandled her a bit to get her aside in what he thought would be privacy, so she lost her temper and told Wimbledon a few home truths. Said she wasn’t interested in him, she was in love with her fiancé, and she thought Wimbledon was a dreadful person who came from no-one–knew-where, and he should leave her alone. If he bothered her again she’d have him thrown out of any private place where she was.” He looked down, scowling. “He’d cornered her in an angle of the main corridor, out of sight. What neither of them knew was that the door around that corner had been opened partway through their talk, and half the people present heard some of what he’d offered, and all of her reply.”

  I could guess what came after that.

  Harrison looked at me. “I’m told it was incredibly embarrassing for all concerned. He walked around the corner and there they were, a couple dozen of his friends and acquaintances who’d heard him offer to marry the woman he wanted, and heard her call him someone of no breeding and say he’d be tossed out of any party or dance that she attended in future. They say his face was dead white when he came towards them, but the look in his eyes when he saw people standing there was—well, one man said that if he’d given anyone cause to look like that, he’d have watched out for himself afterwards.”

  “The girl? Don’t say she’s the one who died,” I asked sharply.

  “No, Doctor. It wasn’t her. She married her young man as planned, and she’s well. But Wimbledon left her alone after that. He made certain he never attended any dance or party where she was, and generally appears to have accepted her decision. In fact, it’s been said that he avoided her rather too pointedly, as if he couldn’t bear to set eyes on her again, and there was talk of his nobly bearing a broken heart.”

  I snorted. “Holmes would call that ‘women’s chatter.’”

  “Certainly. From what his servants say, it did him no harm with female companions, and there were as many as ever. I daresay they thought that if he’d fallen for one woman and offered her marriage, he would do so again. Wimbledon did accept a friend’s gift some months after that time: a black and tan Manchester terrier, which he appeared to value. A number of comments were made, suggesting that he’d find the dog more faithful.

  “One thing I can tell you is that around this time Wimbledon called in an elderly man who specializes in making secret hiding places in houses. Not safes, for these aren’t that sort of security. They are secret panels that open into a cupboard or similar. But you have to know where they are, and they are so well made that a team of burglars could search a house for a day and find nothing. Old Johnson keeps no records, tells no one his clients’ names, and is paid in cash.”

  “Then how do you know he was employed?” I asked.

  Harrison laughed. “Through the sort of coincidence that undoes many a criminal. Wimbledon’s Mayfair house is on the outskirts of that area, and his servants live in three rooms a short walk away, in a much poorer area. Old Johnson lives in their building, and they know him by sight, as well as knowing what local gossip says is his livelihood. Johnson was called to the house to consider where to place the hiding place—or so I think—and on that initial visit he was just leaving as the Merrins arrived. While he didn’t see them, so they say, they saw and recognized him. They said nothing about that to Wimbledon, fearing he might assume they had been spying or that they knew too much, and he would dismiss them.”

  “But surely, if this Johnson was making a hiding place in the house, they’d have heard the work?”

  “No, and that is what makes me sure he did so. Wimbledon called them in two days later, announced that he was going away on the Friday night and would not return until the Tuesday afternoon, and that they could have that time off. In fact, he said that he would be shutting the house up completely, implying that even if they returned early they would be unable to gain entry.”

  “Only two days later, and he’d be almost four days away,” I mused. “It does sound as if he did have the cache made, and that was when it was done.”

  “So I think, and therein lies one problem of many. To continue, again all ran smoothly in the household until three days ago, when the housekeeper returned from shopping to find her master lying dead in the hall. He had always been in good health, she says, although this past year he occasionally suffered from severe indigestion and he’d taken to eating lighter meals. However, the cause of his death wasn’t indigestion. He’d been shot through the center of his forehead, the bullet piercing his brain, killing him where he stood. He’d dropped and never moved again, but there was no immediate sign of the gun. That was later found some considerable distance away, around a bend in the corridor and by the back door. My superior believes that the murderer dropped it in his flight.”

  “What do you believe?”

  “Truthfully, Doctor? I don’t know. It isn’t utterly impossible for a man to shoot himself in such a way, but the doctor is adamant that Wimbledon would have died immediately where he fell.”

  I nodded agreement. “If the shot were as accurate as you say, then that would have been so. He would not even have lived long enough to throw the gun down the hall, and even if he could, it’s unlikely to slide around a bend.”

  “So I was assured,” Harrison said. “In other words, the man was murdered, but after that I’m floundering. He may have a hiding place in his home—one I cannot find. His name is said to be Gerald Barnes Wimbledon—which I cannot prove or disprove. Those who knew him say he was a pleasant man—and I can’t prove otherwise, so who’d have a motive? I hoped that by talking to you and Mr. Holmes, some fact might emerge I could investigate.”

  I saw that he was in a quandary; Holmes would undoubtedly have some ideas and should be home shortly, so I poured him another drink and settled to find out more.

  2

  “I must go, Doctor,” Harrison said after a further hour of discussion. “I thank you for listening to me, and some of your suggestions may give me a place to start.”

  I smiled. I had heard Mrs. Hudson’s voice and the sound of familiar footsteps on the stairs.

  Holmes passed the door. “Mrs. Hudson says she will have our lunch on the table in ten minutes, Watson. I’ll just wash up first.” He entered the room four minutes later and greeted Harrison politely.

  “The Wimbledon case?”

  Harrison grinned. “Trust you to know, sir. Yes. And I’d really like to solve it, since it’s my first major solo case. If I succeed my superiors will give me others.”

  “Must you go?”

  “No, sir, not if you wish to hear about it.”

  Holmes waved him back to a seat. “You may share our lunch and we shall share your case. Now, tell me what you have told Watson and we shall consider things from there.”

  Harrison talked, lunch arrived: cold roast beef, new potatoes with butter, and a salad, followed by raspberry trifle. We ate, and all the while he explained what he knew until at length Holmes had heard all and lunch was merely empty dishes on the table. Harrison sat back.

  “Your Mrs. Hudson can cook.” And turning to his preoccupation. “So now, sir, that’s as far as we’d got before your return. The rest I can add. Firstly, Mrs. Merrin says that she believes her employer to have only just died when she discovered him. The blood yet ran, and his body was limp and warm to the touch. She saw no one as she and her husband came up the drive, but her husband bravely searched the house while they waited for the police. He found no one save the dog.”

  “Was the dog locked away?”

  “No, Mr. Holmes. The back door was, however, ajar and the gun had been dropped right by it.”

  “The gun—was ownership identified?”

  “No, but it is similar to one that belonged to the dead man. It was a .45 Colt revolve
r, and the bullet we dug out of the hall paneling matched the gun. However, it was not Wimbledon’s own gun. We found that in the drawer of his bedside cabinet. I believe the gun found by the back door fired the fatal shot. We estimate Wimbledon had been standing and was shot by someone of similar height who faced him while holding the gun almost against his victim’s forehead.”

  I shook my head. “Would any man stand tamely while someone pointed a gun at his head? Would he not rather have ducked or dodged, tried to escape, or struck the man’s hand away?”

  “I cannot say,” Harrison said seriously. “It may be that Wimbledon feared to move lest he be shot. But he does seem to have done nothing to prevent the assault. It may perhaps be that he thought the actions to be a joke or prank, or it may be that the killer thought if he used a gun of the same sort as the victim’s, that the police would assume the death to have been suicide. If so, that may point to someone familiar with Wimbledon’s possessions. All I can say as yet is that the deadly weapon was not Wimbledon’s gun. The Merrins say that to their knowledge, the gun in the bedside cabinet was the only weapon in the house, save for a fine matched set of Purdey shotguns in the man’s study. However, a number of people involved in this case have guns of various calibers and types.”

  Holmes considered. “I must send you one of my monographs on the subject of distinguishing one gun from another. In my explorations into the subject, I have found that when fired, a bullet has certain characteristics imparted to it. There are marks caused by the rifling within the gun’s barrel that are peculiar to that gun and that gun alone.”

  Harrison sat up. “Yes, that would assist us in eliminating a number of possible weapons.”