Sherlock Holmes

by Lyn McConchie

  He walked to the dressing-room and looked around, then, with one decisive sweep of a hand he thrust the suits up their rail and peered at the wall behind them. He ran his hands over the wall, muttering to himself. “Here, somewhere, but where? How does it open? How? Johnson’s smart, been doing this for years. Relies more on a hide not being suspected than on locks; anyhow having to use a key would need a keyhole, and locks show. Wouldn’t be where you’d look for a door. Somewhere you don’t expect it, yes?” One hand halted its sweep across the paneling.

  “Mr. Holmes, can you feel this?”

  My friend walked over and ran sensitive fingertips over a knee-height section of polished wood towards the back of the area. “Congratulations, Harrison. There is a spot here that seems slightly worn and the wood feels greasy, as if a hand often bore down firmly upon that spot. Try pressing there and pushing sideways as you do so.”

  Harrison obediently pressed as instructed, and with a small click, a panel swung out. Harrison uttered a shout of triumph, hooked his fingers into the panel, and hauled. He staggered back as an entire section opened freely on an inset spindle hinge. Through the opening we could see a long, narrow space. At the far end were shelves on which reposed a .45 revolver, ledgers, bundled papers, and a stack of four or five books bound in red Morocco leather. There was also a pair of steel cashboxes. Harrison entered at once, grabbing the ledgers, opening and scanning one after another. He turned to us.

  “Oh, yes, this is what we wanted. A record of all his dealings.” He set down the ledger and picked up a cashbox. “Money he did not want others to know he had, I daresay.” He almost dropped the box as he took the weight. “What…?” The box tilted, the lid opened, and a stream of gold coins rolled over the hide floor. “Good Lord,” Harrison breathed reverently. “There must be hundreds of sovereigns and guineas in the two boxes, as well as these bills. I wonder if anyone knew of this?”

  “I doubt it,” Holmes commented from where he was thoughtfully swinging the panel to and fro, watching it click shut, and opening it again. “This would be his emergency money. For years he will have taken a few coins or a note out of each withdrawal and hidden them here. If he were ever found out, or if some careless dealing bankrupted him, he had this reserve to start again elsewhere. Gold is acceptable in almost any country, so that even if Wimbledon had to flee Britain he could find refuge where he desired.”

  “Yes,” Harrison said pensively. “And they’ll be part of the estate, so this Irene Jarvis inherits them, too. How much would you think there to be here?”

  I scanned the glittering drift topped with banknotes, like surf. “As much as ten thousand pounds if you include the bills. But the weight, Harrison! Even with those notes making up much of the amount, the gold coins would weigh more than could comfortably be carried. How could he hope to walk out of this house with all those coins?”

  Holmes frowned. “He could not. He must have had some other plan for their transport. Perhaps Mrs. Foster, the other beneficiary, could enlighten us.”

  We repaired to her home since nothing less than immediate action would do for Harrison. She was not pleased to see us.

  “What have I done that I should be persecuted?” She drew herself up as Holmes walked past her, opened a door, and peered inside the room. “Here, that’s private! It’s only a spare bedroom.”

  “A coffin!” Holmes said. “Interesting. And,” on lifting the lid, “there appears to be official papers inside.” He raised an eyebrow. “Would you care to explain these?”

  In return, he received a look that should have dropped him to his knees. Being Holmes, it had no effect and he continued to stand there, his level gaze meeting hers until she capitulated.

  “Very well, if you must have it.”

  “I must.”

  “He sent it for me to hold for him. It looks as if it is thickly lined with lead, but in reality the lead plates are far thinner than they seem.”

  “Yes,” Holmes said, lifting a plate and looking at it. “There are cavities inside, into which certain contraband may be placed.”

  “As you know everything, you tell it,” the lady snarled.

  “As you wish.” He turned to Harrison and me. “The coffin also has a set of papers stating that it was being sent to—fill in the country—for the purposes of reclaiming the body of a young man who had died abroad, his parents being desirous of his being laid in the family plot. The recipient’s name was given as Frederick Ambleton Nash, of—address and country to be filled in here.”

  He indicated a space on the document. Harrison made a disapproving sound in his throat as my friend added, “Another statement here, already signed as I note, agrees that the said Nash would receive the coffin and execute all legal requirements appertaining to the body and its return to England. A very simple and effective system. Who would not feel for the dead young man and his—father, perhaps—who had come to bring him home.”

  Harrison was outraged at this use for a coffin. Mrs. Foster protested she had no idea that any of the proposed actions might be illegal. Harrison could not prove she had known this to be so, and since, in fact, no illegal activities had taken place, and in any case, it not being illegal to transport money abroad, only illegal to make a false statement as to a coffin’s contents, and the signed statement of such not being hers, he simply had the coffin removed to be added to the estate, the papers officially destroyed, and the lady severely cautioned not to allow herself to be used in such a way again.

  Harrison’s superiors had a good deal of praise for him thus far, but he still had questions. “It’s this Irene Jarvis,” he grumbled to us. “All I’ve done so far is add to her inheritance. One of our men who specializes in reading ledgers is finding all sorts of questionable items. It does look as if Wimbledon murdered that apartment owner. At least, he doesn’t say anything in the ledger about where the money came from, but a day after the cash was paid to the man, Wimbledon pays cash into his account, and again a week later, and then five days after that. And what do you think?”

  “That the three amounts total the amount that was paid for the building,” Holmes said.

  Harrison looked downcast. “Yes.” He brightened again. “And he had noted other money as wagers.”

  “With the pattern as you suspected?” I asked.

  “That’s right. My superiors have considered that and say there is no hope of proving anything illegal transpired, and even if we could prove it, a prosecution is unlikely since Wimbledon, who would have been the prime mover, is dead. I am still in hopes, however, that I may discover something to give us a motive and more definite suspects.”

  “I know you for a busy man,” Holmes said then. “Would you care to leave the diaries with us? We could advise you of anything relevant that we find.”

  “Why, that would be good of you. It’s true I’m overworked, and I don’t trust some of these lads to know what to look for in the diaries. Yes, if you would be so kind, Mr. Holmes, I’d be grateful.”

  We heard no more from Harrison for two days. One afternoon I was wondering if all possible leads had failed, yet as Holmes perused a diary he gave an exclamation.

  “What is it, Holmes?”

  “Watson, do me the service of reaching Harrison. Ask him to call at once, and say we have uncovered important information.”

  I knew that he would say nothing more until Harrison was here, so I sent a message at once. It was a mere hour before we heard running footsteps upon our stairs, and the next moment Harrison flung the door wide and positively leapt through.

  “You have something?”

  “One thing that you need to read first and act upon, for it gives credence to much else.” He pointed and Harrison’s eyes opened as he read.

  “Yes, yes, indeed. If we can find that…”

  He was gone again, a promise tossed over his shoulder that he would return. That he did an hour later—during which time I had read some of the vital passages—whereupon he sank into the chair offered and
gazed at Holmes. “There is more?”

  Holmes nodded. “Read the passages that I have marked in pencil.” Harrison did so and at length looked up at us.

  “I have them.” His eyes were wide with excitement. “Now I have them! That is, I don’t know exactly which of them it was, but you’ve found it. It’s all there: motives, names, and places. He wrote it all down.” He waved the red Morocco-leather-bound book at us. “At the Yard all we found was that Wimbledon was a thoroughgoing rascal and a cheat. But it’s this diary that shall hang someone. It starts shortly before Alice Leighton’s father said there’d be no marriage, and it continues to the day before Wimbledon was murdered.

  “It’s all in there; everything that he did, that others did, some of his plans for the future, and who he’d get to help him with those. He must have believed no one would ever find these, so he didn’t fear to tell all in a dreadful diary, with a poisonous man writing it. All I have to do is work out which of them it was.” He subsided into the nearest chair and slapped the diary onto the table while his smile widened.

  4

  I reached for the diary and opened it again. Harrison accepted a drink from Holmes and watched as I skimmed the few pages I had left unread. He was right; the book was fascinating, and I passed it reluctantly to my friend.

  “It does give motives,” I said. “He… Well, I suppose he assumed that hidden as the diaries were, no one would discover them. They could always be burnt if he feared anyone might discover they existed.”

  Harrison snorted. “Then he had no idea of how things can go wrong,” he averred. “What if there’d been a fire and the hide was exposed? What if the man died unexpectedly—as indeed he did—and the house was sold and the new owner wanted alterations? In my experience, nothing is completely safe; after all, we found the room, ledgers, and diaries, didn’t we?”

  I nodded. “Yes, and now you have genuine suspects.” I lowered my voice involuntarily. “What will you do about the entries concerning Mrs. Goodwinne?”

  Harrison shrugged. “If a woman plays the fool, she may have to pay the price.” He smiled wryly at us. “Although it will put my superior in a great taking. He’s a good man, Purdon, but he truckles a little more to the aristocracy than I like. He’ll read some of the entries concerning her and tell me that he’ll deal with it, that I’m to say nothing to anyone.”

  I glanced at Holmes. “What do you think?”

  “That Detective Inspector Purdon may be wise if that is his decision,” was his only comment.

  Harrison picked up the diary and read aloud from an entry, his voice a monotone.

  “Alice came to me that afternoon, saying that her husband was a brute who gave her no pleasure and asking forgiveness that she had rejected and shamed me as she had. Well, her rejection had caused me great pain but as she knelt before me, so warm, so sweet, so pliant in her remorse, I could not but forgive her.

  I took her in my arms and carrying her to my bed we loved the hours away, until she pleaded that she must go before her husband returned from his club. Clad as she was in no more than her glorious hair, I was loath to let her go, but I would not expose her to possible ill-treatment so I allowed her to dress again and depart. She swore she would return, that I satisfied her as her husband did not, and she would have more of it. That was the truth, for only a few days later she made the opportunity to spend an afternoon with me again, at which time we…”

  I blushed and commented to Harrison. “He is surprisingly frank. You will want to have the dates and times verified.”

  He shrugged. “It may not be possible. Most entries appear to have been written without much care as to the actual date. Several items might be able to be verified, such as the entry where he speaks of meeting certain men to arrange betting on a horse that was planned to win and the wagers that he made. We should be able to substantiate that he bet on those dates, and the men were at the courses on those days. Then, too, there are many entries concerning the lady, although again there are no dates and few mentions of any event by which we might match a date.

  “Others of his ledger accounts we have been able to estimate from items where we can prove a date by external evidence, such as his claim to have been involved in the fleecing of a certain young man at his club. We found the person and he agreed that he had lost the sum mentioned. We also spoke to the man to whom the young man lost the money, and he denied furiously that any trickery was involved and stated that he most certainly had not colluded with Wimbledon.”

  Harrison scowled. “He says that Wimbledon was at the table that night, but that he disliked the man, that there was not, nor would ever have been, any arrangement between them, that no signals passed, and that should anyone suggest otherwise he will bring an action against them immediately. We can do nothing since the person supposedly cheated also rejects that suggestion and says that he too will bring an action against anyone who makes such a claim publicly.”

  I could understand that. No young man would wish to be thought so innocent as to be easily cheated, and then too, he would know how such gossip would harm the reputation of his club. Nor would that lead to his being other than unpopular with all concerned.

  “What about the men who purchased the apartment building from him?” I questioned. “His entry says that they knew what he would do, and he jests that they were twice cheated. They knew he was buying the building cheaply and selling it at once to them, and while he was the only one who knew its poor condition, they had some knowledge of what he planned for the owner and did not care. Does he say anything further about that man?”

  Harrison opened a page and touched his index finger to an entry where Wimbledon told explicitly what had been done with the body of an old man who had trusted him. Harrison’s delivery became staccato in its intensity. “That was the entry you showed me. We dug up the garden. Body was there all right. And enough on the body to show who it was. Diary says five men originally involved. One now dead, other abroad. Questioned three here, all deny it. Talked of an action, and Purdon won’t move because of it.”

  “Why not?” I demanded.

  Holmes roused. “Because there is no evidence, Watson. Entries in a diary are not proof; they are one man’s word. They may be fabricated to give the writer an excuse.”

  “Excuse? For what?”

  “If the police find a body and ask about it, it may be well for the owner of the property if he can cast the blame on others besides himself. If his records suggest that great pressure was put upon him to commit the act, then perhaps the police may offer him clemency in return for his evidence, or even be disinclined to prosecute since those involved are all of high degree. Read others of the entries again, for in a number where he admits to wrong-doing, he also says that he was forced to it by various acquaintances and is sorry for what he did.”

  I picked up the diary and read, and Holmes was right. I was disgusted. “Holmes? You mean that he wrote all this intending to use it should he be found out?”

  My old friend inclined his head in agreement. “I believe he planned to use it, yes,” he said.

  Harrison broke in. “A complete scoundrel. Well, where he has gone he’ll answer to a higher authority than ours. And as for those who yet remain, we have plans. The problem is the woman. The men are accused of committing crimes, and we can endeavor to uncover proof of their complicity. She, however, is accused of committing no crime but adultery.” His cheekbones showed a tinge of red. “The diary is—ah—explicit as to that, but it gives no dates. Her husband could therefore be considered a suspect, I suppose, but there is no suggestion even in the diary that Mr. Goodwinne had any knowledge of his wife’s affair. What am I to do about it? And in any case, my superior will refuse me permission to question the lady, or even approach her.”

  “Then do not,” was all Holmes said.

  Harrison looked at him. “That is your advice?”

  “It is.”

  “Then since it is also certain to be my instruction I’ll obey—
but I don’t like any of it!” Harrison burst out, rocketing to his feet. “Here’s this man; we cannot find out who he really was, and by his own admission he was involved in a number of criminal activities—we even find a body buried in his garden. This diary recounts accomplices and crimes, he is murdered, and can anyone doubt that it was for something he’d done? We have a dozen suspects alone from that diary, all of impeccable lineage, whom Detective Purdon will not permit me to question, as well as a lady whose husband, or even her father had he come by the information, may well have killed her seducer. The man was murdered; I know that he was himself a criminal, but he was also brutally shot dead in his own hallway. It is my job to bring murderers to justice.”

  He stopped abruptly, almost panting in his earnest wrath. “If I may not ask questions of my suspects, what should I do now?”

  “Find Miss Irene Jarvis,” Holmes advised him.

  Harrison sat down abruptly. “We have tried.”

  “Did you tell those you asked that it was regarding a legacy?”

  Harrison shook his head. “My superiors said to say nothing of that. If the amount of the estate were revealed we’d be swamped in claimants and it would cost time and money to disprove the claims.”

  “Wimbledon’s lawyer could do that,” I suggested.

  “He says that he cannot afford to investigate what could be hundreds of claimants. He says that it is our job to discover the man’s birth name and the identity of his heir. If he does investigate bogus claimants, it must be a charge upon the estate and if the heir, once discovered, protests, they could make a claim for costs upon the police. I have no further idea of how I can discover this woman.”