Sherlock Holmes

by Lyn McConchie

  Here he passed over the relevant pages. “You will see what he wrote. We do not think he told the truth, as other entries have been proven entirely false. What we need is if you can recall any instance where a time and place can be contradicted. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes,” was all she said as she perused the pages intently, her face showing an increasing blush that soon swept down her throat and neck until all showed scarlet in her disgust and embarrassment. Bravely she read on to the end before her gaze came to meet ours.

  “He lied.” Her voice was composed, but the blush still reddened her face. “You ask if there is any proof, and I can tell you that there may be. As you will have already noted, he was clever. He did not list times or places, nor even a date that may be placed with any surety.” Here she pointed to a page of that dreadful diary.

  “However, see here. I remember that week, and I believe that I can show this entry at least to be utterly false. One moment; I, too, keep diaries, and I shall fetch mine of that period.”

  With that she was gone from the room. We heard her hurrying up the stairs and then her footsteps returning. She held a small, blue, leather-bound diary in one hand, which she laid on a table. After seating herself again, she opened the book.

  11

  Mrs. Goodwinne looked at us, her color rising again. “I will paraphrase from the diary you brought. He wrote that I came to him on a Saturday and spent the majority of the day with him, my husband being away on business all that weekend. Eager for Wimbledon’s attentions, I returned to him the following Sunday and spent the entire morning there, leaving him soon after luncheon to return home.”

  Her look became exultant. “Those two entries at least I can prove to be lies, and in them, if no other, I can prove it so beyond all doubt. This does not rest on my word alone, for I have witnesses. Oh, he was careful, but in this case there was something that he did not know. My husband was indeed away that entire weekend—and so was I, for at the last moment I decided to join him. All my friends knew that I would be home alone that weekend, and while the servants could say otherwise, would anyone believe them? But I joined my husband and we stayed at a hotel whose register will bear our names. And even as we were about to leave and a cab was waiting to take us to the station, I stumbled and fell down the hotel steps.”

  “Ah,” said Holmes, in tones of satisfaction. “You injured an ankle, you called a doctor, and the hotel would remember?”

  “That is so. In fact I sprained my ankle, suffered a number of bruises, and tore the hem of my dress in two places. My husband carried me back inside, a doctor was called, and while he examined me a chambermaid kindly repaired the torn hem.” She held out the open diary. “See, it is all in there. Nor was that all. On my return to town I called my own doctor, and when a friend visited me the following day, I told her of my accident and showed her my bruises.”

  Holmes considered that. “So we have the word of two doctors. They will have noted down the date and time and details of your injuries most meticulously. There will also be the evidence of the hotel manager, the chambermaid, and your friend.” As he spoke he was examining the diary. “I see no indication that this entry has been added to or altered in any way, and the color of the ink agrees with the entry’s age. Yes, that is most satisfactory. Once I have interviewed those involved, I can report to the police that at least two entries concerning you were false, and that leads to the supposition that all were.”

  He stood, and I moved to join him. “Mrs. Goodwinne, please thank your husband for his kindness in allowing us to question you.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Holmes, and you too, Doctor, for your understanding in this matter. I hope it may not be necessary for you to ask others of me again.”

  Holmes looked at her. “I am sorry. We must verify what you have said, and the police may require signed statements, but that need not be bruited about. I am of the opinion that you will hear nothing more of this business unless you should wish to know my solution once the matter is concluded. One thing more; may we have the name of your friend who saw the bruising?”

  “Of course, she lives only down the street from here. She is a Mrs. Jemison.” She smiled. “I think you may have already spoken to her.”

  Holmes was not in the least discomfited. “That is so. We shall call on her now. Thank you, Mrs. Goodwinne, and please make our farewells to your husband.”

  He turned on his heel and headed for the front door, the butler hurrying ahead to open the door for us. Holmes strode down the steps and down the street, with me at his heels.

  “Holmes,” I said thoughtfully. “Why did Wimbledon do that? The entries concerning that lady run for almost a year after her marriage, beginning as soon as they returned from their honeymoon trip abroad. And because one or two entries can be disproved, does that mean that all of them were necessarily false? The police are certain to ask that question.”

  “I never believed them to be true,” my friend said. “I wanted only a specific entry to which I could point and say it was proven to be fictitious; one I can display to the police, since as you say, they will ask that question. Now, let us be about that end.” We came to the Jemison address, ascended the steps, and he plied the knocker vigorously.

  Mrs. Jemison was in, would see us, would answer our questions, and once we had done with them I, too, was satisfied that on this one occasion, if not others, Wimbledon’s diary had been a tissue of lies.

  The lady was graphic once she was aware of the reason behind our questions. “Her bruises,” she winced. “She must have fallen down the entire flight of steps in front of that hotel. Half her left arm was black and blue from elbow to shoulder. She said that she had turned and put her arm up as she landed, so that she had done no real damage to more of her person. Yet despite the terrible bruises, she was out of her bed when I called on her. If that had been me, I’d have taken to my bed for a week.”

  “No,” in reply to my friend’s final question. “I visited her on the Tuesday, the afternoon after her return. They were to have come back on the Sunday afternoon, but Goodwinne would not hear of it, so they stayed another night and came home on Monday, instead. I remember my visit well because I had spent the morning with my Aunt Jane, and that’s an ordeal anyone would recall. It was my aunt’s ninetieth birthday and I took her a card, chocolates, and the latest novel. For my pains all that I received were complaints she had read the novel, and didn’t like that variety of chocolates.”

  She frowned at the memory, then her expression softened. “She did approve my card. Oh well, she is gone now, and despite her being so difficult, she left me a generous share of her estate. I’ll remember her kindly for that.” She turned to us. “But you do see? I could not possibly be mistaken about the date. I don’t know what you’re looking for, but I saw Alice that Tuesday afternoon and she was badly bruised, nor were they old bruises. I have younger brothers and I’ve seen bruises enough; the bruises I saw were no more than around two days old.”

  We thanked her, took our leave, and in the cab home I frowned. “Do we go to that hotel now?”

  Holmes nodded. “In the morning, Watson. We must be sure. I shall ask the staff to sign statements, and we’ll visit the doctor there, too. But the plot thickens, does it not?”

  I agreed. That Wimbledon had made false entries there was no doubt, however, I still could not fathom his motives in doing so, yet it was palpable we could trust nothing he had said. Were even his ledgers truthful, had he indeed cheated those he claimed to have parted from their wealth? Had he really fleeced the young man of whom he had written? My mind reeled. Was even that body in his back garden some sort of lie? Or could it have been someone else? I asked Holmes about the latter.

  “No, Watson, put your mind at rest there. Wimbledon seems not to have considered the possibility of his ever being found out. He buried not only the old man, but also a number of his personal effects.” His look was wry. “None of any value, of course, but personal papers and some other items th
at served to identify him. In addition to which, we found the old man’s doctor, who was able to tell us that as a child his patient had been pushed from a tree. He broke his left leg and right arm. The injuries matched those on the body, and it is unlikely that Wimbledon would have found another man to bury whose details matched those of his victim.”

  He looked amused. “Or do you imagine there to be a line of burials, each with the next body arranged to appear that of the previous victim?”

  I snorted. “You know well that I do not. It is merely that this case is ridiculous. We have diaries that may be supposed never to be seen by anyone else, but despite that, still lie. One murder now appears to be three—if we find no more people whom Wimbledon may have done away with. A man was Benjamin Jarvis, then Melville Warner, then Gerald Barnes Wimbledon. His sister still knows neither that he is dead nor that he left her a great deal of money, and in addition we are charged not to let her hear any of his past. I feel as if I am a puppet dancing on some string for a puppet-master I do not know.”

  “I know, Watson,” my friend said as we pulled up at our door.

  I would have asked what that comment meant but for the hustle and bustle of being met by Mrs. Hudson with the news that our dinner would be upon the table in minutes, and the necessity of having a wash first. By the time we sat down I had forgotten what he said—I would recall it later, but by then I would already know his meaning.

  Dinner was pleasant and once we had eaten I retired. Holmes planned to leave early, as when doesn’t he while on a case, and I wished to be fully rested. We took the train to Portsmouth the next day and registered at the very hotel at which the Goodwinnes had stayed. Holmes managed a look at the register to find that it was a new one, and we were therefore forced to take the manager aside and, once cloistered in his spacious room, entrust him with some of the tale.

  Holmes showed a police card and the man flinched. “I hope there is nothing amiss, gentlemen. I am sure that I do all I can to be within the law.”

  “We have nothing against you or this hotel,” he was assured. “However, in connection with a case of murder we require to see your earlier registers and must question you and a woman, a Grace Tutland, who was a chambermaid here some years ago.”

  The manager looked less distressed. “She is still with us. One moment and I can arrange for these things.” He gave orders and the registers were brought. Holmes rifled through the pages, stopping in three of the volumes to make notes. “That will do,” he said, handing the registers back to the lad who had brought them. “Now, what of the maid?”

  “She’s waiting, sir,” the boy assured him. “She’s in a swither though, not having had anything to do with the police before.”

  I handed him a coin. “Send her in then, and tell her not to be afraid. I’m just a doctor.”

  The woman entered and we ushered the manager out firmly—although he wished to stay—and we turned to Grace. She reminded me of a London sparrow, small, brown of hair and eyes, neat and with a perky look that was, temporarily I was sure, somewhat suppressed. I smiled. “Sit down here.” I pointed to a comfortable chair. She perked up at this and sat with less appearance of apprehension.

  Holmes took over. “Now, this is nothing against you; we merely want to know what you can recall of clients who stayed in your hotel some years ago.” Here he gave the year and month and she nodded.

  “I was there then, yes, sir.”

  “A lady fell on the front steps of the hotel as they were leaving. She sprained her ankle, was badly bruised, and tore the hem of her dress. The manager called a doctor and while they waited for him, you were called. Do you…”

  Before he could continue Grace broke in, so passionate that she forgot her careful accent.

  “That were Mrs. Goodwinne, ’er husband stays here maybe six or seven times a year, him having business at the docks. He’s shares in a couple o’ merchant ships, or so Jimmy the pot-boy says. Come a real cropper she did, poor woman. And that lovely travelling dress, the hem was all tore but I mended it. Time I’d done you couldn’t tell, and she were so nice about it.” She eyed us, brown eyes gleaming angrily. “Gave me a half-sovereign, she did, an’ said ‘thank you,’ just as if I were a friend and not a chambermaid. You ain’t telling me she’s done something to bring the police because I won’t believe it, not if you tell me different and swear on the Bible, I won’t.”

  I soothed her. “No, we believe the lady. We’re just verifying what occurred. I swear to you, we don’t suspect her of doing anything wrong.”

  She subsided, but further careful questioning only brought out other convincing details. At last Holmes caught my gaze. “I think that is all we need. You are right and the lady is innocent. I shall tell her that you have verified everything she said and that you have been her defender.”

  “Well, so I should hope. A nicer lady you’d never hope to meet.” I ushered Grace Tutland from the manager’s room and permitted him to rejoin us. Holmes addressed him.

  “Thank you for your courtesy. You and your staff have been most helpful, and I do assure you that this inquiry is nothing against your hotel. If you will have your doorman call us a cab, we can bespeak the doctor you called that day.”

  The manager’s air of relief as we departed was palpable. We took a cab to the address given us by the hotel manager, and as we travelled Holmes mused. “Doctors, Watson, quite a number of doctors, I wonder….”

  But here we arrived at our destination, where we found the doctor in. He was a man of some age who greeted us calmly and appeared not at all discomposed to be sought out by a fellow doctor and a detective. He willingly discussed the patient’s injuries.

  “Since your associate can show me a police card, and since you yourself are a doctor, I believe I can trust in your discretion. Here is my entry. I was called to the hotel at three in the afternoon on a Sunday.” I noted the date at the head of the page. “I was asked to attend a lady who had slipped on the hotel steps and fallen. Her ankle was wrenched painfully, and she had a number of bruises on her left side. Fortunately they were bruises only and she had not injured that arm or shoulder. I cold-compressed the ankle for an hour and, with the swelling reduced, I then bound it up. I applied arnica to her minor bruises along with a salve of my own to the deeper bruising.” He halted.

  Here we diverged into a brief discussion as to his preparation, the ingredients, and its efficacy, and I openly admired his ability. Holmes cleared his throat quietly and my colleague resumed, his gaze fixed upon me.

  “I noted here the lady’s name and that of her husband. I wrote a letter to be given to her doctor on their return. Here is the copy of that.” I read it and looked up. “They paid before I left; here is a note of the amount in my financial ledger. Have you further questions?”

  “No,” said Holmes. “Thank you, Doctor, that is all.”

  I lingered a minutes to ask if he would mind giving me his receipt for the salve, and he agreed. “As one colleague to another, Dr. Watson.” And lowering his voice. “He may bear a police card without a name, but that is Sherlock Holmes, is it not.” I nodded. “Ah,” he said. “I thought so, for a friend of mine described him to me once.” He was scribbling as he spoke and once done he handed me the piece of paper. “Make sure the ingredients are fresh, and that they are well mixed.”

  I promised that I would and we parted on excellent terms. Once back in the street, Holmes eyed me. “There are times, my dear Watson, when you positively scintillate. I’d never have obtained so much information without you.”

  “No,” I said seriously. “I think he was about to baulk.”

  “So do I. My questions were beginning to outrage him as a doctor, and your intervention was timely. Tell me, Watson, is that preparation of his any good?”

  “I know others that are as good, but with different ingredients,” I told him. “However, it is always good to know of another salve. Should I be in a position where I must concoct something for deep bruising, then it is useful
to have another receipt. I shall make up a sample and try it, and if it works as well as he claims, it may well be useful.”

  I can say that I did make the salve and it was as good as the doctor claimed. Some months later when I was with Holmes in deepest Cornwall, I found that I was out of my usual preparation, and was able to have a local lad fetch me the ingredients for that one. I made it up, and it was of considerable efficacy in treating the deep bruises sustained by a small girl when her father’s gig overturned, and she was thrown out.

  Once we were back at Baker Street I called for a pot of tea, drank two cups of that genial beverage, and studied my friend. “So now we know Wimbledon lied in those specific entries regarding Mrs. Goodwinne, if in no others.”

  “Yes,” my friend agreed. “I shall seek out Purdon tomorrow and tell him that he can omit the lady from further suspicion. Even if she lied and there was an affair with Wimbledon, she has witnesses who prove at least two of his entries to be lies. With that, Purdon cannot risk any attempt to take action against her. Falsus in uno, falsus in omnia, or false in one, false in all would be the verdict, and his own superiors would prevent Purdon from even making the attempt. I particularly noted in the hotel register that the Goodwinnes were written in to stay the Friday and Saturday nights. Further down the page they had been written in again for the Sunday night. That agrees with Mrs. Jemison’s evidence. Apart from Wimbledon’s lies about the lady, I am convinced, and so I have said to Purdon, that the entries on the five men and their syndicate are also untrue.”