Sherlock Holmes: and the Mystery of the Broken Window

by william Todd

  “Many men will pay top price these days to lay with a virgin. That, my dear fellow, is my plan.”

  “You scoundrel!”

  “Now, now! Don’t be so critical of me. I’m a businessman. I provide a service that people will pay mightily for. You may not know this but some men are so obscenely obtuse that they believe sleeping with a virgin will cure them of syphilis.”

  “You absolute fiend! You will expose her to the very disease these twisted men are trying to cure!”

  “Oh, not just men.” The snake of a man closed his eyes and a look of grotesque rapture twisted his features. “Have you seen two young ladies tipping the velvet, as they say? Beautiful, simply beautiful.”

  He cocked his pistol. “Now if you don’t mind, I must prepare for a trip across the channel, and I haven’t yet prepared my bags.”

  It was at that point that the grizzly bear of a man Jeffries pounced from the fog and flattened Campbell to the ground.

  An instant later, Lestrade had his revolver to the head of their man.

  With a great sigh of relief, I said, “Let me say gentlemen, that I am very glad you acted when you did, for I fear I would not have had any time to pull my revolver.”

  “We would have jumped him sooner,” said Lestrade, “but when you set him to talking, we decided to see how loose his lips would be, and by George he did wonderfully.”

  As they got the contemptible man to his feet, we heard footfalls upon the boardwalk in the distance. A moment later, Holmes broke through the fog, holding the hand of a young, golden haired girl. She was dressed in a stretched and wrinkled nightgown, and her hair was matted and messed about her head and shoulders. She looked weary, but both she and Holmes carried a smile upon their faces.

  “Gentlemen,” he said to us, “let me introduce you to Fiona Hopkins.”

  8

  Lestrade left Jeffries with his newly acquired charge at the local constabulary and, at Holmes’ request, accompanied us back to the Hopkins’ home.

  Holmes’ features volleyed from jubilant when he looked upon the smiling girl to a darker, more somber cast when he tossed his look to me or Lestrade. Something was still bothering my friend—some unfinished business to this messy, indignant affair. And it seemed that whatever it was, Lestrade was still needed.

  It was nearing one in the morning when we pulled up to the Hopkins home. There was a single light burning in the living room, and a pacing shadow framed in the window. We had barely stepped foot from the cab when Stanley came rushing through the front door and down the walkway.

  Fiona followed suit, and the brother and sister embraced with much exuberance in the moonlit night.

  I even heard a silent sigh of delight escape the lips of Holmes, as he watched the scene in front of him.

  “Thank you, Mr. Holmes!” Stanley cried as he released his embrace. “Thank you a million times over!”

  “Once should suffice, young Mr. Hopkins,” said he.

  Then something happened which I will never erase from my memory. Fiona Hopkins confronted my friend. “I do not believe I have properly thanked you for my rescue. I have little to give but this.” She then pulled on his coat to bend him down, reached upon her tip-toes and gave Sherlock Holmes a kiss on his cheek. “Thank you so very much for saving me from that man.”

  Holmes was silent for so long that I felt compelled to speak on his behalf; but finally, he simply replied, “You’re very welcome, my dear.”

  “Who was the scoundrel who tried to take away my sister?” asked Stanley through pursed lips.

  Fiona spoke up. “It was Mr. Campbell.”

  “The boardwalk photographer?”

  “One and the same,” said Holmes. “He is known by the Yard as Alistair Brumley. He has been impersonating a boardwalk photographer at beaches around the Isle for several years. That is how he finds his victims.”

  “It seems we all owe you a debt of gratitude for getting this man off the streets,” said Lestrade.

  “Unfortunately, our night is not quite finished, which is why I’ve brought you back here with us.”

  Holmes turned to Stanley, “May we inquire of your mother?”

  “Oh, I entirely forgot about mother. We should go inside and wake her. She went to bed early with a terrible headache.”

  “If you would be so kind as to let us arouse her. There are one or two points left that need answered, which only she can furnish.”

  The brother and sister each gave Holmes a queer look, but Stanley acquiesced with a nod of his head.

  “If the two of you would be so kind as to keep Dr. Watson company, I believe that Lestrade and I can have this wrapped up shortly.”

  After a short interlude, the two men returned from the house. Both bore the solemn features of ones with terrible news to impart. It was at this time that Sherlock Holmes, after reaching the climax of joy in reuniting brother and sister, had now to report the death of their mother. The pain of her missing daughter seemed too much to bear upon a weakened heart, and she died in her sleep.

  Although the news seemed almost too much to endure, with interminable resolve both Stanley and his sister vowed to press on with their lives. My last memory of them in those early hours was arm in arm, retreating slowly back to the house with Lestrade, who had stayed behind to help with the deceased.

  9

  It was on the train ride back home that Holmes finally cleared up those many pieces of the puzzle that had so thoroughly escaped my intellect.

  “My dear Watson, it is really a simple matter. On which details do you need enlightened?”

  “For example, how did you know it was the boardwalk photographer?

  “That is an easy one. I didn’t. I only deduced that it might be. I was lucky to have hit it square on with the first swing. Of course, I didn’t know at first that he would end up being one of the premiere child traffickers in the country. That came after some research, once I laid my trap and had a young lad deliver Brumley my note.”

  “Amazing. If I were a betting man, I would have laid my money down on Randolph Kigge or possibly one of the vagrants in the park.”

  “Then, my dear Watson, you would have lost your shirt on that endeavor. Do you not recall Stanley’s description of Kigge the younger? A sickly man is hardly capable of such a physically taxing commission. And, contrary to what young Mr. Hopkins thinks, Fiona is very much favored by the vagrants. The one who had been chased from the garden, Mr. Wilkes, was actually invited in by Fiona so he could eat. Of course, that is not what she told her overprotective but well-meaning brother.”

  “I’m surprised that you even caught Stanley’s mention of the photographer. You seemed rather wrapped up in that photograph at the time.”

  “Eyes and ears, Watson. Eyes and ears. Again, you do not give enough credit to the other senses as they relate to solving a crime.”

  “Yes, well I must admit that my senses aren’t nearly as honed as are yours.”

  “Your senses function every bit as well as mine, Watson. It’s what you do with the information given you.”

  “What about that mysterious spot on the bed sheet?”

  “It was chloroform. There is no mistaking its pungent odour, and it was chloroform which kept the girl silent during her extraction from the home.”

  “Speaking of extraction, did you come to any conclusions as to how she was withdrawn?”

  “Ah, that is why I wanted to speak once again to Mrs. Hopkins.”

  “And with her death, your questions will remain forever unanswered.”

  “Not true, Watson, not true. Even in death she spoke volumes and gave credence to my already formed hypothesis.”

  “And what was that?”

  “That she had taken part in the abduction. And before you offer any rebuttal, let me present these indications to you that you are already aware of but probably have not processed as I have. Did you not see the state of their lodgings? Yet she wore a new, quite elegant apron. What mother would neglect her home,
nay her children, to buy herself a new apron. That told me that she had recently come into some money. And the two photographs of the young Miss Hopkins; photographs are, relatively speaking, expensive accoutrements. The first, when the father was still alive, possibly. The second just taken a month ago? In their current financial state? That, my dear fellow, told me, again, either a recent acquisition of funds for its purchase or the photographer was currying favor by giving Fiona a free photograph. In any event, that slightest of observations set me on the eventual course I endeavored upon, and to a fruitful, if not unexpected, end.”

  “But you saw her situation when we first met her. Not even the best actor could reconstruct her physical state.”

  “Let us examine that state more critically. What was she doing when we entered the kitchen?”

  “She was chopping vegetables.”

  “Do you recall what type of vegetables, in particular?”

  I scratched my head a moment then replied, “I believe she had several varieties at hand.”

  “Correct,” Holmes interjected, “but she had just finished dicing onions. She was not crying over her missing daughter. She was crying because that is what one does when one chops onions.”

  “The sulfuric acid, of course.”

  “And when I inspected the other rooms I observed only one other window from which Ms. Hopkins could have been extricated. Had she not been taken through her broken window, she could only have been taken through her mother’s window.”

  “How did you even know that the girl had not been taken from her own window?”

  “You heard our new friend Cyril Brock say that they found no traces upon the lawn of any intruders. I re-examined the area and came to the same conclusion. He erred in that he did not think of any other avenues of entry and exit other than the broken window, which you and Stanley were both too narrow-minded to release from your mind.”

  “Then how was the abduction completed?”

  “Let me give you a sketch of the events as I see them. During the night before the abduction, Brumley threw the rock through Fiona’s window. He did this to draw attention to that area, knowing that more time investigating her abduction would be spent there and less at other areas of the house. In Cyril Brock’s case, it worked splendidly. The next night, he entered through the mother’s window. If you remember, Watson, the back porch is roofed, and Mrs. Hopkins’ bedroom window is directly above the roof. He climbed a ladder, which was firmly planted on the cobblestone walkway at the back of the house—”

  “Which is why no ladder marks were found.”

  “—entered the mother’s bedroom, made his way to Fiona’s room, rendered her unconscious with the chloroform, and left by that same route.”

  “But why would the mother be complicit in such an enterprise?”

  Sherlock Holmes sighed. “Poverty makes one do things that they, under normal circumstances, would never do.”

  “Do you mean to say that he compensated her for Fiona?”

  “I have seen it before, my dear fellow, and I am afraid that this will not be the last.”

  I shook my head incredulously. “I find it difficult to believe that a mother would hand her child over for any amount of money. Anguish mired her countenance the entire day.”

  “At first, she played along; but I am sure that as the day went on, doubt of—and fear over—her actions began to show upon her face.”

  “What the blazes are you referring to?”

  “What if I were to tell you that Mrs. Hopkins had done it for the good of the girl?”

  “Well, now you are wandering into the realm of fantasy,” I said perturbed at the thought.

  At that, Holmes produced from his pocket a white handkerchief and a folded piece of foolscap folded in half.

  He handed the kerchief to me for examination. “If you would, please smell the cloth but be careful.”

  I did as he asked and immediately withdrew it from my nose. “This is chloroform, there is no doubt about it. Where did you find it?”

  “Over the face of the deceased.”

  “You mean she was murdered?”

  “No, Watson, she took her own life. I would not have come to that conclusion had I not found this, as well, on her night stand.”

  He handed the paper to me.

  “It is written by a woman,” said he. “The shake in her penmanship dictates severe anxiety, which I would assume to be the state of mind of one whose imminent demise was close at hand. Please read it aloud.”

  Sherlock Holmes bowed his head upon his chest, closed his eyes, and put a finger to his lips thoughtfully as I read the note:

  Mr. Holmes,

  If you are indeed as great a detective as Stanley says you are, you will no doubt be the first to find me and my note, which also means that you know some of the circumstances around the disappearance of my beloved daughter Fiona. I hope I do not underestimate you, but I wish to fill you in on what you may not know. My intentions for my daughter were for her to go away to the continent to serve in the household of a wealthy family in Belgium.

  A week ago, I was approached by a gentleman in the park, as I was taking time from my day for a cool walk among the shade of the trees. We struck up a conversation. In the course of events, our family’s circumstances came up, and he relayed to me a possible opportunity for my daughter to escape her current life, but he had to make arrangements to be sure the position had not already been filled.

  Two days later, he called upon me once more when I was alone in the house. Acting as the agent for this family, he was able to offer me one hundred pounds for the girl. He assured me that her life would ease considerably, and she would be well taken care of.

  He was most convincing and seemed sincere, and who would not wish a better life upon their children. After much hesitation, I agreed, and the plan was set.

  Knowing that Stanley would not agree to such an arrangement, this gentleman convinced me to help him stage the abduction, feeling that the events would never draw to a successful conclusion. Stanley would not know that his sister was actually in a better place until such a time as he could overcome his grief. At that time, correspondence could be set up to keep in touch.

  It was folly I now know, and though my intuition seemed to be lacking at the time, it is at its height at present, and it tells me that the man in whom I trusted with my daughter’s life had lied to me.

  I could not live with myself if my daughter could not be found, and if by chance she was, I could never look her in the eye again, due to my inestimable transgression. That is why I have chosen to be my own judge, jury, and executioner.

  Please tell my beloved son and daughter (if able) that it was through a mother’s blind love of her child’s well being that put her in danger, and I am truly sorry. I hope someday that they will find it in their hearts to forgive me to the extent that I could not forgive myself.

  Janice Hopkins

  I stared dumbfounded at Holmes for a length of time before I finally spoke. “Why did you not show this to Stanley and Fiona?”

  Holmes opened his eyes. They seemed to have a clarity that I myself lacked. “Lestrade and I found ourselves with two options: reveal the whole truth to two already severely tried souls, or to reveal only that which was relevant. What purpose would be served in telling these two siblings that their mother made a grave error in judgment? Let them continue their lives with good memories of the woman, not this one stain.”

  “Lestrade agreed to this?”

  “As a personal favor, yes.”

  “Will she not be brought up at the assizes?”

  “Most certainly, but it will be by Brumley’s testimony alone, and no one will believe the supreme abductor of children. You yourself found it impossible to believe that she had anything to do with the crime. What would a jury think?”

  After some silence, as I pondered everything Holmes had relayed, I asked, “What do you think will become of Stanley and Fiona?”

  “They have som
e trying times ahead of them, but I would be remiss if I didn’t think that in the end all will be well. I shall personally make arrangements for them to receive a sum of money to help them along for a time.”

  During the rest of the silent journey back to London, I stole several glances of my friend putting a hand to his once-kissed cheek. With each touch, the smallest of smiles creased his face, as he seemed lost in a bittersweet remembrance. A remembrance that to this day is still unknown to me.

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