by June Thomson
Lestrade arrived about an hour later, more eager to inform us of what he knew, or rather what he did not know, about the remarkable worm than to listen to Holmes.
‘Extraordinary!’ he exclaimed as soon as he set foot inside the room. ‘I have looked up that creature in every book on snakes and reptiles I can lay my hands on and nowhere is it mentioned. It would appear to be unknown to science. Where do you think it came from, Mr Holmes? Some South American jungle or Mexican swamp?’
‘I suggest you try a London park or garden.’
Lestrade stopped short, his mouth open in astonishment.
‘You are not serious?’
‘Indeed I am. Allow me to show you my own specimen, dug up from Mrs Hudson’s flower-border only yesterday.’ Holmes fetched the dish on which the earthworm was lying, adding as the Inspector backed away, ‘There is no need to be alarmed, Lestrade. The creature is perfectly harmless. I myself painted on the markings with Indian ink.’
It was highly gratifying to see Lestrade’s amazement and to hear him stammer, ‘I don’t understand. Why was the creature sent to Persano if it had nothing to do with his death?’
‘It was a cunning ruse to throw us off the scent. The villain behind the plot intended that the police should waste time following up this false clue, thus giving him the opportunity to leave the country.’
Holmes then gave Lestrade a brief summary of what he had learned that afternoon from Señora Persano and his suspicions regarding Gasca, concluding with the words, ‘You must put as many men as you can spare, Lestrade, on checking the hotels. It will not be an easy task, made more difficult by the fact that Gasca speaks good English and will no doubt be travelling on false papers. All that Señora Persano could tell us was that he is a tall, broad-shouldered man with dark, wavy hair, but that latter feature can be easily disguised. However, as he is rich and is used to having servants to wait on him, I suggest he will have at least one companion, possibly two. As for the boy who delivered the package containing the worm, take my advice and do not attempt to trace him. He is no doubt some urchin whom Gasca paid to run the errand and who will be impossible to identify from among the hundreds like him who roam the streets of our capital. In the meantime, we must return at once to Persano’s house and take Alberdi into custody for questioning. It was he, I believe, who was bribed or coerced in some way by Gasca to substitute one packet of drugs for another.’
But we were too late. By the time we reached the house, Juan Alberdi had already fled. The only information we could learn of his departure was from a very embarrassed police constable whom Lestrade had left on duty at the front door and who told us that the manservant had gone out earlier that afternoon, carrying a letter in his hand as if on the way to post it, and had not yet returned.
Lestrade was furious but there was nothing he could do. He had left no instructions that anyone should be prevented from leaving the premises.
‘God knows where he could have gone to,’ the Inspector said gloomily, turning to Holmes.
‘Can’t you guess, Lestrade? The young man was terrified of being accused of causing Persano’s death. I suggest he has gone to seek out Gasca. Find one and you will find the other.’
‘That is easier said than done, Mr Holmes,’ Lestrade replied.
However, he did the best he could under the circumstances, issuing a description of Alberdi together with orders that, if found, he was to be arrested. He also instituted inquiries for Gasca and the missing manservant at all the London hotels.
There was nothing Holmes and I could do to assist this part of the investigation and we returned to Baker Street, where my old friend immediately retired to his bedroom and sought what solace he could find in playing the violin.
I was much concerned about his state of mind. However much my old friend might try to disguise his feelings, he was still deeply affected by Persano’s death and blamed himself for not having contacted the man to suggest a meeting. He was convinced that had he done so, he might have learned of Gasca’s threats and helped to save Persano’s life.
I was afraid that, in his present mood, he might revert to the use of cocaine, a pernicious habit from which I was slowly managing to dissuade him.*
With this fear uppermost in my mind, I called several times at Baker Street over the next two weeks, anxious not only about Holmes’ condition but also about the progress of the case.
Nearly a fortnight was to elapse before there was any fresh information and then, one afternoon towards the end of the month, when I had called yet again at my old lodgings and was sitting with Holmes, who was still in low spirits, in the upstairs room, there came a knock on the door and a constable entered with a note from Inspector Lestrade.
After perusing it, Holmes handed it to me. It read simply: Body found in garden of empty house, 14 Leverstock Avenue, Hampstead. Would be grateful if you could attend and give assistance.
We immediately took a cab and on our arrival were met by Lestrade who conducted us to what at first sight appeared to be a bundle of old clothes, lying under a bush. It had been found, he informed us, earlier that afternoon by the house-agent who had been showing some prospective tenants over the property.
The body was unquestionably that of Juan Alberdi although we identified it less by the features than by the clothing and the gold crucifix about its neck. The method of murder, however, was immediately apparent. A knife of curious workmanship protruded between the shoulder blades, the top of the handle in the form of a small, squat figure of a man with bulging eyeballs and hideously lolling tongue.
‘Mexican,’ Holmes said briefly. ‘An Aztec design. I think we may safely assume that this murder is Gasca’s handiwork. After Alberdi sought him out, Gasca had to kill him. He knew too much.’
Lestrade greeted our news with a sombre expression. ‘At least we have a positive identification,’ he said. ‘There is precious little else to go on.’
It appeared that no one in the neighbouring houses had heard or seen anything suspicious during the previous weeks so there was no evidence as to when the body had been left in the garden, who had brought it there or where the murder had taken place.
As for the Inspector’s inquiries at the hotels, these had been almost as unproductive. There had been several likely candidates who had moved out of their rooms at about the time of Persano’s death: an elderly white-haired invalid with two male attendants, a French gentleman and his son, and two brothers, one tall and both dark-skinned, who had claimed to be Italian.
A watch on all the ports had also yielded nothing. As Lestrade had no detailed descriptions and Gasca and his accomplice or accomplices were, as Holmes had pointed out, doubtless travelling with false papers, he had very little information. It was possible that Gasca was already on the high seas, having embarked at Liverpool or some other port.
Holmes remained in low spirits for several weeks after Persano’s death and the discovery of Alberdi’s body. Indeed, it was not until the arrival one morning, at his lodgings, of a client who heralded his involvement in the curious adventure of the Ramsgate recluse and his encounter with the extraordinary Lady Studberry that he recovered his former ebullience.
As for the case of the remarkable worm, he counted it as one of his failures. Not only had he lost a friend but he had been unable, despite his great deductive powers, to bring Gasca to justice, although he never gave up hope.
As he remarked to me, ‘One day, Watson, I hope to see Gasca standing in an English court of law, charged with the double murder of Isadora Persano and Juan Alberdi.’
In the meantime, he has refused to allow me to publish an account of the inquiry. Nothing I can say has been able to dissuade him from this resolve and I have had to be content with writing out my own narrative of the case, making only a passing reference to it in the chronicles of those adventures of Sherlock Holmes which my old friend has permitted me to place before the public.*
* Mr Sherlock Holmes did indeed take up beekeeping after his retiremen
t to Sussex. (Dr John F. Watson)
* Dr John H. Watson makes this accusation in the opening paragraph of ‘The Adventure of the Greek Interpreter’. (Dr John F. Watson)
* General Porfirio Díaz was created President of Mexico in 1876, after he led a rebellion against Benito Juarez. His dictatorship was finally overthrown in 1911. (Dr John F. Watson)
* The seeds of guarana (Paullinia cupana), a shrub native to South America, contain 5% caffeine, three times more than that found in coffee. The seeds, after roasting and grinding, are mixed with a beverage and drunk as a strong stimulant to promote wakefulness. (Dr John F. Watson)
* There are several references in the published canon to Mr Sherlock Holmes’ regrettable habit of injecting himself with a 7% solution of cocaine. He also on occasions used morphine. (Dr John F. Watson)
* Dr John H. Watson refers to the case in ‘The Problem of Thor Bridge’. (Dr John F. Watson)
THE CASE OF THE EXALTED CLIENT
Although the account of the following adventure cannot be published either in Holmes’ lifetime or mine and may, indeed, never see the light of day, I have nevertheless decided to commit it to paper and to deposit it among my other unpublished records rather than allow it to pass into oblivion, in the hope that in the far distant future some editor of the exploits of my old friend, the great consulting detective, might see fit to print it.
As far as the present situation is concerned, Holmes is quite adamant; the case must not be made public. It is his unshakeable resolve that the confidences of certain persons of exalted rank who have sought his services in private must be preserved at all costs and must not be referred to, even in passing.* I have given Holmes my word on this. Therefore no mention of the inquiry will be found anywhere in the published chronicles.
I must confess, however, that my decision to make my own record of the case is due in part measure to the role I played in it, as well as to the unusual circumstances which surrounded it.
The adventure began at the time after my marriage when, my wife having gone to Sussex to nurse her elderly aunt, I had moved back temporarily to my old lodgings at 221B Baker Street which, in my bachelor days, I had shared with Holmes.
It was one of those foggy mornings in late November when it was almost impossible to see across the street to the houses opposite, while the passing cabs and pedestrians loomed suddenly into sight before vanishing once again into the thick, ochre-coloured mist like so many spectres.
The weather had an adverse effect on Holmes’ spirits. He was in a sombre mood, sent his breakfast away almost untouched and retired to the sofa, where he lay smoking and staring up silently at the ceiling.
Even the arrival of the morning’s post failed to rouse him.
‘You open it, Watson,’ he told me. ‘It is bound to be nothing but bills. It is too much to expect such a wretched day to produce anything of interest.’
The first two were indeed bills, one from his tailor and one from his bookseller, which I propped up on the mantelpiece until he should find the strength of mind to deal with them. But the third was a different matter altogether.
‘It is from a Mrs Mary Woods, requesting an interview,’ I said, opening the envelope and glancing at the sheet of paper it contained.
‘What does she require of me? To find her lost pet dog?’ Holmes inquired in a bored manner.
‘There is no mention of any dog. On the contrary, the lady writes that the matter is of extreme urgency and delicacy.’
I saw a spark of interest show in Holmes’ deep-set eyes but he merely said with the same indifferent air, ‘Be a good fellow and read it out loud to me. I really cannot summon up the energy to bestir myself.’
Having cleared my throat, I did as he requested.
‘“Dear Mr Holmes, I understand you are a gentleman in whom one may place one’s trust. I have a matter of extreme urgency and delicacy which I should be most grateful to discuss with you in complete confidence. I therefore request an interview with you at three o’clock on Tuesday afternoon.” Why, that’s today, Holmes!’ I broke off to exclaim. ‘The letter is signed Mary Woods, Mrs. There is, by the way, no address although it carries yesterday’s date.’
‘And what other deductions have you made about the letter?’ Holmes inquired.
‘Well,’ I began, hesitating a little for, knowing Holmes’ own detective skills, I have never felt confident about putting forward my own opinions. ‘The paper the letter is written on is of an excellent quality; most expensive, I should say, and possibly hand-made. It is strange, therefore, that there is no engraved address at the top of the sheet. More remarkable still, the envelope does not match the writing-paper. It is white and of a much inferior quality.’
‘What do you deduce from that?’
‘That Mrs Woods may have run out of matching envelopes?’
‘Hum!’ Holmes exclaimed in a sceptical tone. ‘But pray go on, Watson. What can you tell me about the lady’s handwriting?’
‘The style is distinctive, educated and well formed on the whole although there is an irregularity in some places which suggests the writer was under considerable emotional strain. This is particularly evident in the signature.’
Without speaking, Holmes held out a languid hand and I passed the letter to him to read, eagerly waiting to hear how far my own deductions were correct. I was gratified to see that, after only a few seconds’ perusal, he sat up, suddenly alert, his aquiline features assuming an expression of keen attention.
‘You are quite right about the quality of the paper,’ he remarked. ‘It is indeed hand-made and is sold exclusively by Threadwell and Barnet, the Bond Street stationers. I have spent several years studying different types of paper, both their manufacture and their chemical and organic components, with the idea of writing a monograph on the subject. As for the absence of an address at the top, that is easily accounted for. Our correspondent has been careful to use a plain continuation sheet which carries no engraved heading. You are also correct, my dear fellow, in discerning that the handwriting shows signs of stress although you failed to notice that it is a young woman’s. Take my word for it. I have also made a study of handwriting styles and how they relate to the correspondent’s age. But you were wrong on two particular points.’
‘Was I, Holmes?’ I asked, a little crestfallen. ‘What were they?’
‘Firstly, the envelope. It is highly unlikely that a young lady who can afford such expensive writing-paper should be forced to use an inferior envelope merely because, as you suggested, she has run out of supplies of any others. It is much more probable that she has chosen the white envelope deliberately because those which matched the paper bore some distinguishing mark such as a family crest or a coat of arms. As for the signature, while it indeed bears signs of stress, it demonstrates something much more interesting – an attempt to cover up her real identity. If you look more closely at it, Watson, you will see that the “y” on the end of “Mary” is almost closed and resembles a letter “g”. I believe that our correspondent, no doubt under emotional strain as you rightly observed, began to write her correct name which is Margaret and then, realising her mistake, left that part of her signature incomplete, hoping it would be read as “Mary”.’
‘So she is really Mrs Margaret Woods?’
‘I doubt that very much. If we accept that her Christian name is false, I think we may safely assume that her surname is also part of a nom de plume. Now from past experience, I have noticed that those who wish to hide their identity under an alias, whether for innocent or guilty purposes, usually choose one which approximates to their real name. It is more easily remembered and saves the embarrassment of hesitation when one is unexpectedly asked to use it or respond to it. Remember Harry Johnson, the notorious confidence-trickster? His aliases were Sir Henry St John-Smythe, Lieutenant-Colonel Jonathan Harrison and Jan Henrikson, the South African diamond millionaire. But to return to our correspondent who signs herself as Mrs Mary Woods. Woods, Watson! Mark that fact. Mar
k also the other deductions I have drawn from the letter, including her real Christian name, Margaret, the expensive quality of the paper, the handwriting style, the lack of address at the top of the letter and the use of the plain white envelope. Taken all together, I think we may safely assume that our prospective client is a young, wealthy and titled lady whose correct name, address and coat of arms would immediately identify her.’
Seeing by my puzzled expression that I had not yet grasped the significance of his remarks, he leaned forward and, taking down from the bookcase volume ‘W’ in his encyclopedia of reference, he turned to a page before silently handing the book to me.
The entry read:
Welbourne, Duchess of; Margaret Elizabeth Helena, formerly Lady Margaret Desbois, only daughter of Sir Hugo Desbois of Parkwood, Surrey. Presented at Court in 1885. Married in 1887 to George Henry Lancelot, seventh Duke. Well-known society beauty and hostess; also patroness of many charities including: The League for the Reclamation of Fallen Women, the Orphans’ Benevolent Society and the Association for the Improved Education of the Labouring Poor. Addresses: Carlton House Terrace, London; Heywood Hall, Norfolk; Drumlochlie Castle, Scotland.
‘Good Lord, Holmes!’
‘Exactly,’ said he. ‘You now see, I assume, the significance of the surname “Woods”?’
‘Yes, of course. But why should the Duchess of Welbourne wish to consult you under conditions of such secrecy?’
‘Is not that obvious, my dear fellow? The matter of extreme urgency and delicacy to which she refers in her letter can only involve some indiscreet action on her part. If it were merely the theft of her jewels, she would not describe it in those terms. I strongly suspect that she has been indulging in some romantic liaison and is now being blackmailed.’