by David Marcum
“Would you like a pint, gentlemen, or anything else to drink?” Mr. Finney ushered us to a large table at the centre of the floor and we sat together. “Gratis, of course. You’re here to help, and I’ll not take a farthing.”
“I’m on duty, so nothing for me,” said Hopkins. “Though Holmes and the doctor can indulge.”
“If I had something now, it may put me to sleep,” I said. “Holmes?”
Holmes shook his head. “I think you might want something for yourself, Mr. Finney. What we have to tell you might be a shock.”
The barkeep paled visibly and sank into the open chair beside Holmes. “It doesn’t serve to drink the profits,” he said in a subdued tone. “You might as well tell me what you must.”
“First, let me begin by assuring you that your daughter is alive.”
“Oh, thank God.” Finney rested his face in his hands.
“But there is more,” my friend continued. In a gentle tone, he revealed the facts of his daughter’s misery, and as he spoke the barkeep’s eyes welled with tears.
“Dear Lord in heaven,” he muttered, when my friend finished. He wiped his eyes with his fingers. “My sweet Melinda. Where is she now?”
“The doctor’s wife is caring for her at my residence. She’s sleeping in the guest room now, I hope. We shall bring her home tomorrow, late in the morning.”
“Why late?”
“She must identify the culprit, and you also may help with that goal. The man who did this worked for Anchor Brewery and would have been here regularly. Do you know anyone that fits that description?”
The elderly man dabbed his eyes once more with a handkerchief. “There are three that I know. Charles Hamming is the nephew of the owner and the salesman who takes my orders. The delivery driver is Paul Somersfield, and then there is Joshua Gable. He’s an odd fellow, a bookkeeper for the brewery, and he comes here frequently after he leaves work. He doesn’t say much, but he has a queer look in his eyes.”
“Are any of these fellows clean-shaven?” I asked.
“Clean-shaven? Yes, Gable is clean shaven. The other two have moustaches, and Hamming has a beard after a fashion.”
“After a fashion?” I asked.
“He’s been trying to grow one, it seems. It’s not filled in.”
“This has been a helpful interview, Mr. Finney,” said my friend, rising from his chair. “Let’s leave you to your rest, confident that your daughter will be returned to you tomorrow.”
“Thank you, gentlemen,” Mr. Finney said, shaking our hands. “Thank you so very much.”
As Holmes and Hopkins stepped outside, I paused a moment with Mr. Finney. “Sir,” I said, “Your daughter will have great difficulty returning to your pub, I think. It is where she was taken, and the memories of her experience will be quite raw. Does she have anywhere she can go to stay for a time to calm her nerves? Somewhere in the country perhaps?”
Mr. Finney nodded. “I have a sister in Yorkshire. I’m sure she’d be happy to have Melinda to stay with her for a while.”
“Excellent,” I shook his hand once more. “And if there’s anything I can do to help in anyway afterward, pray, let me know.”
When we arrived at Baker Street, Holmes, Hopkins, and I found Mary in Holmes’s sitting room, sleeping in the chair by the fire. I touched her shoulder and she woke with a start. “Oh! You’ve returned. I am sorry. I tried to stay awake.”
“Do not apologize, dear,” I said. “Is Miss Finney in bed?”
“Yes. She’s clean and her wounds are bandaged. The maid gave her one of her nightgowns and put her in your old room. I stayed with her until she fell asleep.”
“I think sleep is a fine idea for all of us,” I said. “I don’t believe we can do much more until morning. Or, rather, later this morning.”
“I’d rather not leave her, though. The maid said there was a room downstairs where I might sleep, but I wanted to wait until you came back before I went to lie down.”
“I hope you would both stay if you can,” said Holmes. “Tomorrow morning may be a trial for her, and your presence would be a great help to me.”
“That room will accommodate both of us, as I recall,” I said. “I’ll send a boy over to our flat gather some clean collars for me and some things for you as well, Mary.”
“Hopkins,” Holmes turned to the inspector. “Those three men can be collected when they report for work in the morning. Do you think you could bring them here?”
Hopkins shrugged. “We’ve done it before, so I cannot see why not. With some good constables with me, I believe we can have them here around ten o’clock.”
“Then you should all go get some much needed sleep. I will stay up a bit longer and smoke-” He paused. “A cigarette or two.”
I smiled. “Very well, then. Good night, Holmes.”
The next morning, I awoke at eight o’clock. Mary had already risen, dressed, and gone to look after Miss Finney. I washed and dressed quickly, and, upon entering Holmes’s sitting room, discovered a breakfast laid out for us. Holmes, Miss Finney and Mary were already seated at the table. One of the windows, I noticed, was opened slightly, allowing a fresh morning breeze to billow the curtains.
“The maid has anticipated our needs, Watson,” Holmes said. “Come join us.”
I did as he suggested, and we ate together in silence for a few moments, until Holmes said, “Miss Finney, there is something I must tell you.”
She looked up at him, her right eye more a vivid blue in contrast to the grey-blue bruise that surrounded it. “What is it, Mr. Holmes?”
He placed his napkin and looked around at all of us. “This morning, Inspector Hopkins will be bringing three men here, one of whom is most likely your assailant.”
Miss Finney set her fork down on her plate with a clink. “Oh.”
“Do not fret, dear lady. I will not ask you to face him. However, if you desire justice, you must identify him for the police.”
She shook her head. “But I did not see him.”
“You heard his voice. Therefore, I will interview the men in this room. You will listen to the conversation from my bedroom, which is adjacent to this one.” Her eyes widened at the suggestion of being in his bedroom, but he held up his hand. “Mrs. Watson will stay with you, will you not, Mrs. Watson?”
“Of course,” Mary said.
“There, on my chemistry table, you will see that I have an Edison light bulb in a lamp stand. I have attached it to a switch that I’ll give to you. When you hear a voice you recognize, you will flip the switch to signal to me.”
“Will they not see the light go on?” Miss Finney asked.
“They may, but that need not concern you.”
Miss Finney looked to Mary, who, in turn, placed her hand gently on her arm. Miss Finney straightened her shoulders and turned back to my friend.
“I can do it,” said Miss Finney. “I will do it.”
“Capital. There is only one thing more.” Holmes leaned forward with his elbows on the table and asked in a voice that was most gentle. “Are you certain that there is no particular word or phrase that the man used, nothing he said that stands out in your mind? Anything he said may be of help to us.”
Her delicate lips turned down in a frown. “Patience.”
“Patience?”
“The first morning, just before he left me, he said that. He mocked me by saying ‘patience is a virtue.’ It was horrible... he made it sound as if I wanted...” She covered her mouth and wept once more.
Mary rested her hand on her shoulder. “Mr. Holmes-”
“No more, Miss Finney. I have precisely what I need. Watson, would you escort the ladies next door? I have set some chairs in there so they may be comfortable. I’ll ask the maid to clear these dishes, then I’ll prepare the light
switch.”
I did as he asked, and when I opened the door to his room, I was surprised at the site that met my eyes.
It was tidy to the point of being pristine. Holmes had, no doubt, spent a better part of the night cleaning it. The window was also cracked open like that of the sitting room, allowing in the fresh air. He’d set two padded chairs near the wall where he and I had stood the night before to listen to Mary’s conversation with the young lady. There was also a small side table with a pitcher of cool water and drinking glasses.
“Well, then,” I said. “Here you are, ladies. Is there anything else you think you might like?”
“I may close the window later if there’s a chill, but I think we’re fine for now.”
“I’d recommend a book,” I said. “But reading the detailed lives of criminals might be a bit much.”
“I think we’ll be all right,” Mary said with a smile. “What time do you expect Inspector Hopkins to arrive?”
I glanced at my pocket watch. “Any time now. He said he would be here around ten o’clock.”
“Then we haven’t long to wait.”
Suddenly the door to the closet opened, and Holmes stepped into the room.
“Good Lord, Holmes,” I said. “What... how did you...?”
“I’m sorry, ladies. Watson.” He held up a bit of rubber-coated wire linked to a small black box with a switch. “This is for Miss Finney. I had to pull the connection through.”
“But your closet... what did you do?”
He glanced over his shoulder. “Oh, that. After you married and moved, I knocked a hole in the back of my closet, and another in the sitting room which is covered by those additional drapes. Having a hidden way into my room is useful, especially when one must string wire.” He smiled and placed the box in Miss Finney’s hand. “Simply flip this switch. Watson, let’s you and I go in the other room and test it. We have little time.”
I followed him back to the sitting room. There he stood in the centre of the room and called out, “Miss Finney, flip the switch please.” The lightbulb on Holmes desk lit. “Excellent, you may turn it off now.”
“Will you interview all the suspects at once, Holmes?”
“Of course, Watson. If a man is interviewed alone, his voice isn’t natural. Put him in a conversation with three or more people, and he’ll speak normally. That is what we want. Ah, I believe that is Hopkins’ ring downstairs. Watson, sit over at my table near the lamp, won’t you?”
Holmes then paced back and forth as we heard several men tramping up the stairs. “Come in, Hopkins,” Holmes called out, before the officer’s knuckles had struck the door.
Hopkins entered followed by three men and two constables.
“Sit, gentlemen, please,” Holmes said, gesturing to the chairs at the dining table. “I fear I haven’t much time. I have more pressing matters to attend to today, but I promised the inspector I’d assist him with his case, so let’s get on with it.”
Hopkins raised an eyebrow at Holmes, then turned his gaze to me. I shrugged my shoulders, wondering what this meant.
“Now, gentlemen, you have been asked here by the inspector because a crime has been committed, and we wish to know if you were involved.” Holmes paced around the table, not looking at the suspects. It appeared to me as if he were not interested in them at all. “You sir, are a bookkeeper are you not?”
This question was posed to the man who sat at the end of the table. He was not overly tall, but his eyes were squinting and his mouth turned in an awkward scowl. Clean-shaven and of middle years, he did not meet my friend’s gaze.
“I am. How would you know?”
“I was told one of you was a bookkeeper. You seemed most likely, with the mark of a pen on your thumb and forefinger, ink stain on your cuff, and the wear on your sleeve. You also have indentions from a pair of spectacles which are currently in your breast pocket. Your attitude is also lacks the confidence of a salesman. Therefore you are Joshua Gable. This man here,” he pointed to the bearded young man who sat beside Gable, “has that confidence. You are Charles Hamming, are you not? Nephew of the owner of the Anchor Brewery?”
“I am. But I fail to see - “
“Of course you do. And that means you,” he said to the third, moustached, muscular fellow, “are Paul Somersfield, the delivery driver. Your build belies that line of work.”
“Aye, that’ll be what I do, but I have no idea why I am - “
“You are here because a young woman was abused and assaulted in the brewery basement.”
“Good God,” said the bookkeeper. His scowl softened. “Who would do that?”
“One of you three. All of you have association with the Celtic Knot Pub, and all three of you work at the brewery. It can only be one of you. To be frank, I’d rather one of you simply confess and spare me the agonizing tedium of working it out of you. I swear, Hopkins,” he turned to the inspector suddenly. “Could you have brought me a less interesting case?”
“I... bring it to... you?” Hopkins repeated. He crossed his arms. “What do you - ?”
“I grow tired of having to solve the simplest little problems for Scotland Yard,” Holmes interrupted. “Is there not one that you could puzzle for yourselves? Why must I be the one to labour for you when the answers are always so obvious?”
“Well if the answer is so obvious,” said Hopkins, his voice dropping to a growl, “why don’t you just give it to us now?”
“I think you should be patient,” Holmes snapped in return.
The salesman snickered.
“Why are you laughing?” Holmes said.
“You’re asking him to be patient. You are the one who needs patience.”
“I need what?”
“Patience. You do most of the talking, you cut others off, and do not let them finish. Who do you think you are?”
I felt heat on my left hand. Glancing next to me, I saw that the bulb was lit.
Holmes did not appear to notice. He leaned over Hamming as if examining a bug under a microscope. “Tell me, Hamming. What happened to your cheeks?”
“My cheeks? What do you mean?”
“There are small abrasions on your skin, just above the line of your beard. It looks to me like the skin has been ripped away.”
“I’m not used to shaving above the beard line and I scraped it by accident.”
“No, no, that is not from shaving. That injury happens when one pulls off a fake beard affixed with spirit gum. If you remove it after a short time without solvent, it hurts like the devil. I know what that injury looks like, as I’ve done it to myself a few times. When did you do it? Two, three days ago? It’s not quite healed. Do you see it, Hopkins? I must admit, hiding a real beard under a fake one shows some cleverness, but if you’re going to use a disguise, you might at least learn how to remove it properly.”
As Holmes spoke, the light went on and off several times next to me, then finally remained lit.
“Here now,” said the delivery driver. “What the deuce is wrong with that bulb there?”
Suddenly the door burst open and Miss Finney entered, followed by a rather anxious looking Mary.
“Mr. Holmes, did you not see the light?” Miss Finney cried with some exasperation.
“I did,” Holmes replied. “I was merely confirming your identification.”
Jumping to his feet, Hamming spat a word toward the young lady that I shall not record in this memoir. It was so vulgar that everyone froze with shock.
Everyone save Holmes, however. He sprang forward with a solid right cross that sent teeth and blood shooting from the man’s lips. There was also a loud crack when he connected, and I surmised he’d broken the man’s jaw. Spinning from the force of the blow, Hamming crashed to the floor in an unconscious heap.
Releas
ing a contented sigh, Holmes straightened his jacket, then turned to the women in the doorway.
“I apologize for that, dear ladies. Though I must admit it did give me tremendous satisfaction. I hope it did for you as well, Miss Finney?”
She gave him a slight smile. “It did, indeed.”
“Well, there you are, Hopkins.” He waved at the unmoving lump on the floor as if it were a fly. “Pray, have your men drag this vile refuse from my sitting room.”
“With pleasure,” said Hopkins. “I admit I thought you’d lost your mind for a moment there. All that about bringing you boring cases...”
“It’s often true,” said Holmes said with a smile. “But not in this instance.”
Hopkins gave Holmes a wry grin as he followed his constables and the others out the door.
“Holmes, Mary and I would be happy to take Miss Finney to her father,” I said. “If there’s nothing else you’ll need from us...”
“No, Watson. We are finished here.”
Miss Finney went to my friend and, with a slight hesitation, laid her hand on his forearm. Holmes’s eyes widened slightly at the gesture. He did not shrink away, but remained still at her touch.
“Mr. Holmes, I know that I wasn’t the easiest client for you-”
Holmes shook his head. “It is all right.”
“Yes, but, I want you to know. You’ve helped to restore my faith in men and you have given me hope. Thank you.”
“You are welcome, of course. Be well.”
As we helped Miss Finney into a carriage outside, I heard Holmes’s violin playing a sweet, melancholy melody. From that day, I noticed he seldom made negative references to women or marriage in my presence. I wonder now if seeing Mary’s effectiveness in this case amended his point of view, not only of her but of all women, or if seeing Miss Finney’s strength in her suffering made him less apt to deride them. If it is either, I can only say that he’s has become, and always will be, a better man for it.