"So," Moriarty said, turning his gaze toward the corner where Barnett was just rising from his chair. "And what was your impression of the event?"
"Well, Professor," Barnett said, "I think they have you suckered in right good, as we'd say at home. Scotland Yard's been after this bird for a month, and they haven't come anywhere near him. He doesn't seem to leave any clues behind—just corpses. Even Sherlock Holmes has gotten nowhere with his investigation. And you're coming to a very cold trail, which has already been stomped over by every detective, amateur sleuth, and journalist in London. I don't see how you're going to get a handle on it. Tell me, Professor, are you really going to try solving this thing, or did you just agree to look at it to keep your friends happy?"
"I doubt whether these people would stay happy if I failed to get results," Moriarty said. "But it is not quite as hopeless as your analysis would indicate."
"You mean you have some clue as to who the murderer is?" Barnett asked.
"Not at all," Moriarty said. "But I discern seven separate and distinct approaches to the problem. However, that must all be put aside for now. We have an appointment with a baggage car."
EIGHTEEN — RICHARD PLANTAGENET
Don Desperado Walked on the Prado, And there he met his enemy.
— Charles Kingsley
Qunicy Hope was dead. His body, throat gashed open from ear to ear, lay supine on the floor in his consultation room, arms stretched out cruciform, feet, curiously, raised neatly up onto the seat of the leather couch. He was still in his evening dress, just as he had been when he arrived home a half hour before he was found, missing only his hat and shoes.
"I haven't touched a thing, sir, I assure you. Not a thing. I couldn't," Gammidge, the valet, told Mr. Sherlock Holmes. A tall, skinny, stoop-shouldered man whose garb appeared too large for his frame, Gammidge stood right inside the room, hovering by the door, and seemed on the verge of tears. "Everything was exactly like this when I found the master, and no one has entered the room since that moment. I only left long enough to go outside and whistle for a policeman. What a dreadful thing, sir."
"You did right, Gammidge," Holmes said soothingly. "What sort of room is this?" It was a long, rectangular room on the ground floor, to the right of the main entrance of Quincy Hope's large, luxurious house. Across from its paneled door was the comfortable leather couch upon which rested the legs of the corpse, from the black-trousered knees to the black silk-stockinged toes. To the left, a low table and some chairs were by the front windows; to the right, a massive flat desk and chair, flanked by a tall glass-front cabinet and a wooden examination table.
"It's Hope's consultation room, Mr. Holmes," Inspector Les-
trade said. "Mr. Hope would appear to have been some sort of medical man."
"What sort?" Holmes inquired.
"Why, he was—I don't really know," Lestrade said. "Gammidge?"
"I couldn't say, gentlemen," Gammidge told them. "I served only as Mr. Hope's valet. There were several persons who came in during the daytime and aided the master with his medical practice. I really know nothing about it."
"What about the other servants?" Lestrade asked.
"Well, sir, Frazier, the butler, may know more about the master's affairs."
"Right enough. Bring him down here, then. Tell him Scotland Yard wants to talk to him."
Gammidge shrank back slightly. "I'm sorry, sir," he said, with the air of one who knows that whatever happens, it's all his fault, "but Frazier isn't here this evening. He and the other servants have the night off. They have all, I believe, gone home to various relatives."
"All gone, eh?" Lestrade asked, sticking his head forward pugnaciously.
"I believe so, sir," Gammidge said, twisting his hands together nervously as he talked. His eyes darted about the room like a caged bird who thinks that an invisible carnivore has somehow entered his cage. "I'll go and check, if you like."
"What's the matter with you, Gammidge?" Lestrade asked suspiciously. "Something on your mind?"
"No, sir; only ..."
"Yes, yes; only what, Gammidge?"
"Only, Inspector, I'd like to leave this room, if I may. It's making me quite faint, really it is; being in here with the master's body and all. It's not the sort of thing I'm used to, you see, and I've always had a weak constitution."
Lestrade stuck his nose square in front of the poor valet's face, making him inadvertently leap backward. "Are you sure that's all, Gammidge? Are you sure you don't know something more about this? You'd better speak up now, you know; it will save you a lot of trouble later."
Gammidge turned white. "I don't feel so good," he said, and fainted dead away on the floor.
"Very clever, Lestrade," Holmes said sharply. "You've managed to render unconscious the only man who was here while the crime was committed; the only one who might be able to tell us anything of what happened here."
"So you say, Mr. Holmes," Lestrade said, looking down unsympathetically at Gammidge, who lay crumpled on the rug. "I say he's faking; and I say he could probably tell us a good deal of what happened here; and I say it's a most peculiar circumstance that the rest of the servants have the night off, but this here one remains."
"Let us be honest, Lestrade," Holmes said. "You like finding the servants guilty of crimes because you still suffer from an inborn reverence for the upper classes. Every time you hear someone speaking who clips his vowels, you instinctively want to tug your forelock. If the criminal classes would take elocution lessons, Scotland Yard's arrest rate would be cut in half."
"Now, Mr. Holmes, that isn't hardly fair," Lestrade protested, following after the consulting detective as he dropped to his hands and knees and began examining the floor in the murder room with his magnifying lens. "We usually end up arresting the lower orders because most crime comes from the lower orders. Which only makes sense, after all. No call for a duke with an income of a hundred thousand clear every year to cosh someone for his wallet."
"I'll grant you that, Lestrade, but murder knows no social boundaries. Would you turn up those gas mantles on the wall? I need more light."
"Um," Lestrade said, doing as he was bidden. "I don't know what you expect to find, crawling about on the rug."
"Truthfully, Lestrade, I don't know what I expect to find, either. That's why I look."
The valet sat up, looked around for a second, a puzzled expression on his face, and then pushed himself to his feet. "Is there anything further I can do for you gentlemen?" he asked weakly, holding onto the doorframe for support.
Lestrade turned around and advanced on the valet, raising a hectoring finger.
"Why, yes, Gammidge," Sherlock Holmes said, looking up from the rug and cutting Lestrade off as he was about to speak, "I'd appreciate it if you would go up to your master's bedroom and have a look about. See if anything has been disturbed, and especially see if anything seems to be missing."
"Very good, sir," Gammidge said, and he fled up the stairs.
"Bah!" Lestrade said. "You expect something to be missing? What?"
"I expect nothing," Holmes said. "But I would like to know."
"But Holmes, how do you expect to learn anything from what isn't here?"
"What is here," Holmes said, carefully extracting a bit of brown matter from the green rug and inserting it into a small envelope, "is suggestive, but what isn't here is even more suggestive, and I expect, with any luck, to learn a great deal from it."
"What isn't here?" Lestrade looked around, baffled. "What on earth are you talking about, Holmes? What isn't here?"
"The victim's shoes, Lestrade. They are missing. Along with his top hat. I have great hopes for the victim's shoes, although, frankly, I don't expect as much from the hat."
"You think the missing shoes are important?"
"Very!"
Lestrade shrugged. "If you say so, Mr. Holmes. But we'll probably find them under the couch, or in the bedroom."
"I've looked under the couch, Lestrade. And he never got up to the
bedroom."
"Then why send that valet up there?"
"The murderer may have got to the bedroom."
"Oh." Lestrade thought that over. "Nonsense!" he said. "Missing shoes. Missing hat. I'd say that all that shows is that he had a new pair of shoes. The murderer probably took them for himself."
"Could be, Lestrade," Holmes said. "That's good thinking. Only ..."
"Only what, Holmes?" Lestrade asked, looking pleased at the compliment. "Just you ask me. I'll be glad to give you the benefit of my years of professional experience. What's troubling you about this case?"
"Only, Lestrade, if he took Hope's shoes, then what did he do with his own?"
"Well—carried them off with him, I suppose."
"Come now, Lestrade. You think our murderer has developed an acquisitive instinct for his seventh killing? What about all the fine jackets and waistcoats and cravats and assorted men's furnishings at each of the previous victim's abodes?"
"It's just possible the fellow needed a pair of shoes," Lestrade insisted. "Perhaps he suddenly developed a hole in one of his own, or the uppers separated from the lowers. And he didn't leave his own behind because he was afraid of our finding some identifying mark on them."
"So he took them off with him to discard unobtrusively?"
"Right, Mr. Holmes. Like that."
"I don't think so, Lestrade. I think he took the victim's shoes because he wanted the victim's shoes; but not to wear. I think he wanted the shoes themselves, or something concealed in them. But with any luck we may soon find out whether you're right or I'm right. Lestrade, have your men scour the area for ten blocks in every direction. Have them carefully examine gutter drains and dustbins, and any other place of concealment. Instruct them to bring back any article of clothing they find, most especially shoes or parts of shoes."
"Certainly. Mr. Holmes. Whatever shoes they turn out to be, I agree that it will be useful to find them. I'll send to the division station for some large bull's-eye lanterns and put some men right on it."
"Very good. Where is that medical examiner? We've been here half an hour already."
"Dr. Pilschard doesn't like coming out after midnight, Mr. Holmes. We'll have some of our men bring the body in to St. Luke's in a death wagon, and he'll examine it in the morning."
"Is that his standard practice? Well, send somebody after Dr. Pilschard and inform him that I want the body examined in situ, and I want it examined soon. The man gets a two-guinea fee for every body he cuts up; let him do something to earn it!"
Lestrade shook his head. He didn't see what difference a few hours would make, but the commissioners, in their infinite wisdom, had seen fit to put Sherlock Holmes in charge of this investigation, and orders is orders. He left the room and whistled up a pair of his plainclothesmen, and sent them on their way. When he returned to the room, Holmes had reached the victim's head in his crawl across the carpet, and was concentrating his attention on it. It was not an attractive sight, jaws gaping open, eyes staring, lying in a pool of half-clotted blood.
"Help me move the couch, Lestrade," Holmes said, carefully placing the corpse's feet on the floor. "I didn't want to touch the body until the medical examiner had seen it, but time passes and the killer gets farther away. I'll disturb it as little as possible. Let's just take the couch over to the left, along the wall. That's the way. Careful where you step!"
They put the couch down, and Holmes examined the great pool of blood that was now revealed. "As I thought," he said, kneeling and peering through his glass. "The poor man was certainly killed right at this spot. The paucity of blood under and around the head had me worried, considering the depth of the wound. But a slight slope of the floor explains that. It all ran under the couch."
"It certainly did," Lestrade agreed.
There was a disturbance at the front door, and one of the constables stationed outside came in and stopped smartly in front of Inspector Lestrade. "Beg pardon, sir," he said, "but there's a gentleman outside, just pulled up in a carriage, who demands access."
"Ah!" Lestrade said. "Friend of the victim?"
"No, sir," the constable said. "Says he's a friend of the commissioner, sir."
"Is that right?" Lestrade said. "How curious; at one in the morning. Fellow must have a powerful interest. What's his name?"
"He says he's the Count d'Hiver, sir."
Sherlock Holmes looked up from the corpse. "D'Hiver?" he asked. "Show his lordship in, Constable!"
"And just who is 'his lordship'?" Lestrade demanded, as the constable retreated to the front door.
"As it was described to me," Holmes said, "he has a watching brief from the Privy Seal. I'm not sure what that actually signifies, but I assume it covers visiting the scene of the crime."
"He may have a 'watching brief,' " Lestrade said, "but how did he know there was anything to watch? How did he find out about the crime so quickly, and at such an unlikely hour?"
"We shall ask him," Holmes said, getting to his feet. "I myself am curious as to how—and why."
The Count d'Hiver burst through the door with that excess of energy that seems to possess many people who are of less than normal stature. "What's happening here?" he demanded of the empty hall. "Who's in charge? I want to see—Oh, there you are, Holmes. My God! He certainly is dead, whoever he is. Who would have known the human body had so much blood in it?"
"I assume the question is rhetorical, my lord," Holmes said. "Let me introduce Inspector Lestrade, who is in charge of the investigation for Scotland Yard."
"Lestrade," d'Hiver said, nodding slightly. "I have heard the name. You are well thought of."
"Thank you—"
"Which, frankly, I consider astounding: seven corpses and no arrests, barring the idiotic detention of a brace of servants."
"We do our best, my lord, We can't all be Sherlock Holmes," Lestrade said, his face suffusing with the red tint of suppressed anger.
"It seemingly wouldn't be of any great help if you were," d'Hiver commented coldly, fixing his gaze on Holmes. "Well, have you made any progress, Mr. Holmes? Have you found any clues?"
"I have been here only for some thirty minutes, my lord," Holmes said calmly. "The hunt for information—for clues, if you will—is painstaking and time-consuming. Perhaps, if you wish to converse, we had best go out into the entrance 'hall. It is better to disturb the area immediately around the body as little as possible, for fear of destroying possible evidence."
"Destroying evidence?" D'Hiver sniffed. "How can my mere presence in the room destroy any evidence?"
"A hair can be evidence, my lord," Holmes said, rising and stalking into the entrance hall himself, so that d'Hiver was forced to follow. "Or a bit of fluff, or a speck of dirt lying on the carpet. Just by walking over such a minuscule object, you may remove it; or you might inadvertently leave behind a hair or a few grains of dust yourself, thus confusing the real evidence."
D'Hiver stared at Holmes, trying to decide whether the famous consulting detective was serious. "Preposterous," he said uncertainly.
"Not at all, my lord," Holmes assured him. "The smallest trifle can be of the utmost importance, to one trained to observe and practiced in making logical deductions from what he observes. I once cleared up an obscure murder by winding a watch; and another time I descerned a dreadful secret because I noticed the depth to which the parsley had sunk into the butter on a hot day. Then again, I once cleared a man named Estermann of the charge of murdering his wife because of noting something as fragile as a cobweb."
D'Hiver pursed his lips thoughtfully, continuing to glare up at the hawk-nosed consulting detective. "If you can make so much of so little," he said, "why don't you have more on this case? Seven murders so far, Mr. Holmes."
"I am aware of the body count, my lord," Holmes said. "This is only the second opportunity that I have had to arrive in time to try to rescue some of this small detail before it is ground into the dust by hordes of police inspectors, Home Office officials, reporters, curiosi
ty seekers, and cleaning women. I have hopes of developing something from what we find here." Noting Lestrade's frantic signaling from behind. Count d'Hiver's head, Holmes continued, "May I ask how it happens that you are here, my lord?"
"Come now, Holmes, you know of my position and my interest."
"Indeed, my lord," Holmes said. "It is your information that I question. How did you know to come here?"
"Ah!" d'Hiver said. "Now I comprehend. You wonder how I popped up so mysteriously at the opportune moment at the—what do you call it?—scene of the crime. Is that it?"
"Yes, my lord."
"It is not so strange. The commissioner notified the Earl of Arundale when word came in, and Arundale notified me. And here I am. I confess I rather fancied the chance to view the actual site of one of these senseless killings so soon after it happened; but I was not prepared for the appearance of that corpse. It makes death look very unappealing. One would just as soon not see such a thing soon after a meal."
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