by W H Oxley
The journey back to Scotland Yard was slow, with the car creeping through the fog at the pace of a geriatric snail. Peering through the windscreen, Brightwell strained his eyes as they crawled along the Edgware Road, past Marble Arch, down Park Lane and followed the wall around Buckingham Palace onto The Mall. By that time the fog had cleared a little, and he was able to coast along at ten miles an hour for the rest of the way. Hawker uttered not a single word for the entire journey. It had been a long day, and his brain had been stretched to its limit. He was fast asleep…
But as soon as the Wolseley passed under the ornate brick archway into Scotland Yard he awoke with a raging thirst and bellowed at his puffy-eyed companion. ‘Come on Brightwell, shift your hindquarters; if I don’t get a pint soon there’s going to be Hell to pay!’
‘But what about the evidence, sir? The fingerprints on the gun and–’
‘Stuff the evidence! I’ve already solved the case!’
‘If I may make a suggestion, sir, why don’t I deliver it to the fingerprint section, while you go straight to the pub?’
‘Capital idea, I’ll buy you a pint! What’ll it be?’
‘It’s been a long day, sir. I think I’ll settle for a pint of mild and bitter.’
‘Mild and bitter it is! I’ll have it on the bar waiting for you.’ Hawker opened the door and leapt out.
‘One moment, sir! Which pub?’
‘The one we were in at lunchtime! I’m hoping to take down the barmaid’s particulars!’ shouted Hawker as he dashed away.
Brightwell found him sitting gloomily at a table in a far corner, puffing furiously at his pipe. A glance in the direction of the bar told him why: a middle-aged woman bearing a remarkable resemblance to Winston Churchill was pulling pints. Her arms would not have looked out of place on a construction site.
‘Hard luck, sir,’ he said, nodding in the direction of the pint-puller.
‘It’s the war, Brightwell. We all have to make-do in wartime.’
‘I suppose we do, sir, but would you mind if we talked about the case, because try as I might I can’t even start to get my head around this one.’
‘Neither could I until I realised that Purvis had been reading The Problem of Thor Bridge…’
‘But what has it got to do with finding the gun?’
‘Why not read it and find out?’
‘Look, sir, it’s been a long hard day, we’ve been chasing all over London, I’ve just driven here in one of the worst pea-soupers we’ve had in years, I’ve ruined my best suit and Jessie is on night duty. So can’t you make an exception just for once and sum it up without me having to wait to read your report? If I’m going to have to put up with this performance every time you crack a case, I think I’d rather join the army.’
‘Humph, if you do, you’ll soon find out that they will keep you a damned sight more in the dark than I do. However, since you are obviously cursed with the impatience of youth I will throw a little light upon your darkness.’ Hawker picked up his glass and drained it in one gulp. ‘By Jove that’s better! Where was I? Ah, yes, explaining the case of the missing gun … but first a spot of lubrication. Would you be so kind as to go to the bar and purchase a pint of good old English ale?’
Before I begin,’ said Hawker, after he had sampled the beer. ‘What’s the latest on Purvis?’
‘I thought you’d want to know, sir. That’s why I phoned to check while I was over at the Yard. Also, I asked them to keep the amputated arm just in case we need absolute proof of the fingerprints of his right hand.’
‘Crikey! Why didn’t I think of that? Well done, Brightwell, you showed splendid initiative.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘So, what is his condition?’
‘He’s in a coma. All they can do now is keep their fingers crossed. They reckon he’s got a fifty/fifty chance of making it.’
‘The bloody fool!’ Hawker puffed aggressively at his pipe. ‘The poor sod was just too damned clever for his own good.’
‘So it was definitely self-inflicted?’
‘Almost certainly, but of course we won’t have the final proof until the fingerprints have been checked.’
‘So, how did he do it?’
‘He got the idea from The Problem of Thor Bridge. To sum up the story, a woman was accused of killing the wife of a man with whom she had a platonic relationship. The wife was found dead with a bullet in the brain on Thor Bridge. She was lying in the middle of the bridge with a note from the accused woman clutched in her hand. There was no gun anywhere within the vicinity of the dead wife, but a gun of the same calibre was found in the other woman’s wardrobe. Furthermore, one bullet had been fired from it recently.’
‘Pretty damming evidence.’
‘That is exactly what Holmes said when he was called in to prove her innocence.’
‘I take it he succeeded in doing so?’
‘Yes, by proving it was a suicide, and that the dead woman had framed her imagined rival by planting the revolver in her wardrobe.’
‘But how could she do that if she was dead.’
‘She planted another gun identical to the one she used to kill herself with – they didn’t have forensic ballistics in those days.’
‘But what happened to the gun she killed herself with?’
‘That was the problem of Thor Bridge: the missing gun – the same problem we had.’
‘But why was it missing. What became of it?’
‘Initially, Holmes was puzzled by a chip in the stonework of the parapet – remember the damaged violin that so interested me. He could make neither head nor tail of it, but later, in a blinding flash of inspiration he realised what it meant. The wife had tied the gun to one end of a of piece of string and attached a heavy stone to the other – remember the grandfather clock weight – then she hung the stone over water, stood in the middle of the bridge clutching the note from the other woman in her hand and shot herself in the head. The moment she fired the shot, the gun was wrenched out of her hand, whisked over the bridge and disappeared into the water.’
‘It sounds like a good story. I wish I’d read it.’
‘Then why don’t you?’
‘Because you’ve just told me the ending! But at least I’m starting to understand how Purvis did it, though I still don’t quite see how he actually did so. It would have been a comparatively easy matter for the wife to make sure the gun went over the bridge and into the water, but Purvis had to ensure that the gun went through that small vent and down the chimney. And what about all those musical instruments, wouldn’t they have been in the way.’
‘That is where our Mr Purvis showed great ingenuity. Just above the damaged violin I found a rail attached to the ceiling, running parallel to the counter, and an ordinary rolling pin hanging in a wire loop in such a way as to act as a roller. Inside the vent I found another roller adapted for the same purpose. Thus, with two rollers to keep it on course, a weight in the chimney and that wheeled device to guide it along the rail, the gun was almost certain to end up in the fireplace – and even if it didn’t, it would have been out of sight, tangled up in the celestial orchestra. If that had happened, the gun would have been discovered eventually: which is probably why Purvis was so keen to return to work. If the gun was caught up in the musical instruments, he’d only need a few minutes to cut it free before cutting the cord at the vent and releasing the weight. Even if he didn’t have time to remove all the string it wouldn’t really matter too much. Not once the gun and weight were gone.’
‘What about the dead cat. Do you think it had something to do with the case?’
‘Ah yes, the cat! I almost forgot about the body in the bin. It could be just a red herring … or it could mean that Purvis took the precaution of checking just how much damage a pistol shot would do to flesh at close quarters by practising on the cat. He may have got the idea from another of Holmes’s adventures, Black Peter, when Holmes used a pig’s carcass to prove a point.
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nbsp; Whatever the case may be, you have to admit that the whole episode showed great ingenuity, and if our young friend had been just a little bit more fortunate he would not only have avoided military service but been acclaimed as a national hero, whereas now he’ll be pilloried by the press and forced to spend the rest of his life in disgrace and ignominy.’
‘That’s if he lives...’
‘He’d bloody well better!’
‘Oh yes, of course: the vigilante gun…’
‘Exactly! This case is not closed yet, not until we discover who the vigilante is – and the quickest way to find out is to ask Purvis.’
‘Do you think he will talk?’
‘Have no fear on that score. I know the type. He’ll sing like a canary when he realises the game is up.’
‘If he lives…’
‘We live in hope. Meanwhile, let us celebrate a famous victory. What’ll it be, Brightwell, another mild and bitter?’