Sherlock Holmes Never Dies - Collection Three: New Sherlock Holmes Mysteries - Second Edition (Boxed Sets Book 3)

by Craig Stephen Copland

  The climax occurred when the Crown asked him outright if he had been a virgin before meeting the seductive, shameless Lady St. Simon. In an anguished tone, he answered, “Yes!” and then buried his face one more time in his hands and sobbed. He and the Crown agreed that his life was ruined, his reputation forever destroyed, and his prospects for marriage disastrously compromised. It occurred to me that with a little effort I might be able to find somewhere close to one million eligible young women in Britain who would, upon promise of marriage, coming running and panting and offer to heal his poor broken heart.

  The Lady’s barrister, a capable and expensive chap, challenged this account and, with some help from Sherlock Holmes, produced a note written by the young Lord and addressed to his friend. It was read out in court and ran:

  Oh, my dear Cyril: I have just spent a week in heaven with an angel. The Lady has now vanished, but I am still in ecstasy. Cannot wait to tell you all the delectable details. It was beyond bliss. I can only hope that someday you find one for yourself, or even one that we can share.

  Your licentious friend, Danny.

  He acknowledged that he had indeed written the note, but it had little effect on the cumulated hatred now directed to Lady St. Simon. The die had been cast. Compared to her, Lady Macbeth could have passed for the Virgin Mary.

  Her defense advocates brought forward a string of maids, bell boys and others in service who testified that her husband, Lord St. Simon, had for years been famous for his endless infidelities in hotels throughout London. His doing so was not challenged by the Crown as they knew, as did the general public, that there were some things to which men, by reasons of scientific evolutionary biology, were inescapably disposed, whereas women had been endowed both by Providence and the evolution of the species with a greater portion of self-control, and it was only those who chose to be slatternly and lascivious who conducted themselves like men.

  All of these witnesses were, of course, only preliminary acts leading up to the culmination of the trial during which the Crown would offer up the eyewitness who would testify that he had seen Lady St. Simon descending from the balcony of hotel immediately following the sound of the gunshots that ended the life of His Lordship. The gardener, a Mr. Tom Rugglesworth of Brixton, was eagerly awaited by the press. The Evening Star had already run a story under the title of This Is What He Might Say and given a fictional record of the questions and testimony that would most likely take place.

  The Defense, on the other hand, would produce the wealthy American gentleman, now identified as a Mr. Alfred Brierly, a plantation owner from Mobile, Alabama, who would confirm under oath that during the time when Lord St. Simon was being murdered, Lady St. Simon was amorously occupied and, therefore, could not possibly have committed the crime. Again, the press had a field day, and already aspersions had been cast upon the reliability of the witness for various reasons, all of which could be summed up by the fact that he was, after all, an American.

  The first thunderbolt to hit struck the Defense. Mr. Brierly ignored the subpoena and boarded a ship bound for America. More specifically, one bound for Los Angeles via Cape Town, Colombo, and Sydney. Even with full cooperation from the authorities on the other side of the pond, it would be years before he could be compelled to return and testify. Lady St. Simon offered to expedite the process by getting her Pa and his gang to track down the varmint and set him straight, but she was overruled by her barrister.

  To make matters worse, during her stay at the Savoy, Lady St. Simon had been too clever by half, and had religiously donned her blonde wig and eyeglasses before leaving the room. As a result, not a single member of the staff or other hotel guest could say that they had seen her on the premises during the morning in question.

  Then fate turned upon the Crown. In contravention of standard trial procedure, they had petitioned to withhold the testimony of their ultimate witness to the end of the trial and had offered a series of excuses for his unavailability. On the last possible day that he could have been called upon, the Crown admitted to the Court that he could not be found. The courtroom resounded with cries and gasps and was abuzz with no end of hypothetical conversations. That evening the true reason for his absence was delivered to Baker Street in the form of a note to Sherlock Holmes from Inspector Lestrade. It ran:

  Come immediately to north end of Regent’s Park; to the section of the Boardwalk adjacent to Penguin Beach. Lestrade.

  “I have been summoned,” said Holmes. “On another occasion I would offer a frivolous excuse merely as a matter of principle in responding to yet another unwelcome demand which calls upon a man either to be bored or to lie, but I fear this is frightfully important. Please, Watson, pull on your ulster. The evening is already beyond chilly.”

  221B Baker is almost next door to the Park and, in less than ten minutes, a cab took us around the Outer Circle to the edge of the London Zoo. We were met there by a bobby carrying a lantern, who led us south along the Boardwalk and to a grove of trees. Lestrade and several others from the Yard were standing there. On the ground in front of them, face down, lay a body.

  “And who,” asked Homes, “might we have here?”

  “Really Holmes, do you have to ask?” replied Lestrade. “It’s our witness. So, take a look and tell me why I should believe that your client was not responsible for this?”

  Holmes borrowed a lantern from one of the police officers, got down on his knees and examined the body. The chap was not young, sixty years or more, of medium build and still a full head of gray hair. He had been wearing the sort of working clothes that one would expect of a gardener who had worked his way up to the staff of one of the most select hotels in London. On the ground not far from his hand was a small revolver. I was no expert, but it looked like a Colt Pocket Pistol; much loved out in the West but not particularly common in England.

  “Are you suggesting Inspector,” said Holmes, “that Lady St. Simon walked out of Holloway at tea time, met up with Mr. Rugglesworth this evening, miles away from his home, and shot him?”

  “Maybe she has friends who did it for her. Or maybe he was so distraught that he did himself in. How about you tell me, Holmes?”

  “Not many men shoot themselves in the back of the head,” said Holmes. “I only recall reading of one who went for his eye socket and all the rest rather unimaginatively aimed for the temple. The presence of the gun near him is no more than an amateurish attempt to make it appear like a suicide.”

  “Agreed, so someone arranged to meet him by the Zoo and shot him?”

  “I think not, sir. When meeting up with someone you intend to kill, the most common approach is to shoot him in the chest, preferably as close to the heart as possible. Murderers are not in the habit of asking the poor bloke to please turn around first. No sir, our gardener was most likely taken from behind and not expecting it. His clothes are all in order and there is no sign on his hands of a struggle.”

  “Right, so he just happened to be walking by the penguins when someone jumps him?”

  “Again,” said Holmes, “I fear not. Head wounds bleed profusely. His hair is all matted and his collar is covered. But there is not a drop on the ground. He was murdered somewhere else and his body dropped here. I suggest that you do a review with the cabbies and ask if two men were dropped off by the zoo, with one supporting the other; a friend that he claimed was drunk and needed a bit of a walk before going back to the missus.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Two things, inspector. First: the man you are looking for is several inches shorter than you. Second: I fear that the Crown’s case of murder has just collapsed and someone, in addition to my client, had an interest in making that happen. If I think of anything else, I shall let you know, sir. Will I see you in the courtroom tomorrow? Ah yes. Good night, Inspector.”

  Chapter Eight

  The Widow’s Moment

  on Stage

  HOLMES WOKE ME UP EARLY the next morning. “Terribly sorry my dear chap, but I could
use your help this morning.”

  I muttered a groggy question as to why.

  “I have to go immediately to the widow of the poor Mr. Rugglesworth and chat with her before the press descends. I acknowledge my lack of tact and consideration in situations wherein I am in a hurry, and in such you truly are much better than I. Could you please join me?”

  I rose and dressed as quickly as I could. Mrs. Hudson gave us some rolls and pieces of fruit to devour, however indelicately, in the cab, and we were on our way to Brixton. By eight o’clock we had arrived at an address on Saltoun Road, in a solidly working-class section of the city.

  “Holmes,” I queried, “it is still rather early. Are you sure Mrs. Rugglesworth will be up and awake?”

  “I am very sure that she has not slept all night and will be in deep distress. We shall speak with her and be on our way as quickly as we can. The family has adult children and I hope that they will be here before noon and able to protect her from the vultures of our English press.”

  A knock on the door brought a very tired looking silver-haired woman to the door. She recognized our names and invited us in, apologizing for the condition of the sitting room and then disappearing into the kitchen to put on a kettle for tea.

  After we had both expressed our condolences, Holmes surprised me with his next statement to the grieving widow.

  “You are no doubt aware that I have been hired by Lady St. Simon and am acting in her interest on this case.”

  “Aye. I read that in the papers,” she replied.

  “My client steadfastly has maintained that she had absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with the murder of her husband, Lord St. Simon.”

  “Aye. I read that too.”

  “She does, however, recognize that the death of your husband is directly related to this dreadful case, and she has instructed me to make sure that your family’s immediate expenses are looked after. A decent funeral is very costly these days and she wishes to look after any expenses you will incur.” He reached into his jacket, pulled out his wallet and extracted a small stack of bills. I hazarded a guess that he gave Mrs. Rugglesworth close to two hundred pounds. The look of relief that spread over the woman’s face touched my heart.

  “Oh, sir. Thank you. You have no idea what a relief that is to my heart. I have been fretting all night about that. I knew that all I can do now for my poor Tom is give him a proper funeral, and we have no money to cover that. I had no idea what I was going to do. Oh, sir, this is a godsend. Please thank the Lady.”

  Holmes continued in the same vein. “Lady St. Simon’s family is not without means, as you know, and she has also directed her solicitor to provide a small pension to you as it is unlikely that whatever you receive from the hotel, as it was only recently opened, will amount to much. You may count on forty pounds each month. This is the name and address of the solicitor who will handle the account.”

  Again, the woman visibly relaxed and sank her body back into her chair.

  “Oh, sir. That is such a load off my mind. I have a little income from my work doing cleaning for some families over in Lambeth, but nowhere near enough to cover the rent and I had no idea where I would be living. I was dreading having to move in with my daughter and be a burden to her for the next twenty years. Oh, sir, you have no idea what this means.”

  “There is one more thing that you most likely have not been worried about yet, but I assure you will become a concern within the next few hours. Here is a notice to post on your front door. It informs the press that all questions are to be directed to the office of this law firm up in Chancery. One of their staff will be available to speak to the reporters on your behalf. You will be free to ignore the pounding on your door and spend time with your children and your neighbors.”

  “Ow, I hadn’t thought of that. I suppose you’re right. I do not know how I can ever thank her Ladyship for being so considerate. From what I have been reading, I would never have guessed that she was inclined that way. Beneath her wild ways, she must have a heart of gold. Do thank her for me.”

  “I will. She is awfully concerned that you will be reading terrible stories in the next few days in the more rabid of our newspapers, accusing her of ordering the death of your husband because he was about to testify against her, and she wants you to know that any such accounts are utterly and completely false.”

  “Oh, why that is not necessary. I already know that. Tom told me as much.”

  Holmes looked a little startled. “You say he told you that, Mrs. Rugglesworth? How could he have known? I fear you have confused me. Could you please explain?”

  “I suppose I could. It’s not all that hard to understand. It began the day that His Lordship was shot at the hotel. Tom comes home and tells me that he saw this woman wearing cowboy boots and a hat like they wear in Texas climbing down the drainpipe and then the tree and escaping. And that he was approached by the police and told that if he would say what he saw in a courtroom, then they would pay him one hundred pounds. Well, I never heard tell of the police paying someone to give testimony before but he has the hundred pounds in his pocket, and Lord knows we needed it so we just took ourselves out that night to the pub and had a round and celebrated our good fortune. Not that it was good for His Lordship, but all the same, his loss was our gain, so to speak. Well then, a few days later Tom starts acting very strange. He’s not smiling anymore and he’s terrible despondent and I keep asking him what’s wrong and he keep saying that it’s nothing but clearly there is. And then the trial starts and it get’s worse. He tells the hotel that he’s sick and cannot come to work. He tells the office of the Crown prosecutor that he’s too sick to testify. He stays home all day and just walks the dog until the poor pooch has her legs worn off her. And then three nights ago we’re having our tea and supper and he looks up at me and there are tears in his eyes and he says, ‘Oh Gooey, I cannot believe what I’ve done.’ So, I ask him what has he done for I can see he is terrible upset, more than I have ever seen him.

  “And he says that he lied to me about the hundred pounds and he is so sorry because it is the only time in forty-five years he has lied to me. And he says, ‘Oh Gooey – that being the name he always called me. It started when we were courting and he bought me some candy, and when he kissed me good night I had candy all over me lips and he sort of stuck to me. So, he started first calling me Gooey Gladys, for that’s my Christian name, and then it became just Gooey and so he’s been calling me that ever since. And I ask him what he lied about. And he says that he lied when he told me it was the police who gave him the hundred quid to testify in court, and it was nothing of the kind. It was another chap altogether who he did not know before, but it wasn’t the police. And I say, well, it makes never no mind who paid you does it? One bloke’s money is as good as the next.

  “Then he begins to cry in front of me which he has never done in forty-five years and I know something is dreadful wrong. He then says that he never saw any woman climbing anywhere, and that he did not even get into the courtyard until six or seven minutes after the shots were heard, and he never saw anyone anywhere. But this chap comes to him and holds out a hundred quid and says that it’s all his, and all he has to do is say he saw this woman with her boots and her hat climbing down and running away. Well now, sir, my Tom was a hard-working man all his life but he had never once had a hundred quid held in front of his nose and offered to him, and he thinks that he’s struck it rich and says yes and takes the money and makes up the story. He thinks that it will all blow over in a few weeks and no one will ever know, and he and I can put some away for our old age, and give a bit to the daughter and her family, and still have enough for a pint at the pub.

  “But now the trial starts and he can see that the Lady St. Simon is charged with the murder of her husband, and that the Crown is expecting him to give his story in court and that if he does, well, he knows that it will send the Lady to the gallows. Not that anyone thinks she is a saint, for she clearly isn’t, but if he swears i
n court that he saw her then she’ll be swinging by her neck within a few weeks. And he looks at me and says ‘What am I going to do, Gooey? I cannot live for the rest of my life having done something so terrible.’ God would never forgive him for that and he would be off to hell when he dies.

  “Well I says to him, I says that there’s only one thing we can do, and that’s give the money back and tell the truth. Mind you we had already spent some of it so I goes to me jar where I had been putting away a few pence a week for a new cradle for me grandson, and Tom goes to his tobacco can where he’s been putting away something for a weekend for us next summer in Brighton, and what with all that, and what we had left of the money he was given, we come up with a hundred. And I ask if he can find the bloke who paid him and he says he has his card and he’s got a big smile on his face and he gives me a hug and a kiss and promises to bring me back a bag of candies and off he goes as happy as a lark.”

  Here she stopped. Her lower lip began to tremble and tears welled up in her eyes. “And that was the last I saw of my Tom.”

  I reached over and put my hands on top of hers. Holmes waited until she had control of herself again and they spoke to her quietly. “Mrs. Rugglesworth, did you tell this information to the police?”