Sherlock Holmes

by David Marcum

  He had Lestrade’s full attention now.

  “Pennyfeather used to stay in this inn,” Holmes continued. “He even left some of his belongings here. The landlord’s brother, Albert Cubby, was released just last week from Pentonville.”

  “And you think this Albert Cubby helped Pennyfeather escape? Well, that makes sense. We thought he must have an accomplice.”

  “Once out of the prison, Pennyfeather needed to get out of the city, but the streets were being carefully watched. This inn is just across the street from Pentonville, so he hid here, but he knew it could not be for long. He remembered something Albert Cubby once told him, that when a person dies in a hotel or inn, the Necropolis Railway comes in the dead of night to remove the body.

  “I believe he intended to pass himself off as a corpse and jump off the train when it got out of London. Once in the countryside, he could easily disappear.”

  “It’s a pretty theory, Mr. Holmes,” Lestrade said, grudgingly. “But that’s all it is: A theory. Where is your proof?”

  “It is a theory that fits all the facts,” Holmes snapped. “Besides, look at the pillow. That bluish stain is greasepaint. Pennyfeather is an actor. I assume he has played the part of the corpse at some time in his career. He put on that makeup to add to the illusion. Albert sent word to the railway that they had a corpse, and Mr. Winkle responded.

  “Unfortunately for them, neither Albert nor Pennyfeather realised they’d need a death certificate. Mr Winkle refused to take the body without proper documentation and the convict drew a weapon. The blood and the pattern on the floor tell the rest of the story. Pennyfeather aimed at the undertaker, but hit Albert instead.”

  “How can he have missed in such a small space?” Lestrade asked.

  “They kept the room in semi-darkness, hoping that would aid their deception. Albert and Winkle were standing very close to one another. Possibly Albert moved at the last moment. Maybe he tried to save Winkle.”

  Lestrade looked around the room. “All the same, even supposing all of this is right, how do you know it was Pennyfeather who fired?”

  “Only Pennyfeather would be wearing greasepaint, do you agree? That means he was in the bed when he fired, which is why the angle of the bullet is so high. If you look behind you, you will see where it is imbedded in the door frame.”

  “So what happened to – what’s his name – the undertaker?” Lestrade said.

  “Mr. Winkle. He had a heart attack and fell backwards over that trunk with his feet resting on top of it. That is why there was no lividity stain on his lower legs and feet. I think he lay there for a time while Pennyfeather decided what to do.”

  “And what did he do?” Lestrade was agog, like a child listening to a fairy tale.

  “Here I can only surmise, but the theory fits the facts. He placed Albert in the coffin. Then he came back up to the room and took Winkle’s shirt, jacket, and coat. The hat, too. The clothes were bloody, but he hoped no one would notice in the dark. The police were looking for a convict, but they’d never suspect an undertaker driving a hearse.”

  “What about the shoes? Winkle was barefoot.”

  “The boots provided by Pentonville might be recognised by a policeman. Pennyfeather stole Winkle’s boots, and then he carried the unfortunate undertaker down to the hearse and probably lay him in the back with the coffin. He headed back towards the Necropolis Railway. Perhaps he was planning on hiding in a coffin, as he had originally planned.”

  “Then why didn’t he?”

  “Again, I can only surmise, but I suspect he couldn’t find the keys to get into the railway building. They were in Winkle’s trouser pocket, but he could have missed them. Or perhaps the thought of spending the night in a coffin surrounded by the dead was too much for him. In any case, he had the hearse and the uniform. All he need do was carry on driving. The hearse is missing from the railway, so we know he kept it.

  “He dumped Winkle’s body under the bridge and kept going. If you send word to your men how he is disguised, you should be able to catch him. And this time, Inspector, the charge is murder.”

  “Right.”

  Now he had the bit between his teeth, there would be no stopping Lestrade. He turned to leave the room and then hesitated. “I appreciate your assistance in this matter, Mr. Holmes. No woman is safe while this devil is on the streets. I, ah, suppose you’ll want to be mentioned in my report.”

  “No need, Inspector. The work is its own reward.”

  Montague Street was serene when Holmes returned. He managed to get to his room without encountering his landlady, and he fell asleep. It was dark when he woke, jerked into consciousness by a hammering on the front door. He glanced at his clock. A few minutes before midnight. Oh dear.

  A moment later, Lestrade came into his room and said, “We’ve caught the blighter, Mr. Holmes, just as you said. But he’s got a woolly tale to tell. Perhaps you’d like to come down to the Yard to hear it?”

  The former actor was all charm. An innocent man, sir. Guilty of nothing but seeking his freedom. God had arranged for the guard to be distracted and he escaped in an instant. As for killing a man . . . Who, sir? Me, sir? Not I, sir.

  Holmes listened to the plausible scoundrel and burst into laughter. “I shall tell you what happened, Mr. Pennyfeather,” he began. “You escaped with the help of your friend Albert. His brother had an inn nearby and you thought it would be a good place to hide for a spell. The landlord was away, but was expected to return. You needed to get out of the city in a hurry.

  “Albert had told you what happened when someone died in the inn: Word was sent to the Necropolis Railway, and they came in the middle of the night to collect the body, very discreet, very quiet.

  “You decided if you could pass yourself off as a corpse, you could hide in a coffin and make your escape from the train on its way to the cemetery. I found the stain of your bluish greasepaint on the pillow in the inn. Albert sent word to the railway, and Mr. Winkle arrived a short while later. He realised you were alive and refused to help you.”

  “He realised nothing,” Pennyfeather said with some hauteur. “I am an accomplished actor, sir. My Mark Antony has reduced grown men to tears. No, it was that fool Albert’s fault. He didn’t know we’d need a death certificate.”

  “Is that why you shot him?” Holmes said.

  “Shot? Albert? Nonsense. He just took off, said he was worried about his mum. I’ve no idea where he went. As for that old undertaker chap, well, he just fell down stone dead.”

  “The room is covered with blood,” Lestrade said.

  “It was paint, sir,” said the convict.

  Sherlock Holmes stared at the actor in astonishment. Then he burst out laughing. “Oh, it will not do,” he cried.

  “I think it will do perfectly well,” Pennyfeather said. “There’s no body, is there? The hearse was empty when the coppers found me. No Albert.” He chuckled. “As you know, I am an actor. I was applying my makeup in the inn, just as you said, and the box of paints got upended.”

  “How do you explain the bullet in the wall?”

  “Could have been there for years.”

  “What do you make of it, Mr. Holmes?” Lestrade said after they left the cell.

  “A lie. A cunning lie.” He scratched his chin. “No sign of Albert Cubby’s body? Pennyfeather could have dumped him anywhere.”

  “It’s going to be hard to prove a case for murder without a body, Mr. Holmes. He’s artful on the stand, very plausible. That’s why we couldn’t get a hanging conviction last time.”

  “The blood in the room should suffice – as long as we can prove it is not paint, as he says. It is now almost twenty-four hours old – the Guiacum Test will be useless. Hmm . . . It may be possible to develop a reagent to identify haemoglobin. Do you have Mr. Winkle’s jacket?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you. I shall do some reading, and then try some experiments in Barts. I shall be in touch, Lestrade.”

  The fol
lowing morning as he prepared to leave, Mrs. Prescott trapped him in the hallway. “Well, now, Mr. Holmes,” she said, “I gave you fair warning. You have one week to find yourself other accommodation.”

  There was no point arguing with her. She returned to the breakfast room and slammed the door behind her. Well, that was that. Holmes flung open the front door and collided with a visitor. It was obvious from her expression that she had heard the exchange.

  “Mrs. Hudson,” he said, “I beg your pardon.”

  “Good morning, Mr. Holmes,” she said. “Perhaps I’ve come at a bad time.”

  “I am sure Mrs. Prescott will be happy to see you. Her quarrel is with me alone.”

  He was about to leave, but she caught his arm. “Perhaps my timing is fortuitous, after all, Mr. Holmes. You see, I came to tell Mrs. Prescott my good news. I have taken a lease on a house in Baker Street and I mean to rent it.”

  He stared at her.

  “You must remember advising me to invest, Mr. Holmes. And since I owe you so much, I should like to offer you first pick of the rooms, if you are interested. At a discounted rate, of course.”

  He arrived at Barts slightly later than he had planned. Stamford came down to the lab and nodded good morning.

  “What’s that you’re working on, Mr. Holmes?” he said.

  “A twofold problem, Doctor. I am trying to develop a chemical reagent that reacts to haemoglobin, even degraded haemoglobin. I should have it by lunchtime and then a very charming villain shall hang. I am also pondering the difficulty of finding comfortable rooms in London at a reasonable price. I have found a rather nice suite, but it is a bit rich for my purse, even with the generous discount I have been offered.”

  “You need someone to go halves with you,” Stamford said. “Perhaps someone who could be a friend as well as a flatmate.”

  Sherlock Holmes chortled. “Ha! Who would want me as a flatmate?”

  APPENDIX

  No. 24 Montague Street:

  A Neglected Stop on the Sherlockian Pilgrimage

  by David Marcum

  Editor’s Note: A slightly different version of this essay appeared in The Baker Street Journal

  Vol. 66, No. 2, Summer 2016

  Sherlock Holmes’s Other London Residence

  Since the Sherlock Holmes stories first gained popularity in the late 1800’s, there has been an ongoing debate as to the true location of 221b Baker Street, the location most clearly associated with Holmes. But there are other residences where he lived as well. One can debate in what county or shire or town he was born and raised, or where in Sussex he spent his retirement years. (I can argue passionately for Hodcombe Farm near Birling Gap, but that is the subject of another essay.) However, there is another definite Holmesian location, as related by the Master himself in the story “The Musgrave Ritual”, and this locality needs to be a prime Sherlockian destination: Montague Street.

  Montague Street

  In explaining to Watson the origin of the artifacts that he has retained in connection to the Musgrave Ritual, Holmes states:

  When I first came up to London I had rooms in Montague Street, just round the corner from the British Museum, and there I waited, filling in my too abundant leisure time by studying all those branches of science which might make me more efficient.

  Here, directly from Holmes’s mouth, is the statement indicating where he lived after moving up to London to learn his craft. From this drop of water, it should not be too difficult to infer the possibility of an Atlantic or a Niagara, and thus narrow down where in Montague Street Holmes resided.

  Montague Street is located immediately east of the British Museum (see map). It is bounded on the north by its intersection with Russell Square, and to the south by Great Russell Street, where the main entrance of the Museum is located.

  Montague Street is in the Bloomsbury section of London, a part of the overall Bedford Estates, which has been in the Russell family since the mid-1660’s. The Russell family was responsible for initially building a large number of the structures in the vicinity, including Covent Garden to the south, which they owned until its sale in 1918. The British Museum took a large area of the Bedford Estate in the mid-1800’s. The remainder of the estate has since been a mixture of residential and business properties, and is currently managed from the Bedford Estate office at 29a Montague Street, where they have been located from the early 1840’s to the present.

  Montague Street is a very short street, and – unlike the numerous possibilities that abound in Baker Street – there are very few choices of which particular entryway could have led to Holmes’s residence in the mid- to late-1870’s, during the time stretching from the events of “The Gloria Scott” in 1874 to when he departed for Baker Street in early 1881. Is there a way to decide which of these buildings is the location of Holmes’s first London residence? Happily, the field work has already been done for us.

  In his book The London of Sherlock Holmes (p.11), Michael Harrison, through his own research of local postal records and Bedford Trust Rate Books, identified the specific house where Holmes resided as “. . . No. 24 Montague Street, Russell Square, a still-standing four-storey house of severely late-Georgian aspect which was incorporated (at the time of Harrison’s writing) into the Lonsdale Hotel some seventy years ago.” He explains that his research also revealed that, “[i]n 1875, Mrs. Holmes took a seven-year lease on No. 24, entering into possession of the eminently respectable house at Michaelmas (29 September) of that same year.” He then goes on to state that “[i]t would be stretching coincidence too far to assume that Mrs. Holmes was not related in some way to young Mr Holmes.”

  No. 24 Montague Street

  The black doorway with a fanlight at the center of the photograph

  Photograph by David Marcum, September 8th, 2016)

  No. 24 Montague Street is confirmed in David Sinclair’s Sherlock Holmes’s London, and also discussed as a possibility in Hot On The Scent by Arthur M. Alexander. In The World of Sherlock Holmes (pp. 86-88), Harrison elaborates on his investigative methods, explaining that he found this information by examining a London Post Office Directory, in which he discovered the entry for Mrs. Holmes and relevant information of address and length of lease. His further researches revealed that, while both the Bedford Estate records and the Bloomsbury rate-books of the time each confirmed the residency of a Mrs. Holmes, neither could provide any further information about her. However, Harrison then contradicted his earlier dating by stating that Mrs. Holmes’s occupancy began during Michaelmas 1877 instead of 1875.

  Sadly, Harrison goes off the rails and into the weeds, so to speak, at this point, theorizing that the Mrs. Holmes in question is actually Sherlock Holmes’s wife. Harrison then elaborates on this idea by a series of “valid” – but not convincing at all – deductions, each building on the shaky ground preceding it to elaborate on his theory.

  In The Game Is Afoot, David Hammer writes that “Thanks to the investigative efforts of Michael Harrison, there is no dispute about the London location of Holmes’s first London address.” Unfortunately, despite Hammer’s statement that Harrison’s efforts had left no dispute about the location of the Montague Street property, Hammer then goes on to dispute it, reiterating in his text that the lease begins in 1877, not 1875, and further writing that the property in question was at No. 26, and not No. 24. This is explained in a footnote, where Hammer refers to personal correspondence between Michael Harrison and publisher Jack Tracy, both now deceased, indicating that Harrison had changed his mind about the Montague Street house number. (Hammer repeats his belief – mistaken, in my opinion – in No. 26 in his later book, “A Deep Game”: The Travelers’ Companion to the London of Sherlock Holmes, 2002).

  I believe that Harrison’s assertion from his books, when he was writing closer to his examination of the source material, is actually the correct one. I am satisfied that Holmes lived at No. 24 Montague Street, and Mrs. Holmes, whomever she was – certainly not Holmes’s wife, but po
ssibly the wife of one of his father’s brothers, perhaps? – took the lease as Harrison originally stated in 1875, not 1877. This still leaves a gap of a year between that time in the summer of 1874 when Holmes realized his true calling during the events of “The Gloria Scott,” and 1875. However, this gap is not as long as the period between 1874 and 1877, the date that Harrison specified in his revised statement of when Mrs. Holmes acquired her lease for No. 24.

  A Permanent Marker

  In September 2013, I was finally able to travel to London, as part of my nearly life-long dream to make a Sherlock Holmes Pilgrimage. One of the most important places on my list of Sherlockian sites to visit – after Baker Street, of course – was Montague Street, since that was definitely specified as a residence of Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

  Currently, No. 24 is part of the Ruskin Hotel, connected to No. 23 beside it. This joined combination of the two buildings no doubt occurred when the property was combined with the Lonsdale Hotel in the early 1900’s, as referred to by Harrison. I went to No. 24 on that 2013 Pilgrimage.

  Following that visit, I contacted both the Bedford Estate and the Sherlock Holmes Society of London about the possibility of some sort of plaque being mounted at No. 24 to commemorate Holmes’s residence there in the late 1870’s. A representative of the Estate told me in September 2014 that: “The matter of placing a Blue Plaque at 24 Montague Street is something, in principle, the Estate would be prepared to support, subject to the exact appearance, wording, and positioning.” The Council of the Sherlock Holmes Society of London also addressed this matter in October 2014, and indicated to me then that “the general opinion is that it’s a nice idea, but something that might be better in a couple of years’ time, when the huge amount of interest in Sherlock Holmes has become less frenetic.”