A Farewell to Baker Street (7 page)

“And what of the trophy now?” I asked; keen to know if Walcott had recovered the stolen item, given that he seemed to know so much about what had occurred.

“No luck there, I'm afraid, Doctor. My hunch is that the Delaney Gang have already melted it down and knocked out a hundred or more counterfeit half-crowns. I'm not so much bothered about that given recent events. You see, four nights ago a more serious crime was committed and it seems the Delaneys had a hand in it.” A further cough followed, after which Walcott drained the last of his whisky. Holmes rose quietly and refilled the glass as our guest then carried on.

“For seven years, we have had a Detective Sergeant by the name of Clive Delamare working for the Birmingham City force. A quiet man in his late-fifties, whom I always saw as a capable and trustworthy officer. I now have reason to believe that his real name was, in fact,
Clive Delaney
and in serving with the City Police he has operated very cleverly to prevent us from dealing effectively with the threats posed by the criminal gang to which he was related. The gang has always managed to stay one step ahead of us, whenever we attempted to investigate their activities or disrupt their counterfeiting operations. Clive Delaney was one of their own and while he has proved to be a diligent officer in bringing to book scores of felons from the city's underworld, he has acted to shield his family from the official exposure they deserve. And yet, on Monday evening, he appears to have been shot by his own gang members in a flagrant and bloody murder on one of Birmingham's main thoroughfares.”

I was intrigued to hear this. “And do you know how and why he was killed, Inspector?” I enquired.

“Well, that's where it begins to get more complicated. Sergeant Delamare, as we knew him, had just finished a long shift a few minutes after ten o'clock that evening. As he stepped outside the main door of the Steelhouse Lane police station, he was approached by three men in long, dark frock coats, one of whom drew a revolver and pointed it directly at him. We have three witnesses to what then occurred. There was some arguing between the gunman and Delamare, although all of the men were clearly trying to keep their voices down and avoid attracting attention. The witnesses said that Delamare was doing most of the remonstrating and did not look to be intimidated by the men. During the exchange, one man was heard to say ‘It's a question of family honour', to which Delamare replied ‘Go to Hell! I'm your father - don't you dare talk to me about honour!'”

“So, a distinct family connection with the gang!” observed my colleague.

“Certainly, Mr Holmes,” wheezed Walcott, pausing for a couple of seconds. “Immediately after that, there was a loud bang - the result of a single shot from the revolver - and Sergeant Delamare collapsed onto the cobbles, having been fatally shot through the chest. The three men then ran off, dodging into a passageway off Steelhouse Lane. Rather fortuitously for us, they could not have picked a worse escape route. It was a narrow lane, at the top end of which were stationed two uniformed constables who had just heard the shot. They tackled the men they came face to face with and during the struggle managed to floor two of them, who were then arrested. One was found to be carrying a revolver. The third man, who had remained at the edge of the affray, managed to escape and is still at large.”

“Were the officers able to get a good look at the third man?” Holmes enquired keenly.

“No. And the two men we arrested have steadfastly refused to say anything about him.” He passed Holmes some photographs of the men in custody. “I thought you might like these. Frank Delaney is the taller of the two, with the distinct jet-black hair.”

This time it was I who quizzed the inspector. “You hinted earlier that there were some complications. So far, it all seems fairly straightforward to me. Sergeant Delamare has been living a double life and is a father to one of the gang. Clearly he has done something in his role as a police officer which has undermined or threatened his family in some way, and the son has attempted to warn him off. Faced with the uncompromising attitude of his father, he has then shot the officer in a fit of rage.”

“Bravo, Watson! A very plausible explanation. And one that I am sure is very close to the truth. But the complication to which the inspector refers is not around
why
the crime was commissioned.”

“That is correct,” chimed Walcott. “One of the men in custody is Thomas Logan, a heavy for the gang, who has made certain distinct noises, no doubt seeking some leniency for himself. He has hinted that Delamare was about to tip us off about the theft of the stolen trophy, as the operation to dispossess the London men of the booty had not been officially authorised by the hierarchy of the Delaney Gang. It seems that the three men were tasked with warning Delamare, but exceeded their brief. Logan has made it plain that he had nothing to do with the shooting and the murder weapon looks to be the gun that his colleague was arrested with.”

“And who is the other man in custody?” I asked.

“His name is Frank Delaney, and Logan has confirmed that he is indeed Clive Delamare's son. The twenty-nine year old was previously unknown to us. He has said only that he arrived in this country from Ireland a month ago. He also said that the gun is his and Logan did not fire it. Until yesterday, I believed we had a rock solid case against the man. Each witness picked him out of the identity parade we held at the Steelhouse Lane station. And all three were certain that he was the man they saw holding and firing the gun.”

“So, how can you possibly doubt that Frank Delaney is the culprit?” I countered, astounded that there could be any degree of uncertainty.

“Well, two things, Doctor; Firstly, the fingerprints on the revolver. I know the science is still rudimentary, but the prints we observed on the handle and trigger of the weapon do not match those of the suspect. His prints are on the gun, but only along the barrel, which suggests that one of the others passed the gun to him and he held it that way before placing it inside his frock coat, where we later recovered it. The other reason I now entertain some doubts, is because of the arrival of this.” He held within his coarse, plump fingers a small white envelope.

“The letter arrived by post yesterday, addressed to me. I was about to pass it to Mr Holmes when you arrived, Dr Watson. I will do so now, and the two of you can make of it what you will. Certainly it is a very ambiguous note, but does make me wonder if we have arrested the right man.”

The letter was handed across to Holmes, who immediately took up his magnifying glass and began to inspect both the envelope and its contents in his usual meticulous fashion. He examined every inch of the document, holding it up to the light at one point and smelling the paper for any trace of evidence that might be discernible. Inspector Walcott looked on incredulously.

When at last Holmes had completed his scrutiny, he passed across to me the typewritten note and its envelope. It read as follows:

My dearest Inspector Walcott,

No doubt you are well immersed in your investigations into the disappearance of the FA Challenge Cup. The case has attracted lots of press attention, so I am used to seeing your face in the newspapers. The fact that you haven't found it is testimony indeed to the efficiency of the counterfeiting empire which a certain criminal family seem to operate with relative impunity in your expanding city. I know this because some of those close to me had a hand in taking the trophy and were duped by the Delaneys, an act that will have continuing repercussions.

Detective Sergeant Clive Delamare had for some time been a close ally of mine and I was happy to pay him handsomely for the titbits of information he was able to pass to me about particular felons or police officers that I might have an interest in, as my associates have begun to extend their operations outside of the capital
. However, the one crucial fact he chose not to share with me was his familial connection to the Delaneys - something, I imagine, you were also unaware of.

In the summer of last year, I discussed with him our plan to steal the football trophy as a gesture to the Birmingham underworld. He realised of course that the robbery would jeopardise the Delaney position. So he took it upon himself to tell his oldest son what we had in mind, imagining that his offspring might then take steps to ensure that the family were seen to be above suspicion and completely blameless of any involvement in the theft. But his son is a chancer, without his father's caution and guile. He saw an opportunity to outfox my colleagues. He underestimated me and the lengths I will now go to, to get even with his kind.

When my associates returned to London, I knew that Clive Delamare had betrayed me. I made contact with him and told him what was to be done
. He was to broker a deal with the Delaneys whereby the trophy would be returned to me and the family would, from that point on, operate under my control. Any divergence from this would result in the wholesale assassination of their leaders. It was then that he confessed to being Clive Delaney, one of three men who effectively controlled the Delaney Gang. He explained that his son had acted without authorisation and would be punished for what he had done. He went on to say that he was in no position to broker the deal I had insisted upon as the family would never agree to it. I am not an unreasonable man, Inspector Walcott. I said that I understood his difficulties and proffered a final solution - to surrender the trophy, kill his son and return to Ireland. It seems that he has been unsuccessful in adhering to my request and his son has, yet again, taken matters into his own hands.

At this point, you may be wondering why I should insist on telling you any of this.
Well, it is just that I believe we can help each other. You see, the son has not only refused to bend to my will, but has also now instigated his own coup d'état and seized control of all the family's affairs. As such, he is my chief rival in the midlands and I want him removed from that position. Something you can do in securing his conviction for murder.

You still have some work to do, however, and I suggest you invite Mr Sherlock Holmes - another of my adversaries, but a much more likeable one - to assist you in carrying out your task. Call it honour among thieves, or some sort of felonious chivalric code, but I will not let it be said that it was me that told you specifically who killed Clive Delaney. That said, you can take the following facts as gospel:

1. Clive Delaney, better known as Sergeant Delamare, was the intended target - unbeknown to his two accomplices, the guilty man fully intended to kill him.

2. The dead man was shot by his own biological son - he had no other children older or younger than twenty-nine years of age.

3. Any eye witnesses you have to the killing can be relied upon - they will have witnessed the death of your sergeant at the hands of his son.

4. The gun used in the attack belonged to Frank Delaney.

5. But the killer was not Frank Delaney.

I trust that this information will speed your endeavours.

Yours very sincerely,

A concerned citizen

I looked up in astonishment when I had finished reading the note. “But this is nonsensical, Holmes. Everything points to Frank Delaney, and yet we are to believe that he is not the killer. If this is written by Edwin Halvergate, it is another of his riddles, further evidence of his flowery poetic notions. He is seeking to make fools of us all.”

“My thoughts exactly,” added Walcott.

“Nonsense! It all seems perfectly clear to me. The answer lies not just in what is written, but what is not written - like those earlier haiku poems, we have to be mindful of inference. And I have a firm plan to finally expose the killer, which will require us to catch a train this very evening.” Holmes glanced at his pocket watch and jumped up with enthusiasm. “We have sufficient time to pack a few essentials and to pick up anything you require from your home on the way, Watson, before catching the 6.30 from Euston to Birmingham New Street. We will rely on Inspector Walcott to recommend a suitable hotel close to the station for our short overnight stay.”

My attempt to voice some opposition to the plan was soon drowned out by the noise of Holmes shouting down the stairs with various requests of Mrs Hudson. Ten minutes later, the three of us were seated in a cab heading towards my home, for a short stop on the way to Euston. I took the opportunity to quiz Holmes once more about the letter.

“How can you be certain the note was written by Edwin Halvergate?”

“Why, who else would be in a position to do so and who else would mention me specifically as an
adversary
?” he retorted. “You know my methods, Watson. I have made it my business to know the minutiae of Edwin Halvergate's life. The tell-tale signs were there. The Seven Dials postmark on the envelope, the stationery purchased from Henry Stone & Son Ltd, the distinctive printing of the Merritt typewriter and the faint whiff of camphor from the hair oil he uses with some vanity to counter his accelerated hair loss.”

“Remarkable, Mr Holmes!” spluttered Inspector Walcott, in awe of my friend's revelations. I had to admit that his case was pretty persuasive. While it may not have stood up in a court of law, it was enough to convince me that Halvergate was indeed the architect of this curious chain of events.

We arrived at Euston with about eight minutes to spare, sufficient time for us to secure a first-class compartment on the train and to avail ourselves of copies of the half-penny
Evening News
. When seated in the carriage, Holmes let out a big sigh and pointed to a headline at the bottom of the front page, which read: ‘
Two bodies recovered from Thames - murder feared
'.