Gaslight Grimoire: Fantastic Tales of Sherlock Holmes (26 page)

David J. Johnson: Killed in a flat with a large brass clock.

Ronald A. Pursey: Killed in a small room with the ocean all around.

Robert W. Elliott: Killed out of doors, on a city street.

Jonathan E. Mulchinock: killed in a library not his own.

It may make no difference however I feel compelled to add that each of these gentlemen’s murders occurred quite late at night.

As to the matter of your fee, I have enclosed my father’s address and a note to him explaining how very important this matter is to me. You must understand that there are decisions I am compelled to make but, until I know the truth of these crimes, I lack the information necessary to make such choices. Obviously if I am guilty of five murders such knowledge will affect the future I must select for myself.

Appreciatively yours,

Catherine Drayson

I handed the note back to Holmes. “The Elliott murder was a sensation, of course. Anything so ghastly in such a public place attracts the curious. No doubt she read of it in the papers.”

“As Miss Drayson correctly pointed out, news of the outside world is not permitted within the confines of the asylum,” Holmes reminded me. “Still, what are an institution’s rules against the power of gossip? I’ve no difficulty believing Miss Drayson learned of the unfortunate Mr. Elliot’s murder through the careless whispering of the asylum staff.”

“And the other names on the list?” I asked.

“Aye, there’s the rub,” Holmes said. “Mr. Wolfe was found murdered last week in his home and, before you ask Watson, he was killed in a room overlooking Hammersmith bridge. Like the sensational Elliott murder his death was both bloody and violent. Mr. Wolfe was beaten and repeatedly stabbed. Scotland Yard believes someone attacked him with an unusually large sword, possibly a weapon from the Far East. Unfortunately they did not think to allow me the opportunity to examine the body.”

“Pity,” I remarked.

“Indeed,” Holmes agreed. “David Johnson was murdered in the Charing Cross Hotel. His body was found beneath a large brass clock. Like Mr. Wolfe and Mr. Elliot, Mr. Johnson was cut several times with some manner of large weapon. As neither Mr. Johnson nor Mr. Wolfe’s deaths were as public as Mr. Elliot’s, the newspapers have shown little interest in their cases.”

“Then Miss Drayson’s observations have been correct,” I said. Seeing Holmes’ frown, I quickly amended my statement. “At least, she has been correct three out of five times.”

“I fear her average is better than that Watson,” Holmes admitted. “Mr. Mulchinock has not returned from a trip to the sub-continent. I placed a telegram to the hotel where he was meant to be staying. Although they disavow any knowledge of murder, they assure me the blood in the library has been thoroughly cleaned.”

“Leaving just one, what was the name? Pursey?”

“Departed on a lengthy sea voyage six weeks ago,” Holmes said. “I’ve received no word of his murder, nor have I been able to confirm his well-being. If, as Miss Drayson suggests, the gentleman was killed while at sea we will be obliged to wait before receiving word of it. If we disregard Mr. Pursey, whose status can neither be confirmed nor denied, it appears Miss Drayson is correct in all of her descriptions. Each of the known victims was, in fact, killed during the night. Furthermore, with the possible exception of Mr. Pursey, she has arranged the names in chronological order of their deaths. Mr. Wolfe being the most recent murder and Mr. Mulchinock being the first. Strange, is it not?”

“Very strange,” I agreed.

“Apparently Miss Drayson is being informed of these murders somehow,” Holmes said. “It is possible these deaths are connected. At least three of the deaths were achieved by similar means. Given these circumstances, if we could discover the source by which Miss Drayson learns of the crimes it may well lead us to the perpetrators. Ah, here we are!”

The cab rattled to a stop and Holmes eagerly clambered out. “Where are we Holmes?” I asked as we emerged into the brightness of the day.

“In her time at the asylum Miss Drayson has only received one visitor,” Holmes reminded me. “Likewise there is only one person with whom she has exchanged correspondence.”

“Her father,” I said.

“And we have been invited to discuss the matter of my fee with him,” Holmes said, his face alight with a hunter’s grin. “Many criminals feel an inexplicable compulsion to confess their crimes. Perhaps this father feels his confessions safely hidden in his daughter’s insanity. Let us discover what manner of man this Drayson is.”

Confident the answer to his mystery was close to hand Holmes marched purposefully into the Drayson residence. Sharing Holmes’ enthusiasm I followed but nothing in the man’s home bespoke a murderous nature. Neat and ordered, it seemed a bachelor’s residence although here and there photographs and other mementos gave evidence of a happier past. Photographs of a child and her mother were scattered about, the resemblance to Catherine Drayson obvious in the mother’s attractive features. Other portraits showed young Catherine at various stages of her childhood, telltales of a doting father.

“Mr. Holmes, is it?” Drayson greeted the detective uncertainly. Despite his immaculate apparel, Mr. Drayson appeared a tired, worn man. His was a thin face with a drooping, grey moustache arranged in a permanent frown. The father’s form betrayed the same slenderness as the daughter’s, and soulful brown eyes peered at us from behind round, wire-rimmed glasses.

Holmes quickly explained our business, handing over the note Drayson’s daughter had prepared. Catherine Drayson’s father read the missive carefully and then pulled a checkbook from the drawer of his desk.

“I do not think you fully understand the implications of your daughter’s message sir,” Holmes said as Drayson readied his pen. “You have not inquired if there is any factual basis to the murders your daughter describes. For all intents and purposes she has confessed to a series of monstrous crimes yet you have not requested any further information from us. You seem remarkably trusting sir, perhaps you’ve heard my name before?”

“I have not,” Drayson said, his pen filling in the cheque as he spoke. “To be honest Mr. Holmes, it makes no difference to me if you are what you say you are or a charlatan. As a father I cannot afford to overlook any action that might result in a betterment of my daughter’s condition. In her note she claims you may be able to help her. Your fee Mr. Holmes? Please.”

Holmes stated a figure.

Drayson’s eyebrows rose and the father looked over the top of his spectacles at the detective. “Is that all Mr. Holmes? May I include an incentive, to insure this matter receives your full attention?”

“Unnecessary,” Holmes assured the man. “My professional charges are upon a fixed scale. In any instance, a trail of five murdered men cannot help but attract the attention of one such as I.”

“There have been murders then?” Drayson inquired as he completed the cheque. “As she describes them?”

“Yes,” Holmes answered. “Though how your daughter knows of them is something of a puzzle. Her confinement is such that she should have no knowledge of such brutality. Unless you know some way by which such news might reach her ears?”

“I do not,” Drayson assured Holmes as he handed the detective his payment. “Had Catherine been outside the asylum she would have told me of it and I know of no one there who would speak of such things to her.”

“Yet she possesses more than a passing knowledge of these deaths,” Holmes observed. “I believe someone connected with these murders has spoken to her about them.”

“I don’t understand,” Drayson said without suspicion. “You suspect a member of the staff?”

“No sir,” Holmes said bluntly. “I do not.”

“Oh,” Drayson said, blinking in surprise as the implication of Holmes’ statement became apparent. “As far as I know, I am the only visitor my daughter receives.”

“That is true,” Holmes said with a pointed stubbornness.

“You think I committed these crimes?” Drayson removed his spectacles and cleaned them thoughtfully. “I see the suggestion does not surprise you. Very well, I keep a diary of my appointments and activities. It reaches back several months and the older ones should still be here someplace. My diary should supply a reasonably complete record of my comings and goings. Would that be helpful to you Mr. Holmes? Is there anything else I can provide you with that may prove my innocence?”

Holmes spent the better part of the next two hours interrogating the unfortunate Mr. Drayson about his whereabouts, his daily practices and the sad history of his family. I listened but had nothing to add to the proceedings. To my ear it sounded as if Drayson was exactly as he seemed to be: A man whose life, through no fault of his own, had been marked by tragedy. A father surviving as best he could in the somewhat desperate hope that his daughter’s health might be restored. As we left the Drayson residence I saw Holmes’ scowl had returned.

“Baker Street.” Holmes informed the cabbie curtly. His eyes were distant as he considered the problem before him. As we were dropped before the familiar door of the 221B lodgings Holmes impatiently pushed past me, hurried up the seventeen steps to where his pipes and rough-cut tobacco waited. By the time I had ascended the stairs pungent smoke was already thickening the atmosphere.

For the remainder of the day Holmes smoked his pipes, the great engine of his brain grinding away at the puzzle. As night approached he removed his ash filled pipe, grimaced and exclaimed, “It won’t do Watson, it simply will not do!”

“Perhaps we should return to the asylum,” I suggested. “Interview more of the staff.”

“In case I overlooked something significant!” In another man’s mouth such a statement might sound reasonable. Holmes spat it like a curse. My friend was not accustomed to doubting his own formidable abilities. Holmes shook his head. “No need for that Watson, we still have fresh earth to turn. You recall Miss Drayson mentioned a Mr. Willingham.”

I nodded. “She suggested he would be the next victim but not how we would find him.”

“But she also suggested he might be a close friend of the last victim,” Holmes reminded me. “Mr. Wolfe had a business partner, a Theodore Willingham. An interesting coincidence, isn’t it? I have the address here. We best leave if we are to arrive before nightfall. And Watson—”

“My service revolver,” I finished the thought, already in motion to retrieve the deadly weapon. Holmes allowed himself a small smile as he left to hail a cab.

My old wound ached as we climbed the stairs to Mr. Willingham’s fourth floor lodgings. As I navigated my way upwards it occurred to me that living in the upper reaches of a London residence offered a strange protection. Perhaps Holmes had a formula to calculate the frequency of crimes in proportion to the number of steps between the criminal and his desired felony. At last we stood before the thick oaken door of Mr. Theodore Willingham. I might have hesitated, uncertain as to what welcome we should expect given the improbable tale we carried with us, but Holmes had no such compunction. His determined knock echoed in the cramped confines of the hallway like a series of artillery shots.

The stout door opened fractionally, barely enough to reveal the concerned eye of the occupant. Holmes paused long enough to determine there would be no further introduction unless he initiated it. “My companion and I were hoping to speak to you regarding the unfortunate Mr. Wolfe.”

Curiously, Mr. Willingham’s response to this was to thrust his hand out into the hallway so that Holmes might shake it. The heavy door opened no further. The distrust gleaming in the watching eye did not lessen. Nor did Mr. Willingham offer a single word in way of greeting.

“Of course,” Holmes said, as if the out-thrust hand explained everything. Holmes took the offered hand and shook it briskly and deliberately.

“Thank God,” Willingham welcomed us with a desperate sincerity as he withdrew his hand. Holmes cast a self-satisfied look my way. Bringing a finger to his lips, he warned me to silence. While I did not understand the need for my quiet, I knew Holmes well enough to trust he would explain his odd request when the opportunity presented itself. I nodded as Willingham pulled open the heavy door and hurried us inside.

Our host, Willingham, was a tall man of imposing stature. Haunted eyes in a weather-beaten face looked worriedly up and down the hallway. His wide, dashing moustache and the tuft of beard on his chin put me in mind of an adventurer, like a knight from the tales of chivalry beloved by schoolboys across the Empire. Closer inspection revealed a nervousness, an unshakable fright, such as I had witnessed during my military service. Willingham seemed to me a once dashing figure who was now haunted by his intimacy with the battlefield.

As we stepped into the small apartment I was surprised to see a long sword leaning against the wall beside the doorframe. Should our meeting evolve into something less than cordial the weapon was within easy reach.

Our host held out his trembling hand to me but as I reached for it Holmes interrupted. “The Doctor is with me,” Holmes said. I did not understand what he meant by the comment but Willingham nodded. Pulling back his hand, he crossed the room to an open liquor cabinet.

“Can I offer you gentlemen something to drink?” Willingham said as he reached for a bottle. An empty tumbler waited on a table. Pouring himself a measure of amber liquid, Willingham looked over the table and out a large window.