Sherlock Holmes (25 page)

Holmes leapt from his chair
crying “Motiveless? Great heavens! From what we have already heard
from Lestrade, the poor girl’s hands were bound behind her back and
she had received a blow to the head! There must be a motive!”
Holmes paced across our sitting room, clearly enraged. “I cannot
stand idly by, Watson. Gather your hat and coat. We travel to
Bethnal Green mortuary.” I stirred myself and whilst I retrieved my
coat, I noticed Holmes dashing off a telegram before ringing the
bell for Mrs Hudson.

We waited but a minute or so in
Baker Street before we were able to flag down a Hansom. However,
the ride to Bethnal Green mortuary seemed interminable, taking
almost forty-five minutes. The mortuary had opened in 1880 and
contained both the mortuary itself and facilities to undertake
post-mortem examinations. It was a fine building, clad in Portland
stone, and stood within the churchyard of nearby St Matthew’s. The
building style was in keeping with that of the church and indeed it
went some way towards showing a little respect and dignity for the
dead. This was something that was clearly lacking in many of the
mortuaries or ‘dead-houses’ spread across the metropolis.

After a brief walk, Holmes and I
were soon able to seek out the mortuary guardian, a Mr Cyril
Thomas. We had visited the mortuary perhaps two years previously
whilst engaged upon another case. Mr Thomas recognised us
immediately, shaking our hands and saying, “Why, Mr Holmes and Dr
Watson, it is indeed a pleasure to meet you both again. I received
your telegram and all has been prepared. This way, gentlemen, if
you please.”

Mr Thomas led us through a side
door and into the post mortem room. Inside were two marble slabs
that were adequately illuminated by both high windows and also a
double gaslight fitting that was suspended from the ceiling. Upon
one of the slabs was a slight figure covered completely by a once
white cotton sheet. Mr Thomas stood to one side whilst Holmes and I
removed the sheet and we began our examination.

The body of Catherine Ward was
naked except for a mortuary towel that covered her from chest to
mid-thigh. After our brief, though thorough examination, we
respectfully covered her to the neck with the sheet. Holmes turned
towards me, his gloved right forefinger held upright as though
questioning himself. “Tell me, Watson, what are your thoughts?”

I stood for a moment, “Well, I
believe that she was dead before being dropped into the Thames.
When I compressed her chest there was little sign of water in her
lungs. She had not been in the river long before she was found and
I believe that the heavy blow just behind her right ear was the one
that killed her. The skull is gravely depressed and the flesh
heavily bruised. Her wrists show marks from a ligature and in
places the flesh is raw where she seems to have tried in vain to
escape from her bonds. Clearly she was thrown into the Thames as a
convenient way of disposing of her body.”

Holmes nodded. “Yes, I agree…
but did you notice the skin beneath the nails of her right hand?
Clearly she was a spirited girl and had struggled and fought before
her hands had been bound behind her back.” Holmes paused for a
moment… “I also noticed faint chafe marks at the corners of her
lips where some kind of coarse fabric may have been used as a gag.
This implies that wherever she was held prior to her death, it was
somewhere where she might have been heard had she been able to call
out.”

On hearing Holmes’ additional
observations, I returned to the body. Finding the evidence just as
he had described, I cursed myself inwardly for having overlooked
it. Our examination of the body being completed, we thanked Mr
Thomas and made our way through St. Matthew’s churchyard. On
Bethnal Green Road, Holmes hailed a passing Hansom and I was
surprised to hear him direct the cabbie to Waverley Gardens. For a
moment I was puzzled but then recalled that this was the address
given for the victim in the newspaper.

As we travelled in the cab, I
turned and asked, “What do you hope to find there, Holmes?” I was
concerned. Only a few days had passed since Catherine Ward had died
and her family, presuming that she had one, had had little time to
come to terms with their loss.

Holmes looked grim. “It will be
difficult, but I am trying to find some possible motive for her
death. Perhaps she had some knowledge or had seen something…
something so important that if she mentioned it, even in passing,
it might have compromised her killer. She had to be silenced.”

Waverly Gardens was a row of
smart, Victorian red brick houses. The windowsills and the archways
above the front doors and windows were decorated with fine, pale
brick. Each house had a small wall in front, topped with cast-iron
fleur-de-lys railings. A small plaque set into the brickwork over
the front door announced the name of each house. Above the front
door of number fourteen, the plaque read ‘Primrose Villa’.

As we approached the front door
I felt mounting concern. Who would we be facing? A heartbroken
husband? Distraught parents? It was a task that I most certainly
did not relish. Holmes had taken one of his cards from his case and
held it by his side. With his other hand, he knocked upon the door.
After a few moments, the door opened and a haggard looking
middle-aged man stood before us. He was unshaven and his clothes
were creased. It looked as though he had slept in them for several
days.

“Yes?” He asked. I looked at him
and his red rimmed, empty eyes looked first at Holmes and then at
me. It seemed as if he had cried so much that there was but little
left of him.

Holmes touched his hat, saying
“Mr Ward? My name is Sherlock Holmes and this is Dr Watson. We
would like to speak to you about Catherine.” Holmes proffered his
card. The man took it but did not read it.

“Are you from the police?” His
voice had a slight West Country accent… “Only we have told them all
we know…” The end of the sentence trailed off. It was clear to me
that the man was still in shock.

I stepped forwards, saying, “No,
but we are here to help if we can. May we come in?”

The man turned and we dutifully
followed him down the hallway and into a cosy front room. “This is
my wife, Dorothy. Catherine was our only daughter, you see.” On a
chair in the corner of the room sat a woman wrapped in a knitted
shawl, her arms foldeded tightly across her body. Her eyes were as
blank as those of her husband, staring straight ahead as she slowly
rocked back and forth in her chair. Mr Ward looked at us again,
saying, “She hasn’t said a word, not one single word since that
police constable came round and told us that Catherine had been
found in the river.”

Seldom had I seen such sadness.
I felt the need for some slight distraction, asking, “Perhaps some
tea?” I was relieved when Mrs Ward stood and disappeared towards
the back of the house.

Mr Ward looked around him,
almost as though he were seeing the front room for the first time.
“Please, gentlemen, be seated. I am unsure how you might help our
poor Cathy.” Again he looked from one to the other of us.

Holmes sat forwards on his
chair. “I see that this is most difficult for you, Mr Ward, but we
need to know a little more about your daughter; her work for
example, her friends?”

Mr Ward sat and faced Holmes.
“Well, she was a good girl, never any trouble. She worked as a
senior filing clerk at The London Hydraulic Power Company. She had
been there about five years and used to file the big maps of the
pipework, and whatnot, and how they all linked together.” A faint
smile appeared on his face when he said, “Me and the wife used to
tease her. She wasn’t very big and she told us that sometimes she
struggled with the big maps.” We both nodded and let him continue.
“To be honest, sir, I hadn’t realised how big them maps were until
she brought one home about a week ago.”

I saw Holmes stiffen slightly.
“She had worked at the company for five years and had not brought
any work home before?”

“No sir, this was the first
time. I think she wanted to show her young man what she did. I
don’t think they have a similar system in Ireland.”

This time it was my turn to
prick up my ears. I edged forward, saying, “Ireland, you say? It is
a beautiful country. What was Catherine’s young man’s trade?”

Mr Ward scratched his head
before saying, “Well, I’m not rightly sure, sir… I think it was
something to do with plumbing. Cathy said that he was certainly
interested in the pipework on the map that she brought home. Sean
teased her. He said he wanted to see the most expensive and
important map that they had and, by heavens, she brought it! You
will never guess where it was of!”

“Westminster,” said Sherlock in
a quiet voice.

Mr Ward looked completely
shocked. “Heavens, sir, how did you guess?” He leaned backwards in
his chair and just sat there, open-mouthed in wonderment.

Holmes’ eyes now burned. “When
did your daughter meet this err… this err Sean, was it? Mr
Ward?”

Ward rubbed his chin and said,
“Yes, sir, Sean O’Bryan. Well, it must have been about November
time. Cathy lost her purse on the underground railway and this
handsome young Irish lad found it on the carriage floor. She was so
grateful to have it returned that, when he asked if he might see
her again, she agreed to meet him for a cup of tea at a Lyon’s
Corner House. I suppose their friendship started from there.”

Holmes now looked gravely
concerned. “Tell me, Mr Ward, have you had any word from this Sean
O’Bryan since Catherine’s death?”

Ward furrowed his brow. “No sir,
it’s strange for he would usually call round two or three times a
week. Perhaps he too is grieving.”

Holmes looked towards me, raised
an eyebrow and inclined his head slightly. Rising to our feet,
Holmes edged towards the door, saying, “Thank you, Mr Ward, you
have been most helpful. Come along, Watson.”

As we reached the front door,
Mrs Ward could be seen approaching down the hallway with a tray of
teacups. With a touch of my hat and a half whispered “Sorry,” we
left the Wards house.

As we left Waverly Gardens,
Holmes was walking slightly ahead of me and I could hear him
raging: “Damn them to hell!” he cried. “These people, Watson! These
people who manipulate the emotions of innocents to achieve their
wickedness. An innocent young girl, her purse stolen and then
tricked into believing it had been found by the thief, simply to
make her acquaintance. Her family accepting this murdering villain
and then to be so grievously deceived.” I placed my hand on Holmes’
arm but he shook it away angrily. “Once these people had got what
they wanted, they killed the girl to protect their own worthless
skins. She is tossed into the Thames like so much detritus!
Wickedness, Watson! Pure and simple!”

Holmes’ anger did little to
subside during our cab ride back to Baker Street. He was in no mood
to talk and did not touch his dinner. I picked at mine but in
truth, I had no appetite. I rang the bell for Mrs Hudson and, on
seeing our two plates, she raised her eyes to heaven before
disappearing downstairs with her tray.

The following morning found
Holmes pacing the width of our sitting room like a caged tiger. He
was fully dressed but had his old dressing gown draped across his
shoulders. I had slept fitfully and by the look of him, Holmes had
had a dreadful night also. At my appearance, he grunted and then
blew out a thin cloud of blue smoke. The pacing did not cease and
the opacity of the air in our sitting room bore witness to the fact
that this was not his first pipe of the day.

I rang the bell for my breakfast
and asked for a pot of coffee, hoping to revive myself from this
lethargy. When my breakfast tray arrived, I offered Holmes a cup of
coffee. He waved it brusquely away but stopped pacing and stood
before me.

Holmes took the pipe from his
mouth and tapped the stem against his fingers. “I am missing
something, Watson. I believe we must look back to the start of this
case and go forward from there. Eat up, old friend, for we have
some business with Henry Wiggins in Dorset Street.”

It took me but a moment to
remember that Dorset Street was the place where Wiggins had picked
up the fateful fare. Once we had donned our hats and coats, we
headed down the stairs and out onto Baker Street to find cabbie,
Henry Wiggins. After ten minutes or so, Holmes spotted Wiggins’s
cab coming towards us. Raising his arm, he yelled “Wiggins!” at the
top of his voice. Wiggins looked up and, with a crack of a whip,
the Hansom hurried towards us.

Pulling to a halt, Henry Wiggins
climbed down, touched his cap and looked quite relieved to see us.
“Mr Holmes, I had no end of trouble with the police after the other
night. I makes a statement at the police station and they wants to
look at my cab. They was making some serious hints that I might
have been involved! You know me, Mr Holmes, I might know a few
shady folk but this? Never!”

Holmes placed a hand on
Wiggins’s arm, saying, “Calm yourself, Wiggins. I have made a
statement which fully exonerates you.” Holmes smiled before
continuing, “Indeed, I felt it my duty to praise your valiant
effort to save the gentleman’s life.”

I could not resist a smile as
Wiggins instantly brightened. Touching his cap, he said, “Blimey!
Thanks, Mr Holmes, it’s much appreciated. Now, where do you gents
want me to take you?”

Holmes and I clambered into the
cab and Holmes directed Wiggins to take us to the exact spot where
he had picked up Konsulov on Dorset Street. It was but a two-minute
ride and we were soon standing on the pavement. “Are you sure it
was here, Wiggins?” asked Holmes, looking about him.

“Certain, Mr Holmes. I’d gone
past the Barley Mow Pub and it was just before the corner of
Montagu Row that he staggers into the road.” Holmes tossed him a
shilling and, with a crack of his whip, Wiggins went on his
way.