The Adventure of the Tired Captain A Sherlock Holmes Case (9 page)

“Oh he was a Chinaman,” she answered.

My friend smiled
. “Are you certain he was Chinese and not say, Japanese?”

“Quite certain, Mr. Holmes,” she replied. “I spent much of my early life in China.”

“Pray continue, Mrs. Dobson.”

“The Chinaman asked me if the doctor was in as his friend had injured himself. I could not very well turn them away so I asked them to come in and wait in the hallway while I went to get the doctor. Dr. Anstruther was just starting his
Yorkshire pudding but he asked me to show them into the surgery and tell them that he would be there momentarily. When I returned there was no sign of the two and for a moment I thought that they had changed their minds and left but then I heard a noise from the top of the stairs and saw the Chinese man bent over his companion who was lying upon the floor.” She stopped to take a breath.

“From the top of the stairs,” Holmes managed to ask. “What were they doing upstairs?”

“I am sure I don’t know Mr. Holmes, I assumed that they were looking for the surgery. I told them in no uncertain terms that the surgery was downstairs and that they should have waited in the hallway.”

Holmes was quiet for a moment. “Let us backtr
ack for a moment Mrs. Dobson. You mentioned that this Chinese person spoke English?”

“Perfect English, Mr. Homes. Is that important?”

“Perhaps. It may indicate that he is a local man and not a visitor here or...........or it may indicate nothing. Please go on, you were saying that the Chinaman was bent over his friend.”

“Yes, Mr. Holmes.”

“So this badly injured man who was at the point of unconsciousness just moments before had climbed the rather lengthy flight of stairs which I noticed when I came in?” Holmes asked of her.

“It does seem queer sir,” said Mrs. Dobson.

“It does indeed. What did you do following this minor miracle, Mrs. Dobson?”

“At that moment, Doctor Anstruther along with Mrs. Anstruther, Mrs. Watson and her maid appeared from the dining room. The Doctor then went upstairs to lend assistance. When he reached the top of the staircase the man on the floor pulled a revolver from his jacket and ordered all of us upstairs into the bedroom. It was as he began to tie us up, that poor Dr. Anstruther tried to go for help. The Chinaman went after him and then I heard a shot. A few minutes later he returned and led Mrs. Watson from the room. Then I remember a funny smell and everything went dark.”

Saying this, she rose from her chair and fled from the room, with tears in her eyes.

My own maid, red eyed and in evident shock could add nothing to Mrs. Dobson’s description of events.

Mrs. Anstruther was also of little help save for mentioning that the one man had a noticeable limp. I glanced across at Holmes.

Following this rather unproductive interview with Mrs. Anstruther, Mrs. Dobson led us upstairs to the main
bedroom.

“Thank you Mrs. Dobson, if we have further need of you we shall ring,” he said, by way of dismissal. Now that he had finished his interrogation he took no more notice of her than he would have a potted plant standing in the corner.

Closing the bedroom door my friend immediately threw himself to the floor and began to scrutinize the carpet, all the while mumbling to himself. It was a ritual which was familiar and yet always fascinating. He picked up something from the floor and put it into an envelope which he carried for such a purpose.

“What have you found
, Holmes?” He ignored me; instead, raising himself off the floor he minutely began an examination of the bed, as well as the ropes which were used to bind the women.

“You should have cut these ropes Watson, not untied them. One can learn much from knots.”

“There was not a knife at hand, Holmes.”

“Surely your neighbour must have a scalpel in there,” he said pointing to the neglected medical bag sitting on the floor.

“I shouldn’t wonder,” I murmured. “The ropes aside have you discovered anything?”

“I have discovered many things, Watson, but nothing of
immediate importance,” he said.

“Holmes if we are to believe Mrs. Dobson’s account of tonight’s events do you think that one of these two men could be the individual who has been watching my
house? What with the limp and the bandage wrapped around his left hand to disguise his missing finger the resemblance seems more than a coincidence.”

“Well since we have no reason not to believe the excellent Mrs. D
obson I must say it seems possible,” Holmes admitted.

“What is it that you found on the floor?” I asked.

“It appears to be your old favorite,
Schippers Tabak
Special
.”

“
Schippers
..........?” I began.

“
Ship’s,
Watson. If you would have bothered to read my monograph
Upon
the Distinction Between the Ashes of the Various
Tobaccos
you would have noticed that some of the ashes which had fallen to the floor was that of a pipe tobacco. No doubt they were deposited there by the intruders,” he said. “I notice that Dr. Anstruther does not smoke that brand,” he added.

“He does not smoke at all,” I said.

“There are ashes in his bedside ashtray,” a puzzled Holmes pointed out.

For once I had the advantage of him. “It is Mrs. Anstruther who smokes a pipe.”

He laughed. “Well I do not think that any self respecting woman would discard ashes onto the floor.” I did not point out that any self respecting woman would not be smoking a pipe at all.

“I would also expect that Mrs. Dobson is diligent in
her cleaning duties,” he stated.

“No doubt, but what bearing does that have on matters?” I asked.

“One of the first things that I noticed upon entering the house was the not so faint imprint of muddy shoes upon the stairs. As it has been raining for much of the evening the marks were undoubtedly left by the two gentlemen in question. The same footprints appear on the bedroom carpet. As it seems improbable that anyone else besides the participants in this evening’s little drama have been in your neighbour’s bedroom since the rain began it would stand to reason that the footmarks were made by these two men.”

“That much makes sense Holmes, but how do you know that neither I nor Doctor Anstruther made them?”

“Come Watson, do you really think that after all these years I would not recognize your footprints even though you are wearing newly resoled boots?”

“No, I suppose not.”

“As for your neighbour if you compare the slippers under the bed to the footprints left on the carpet the injured man has feet a full two sizes larger than Doctor Anstruther. He is also some two inches taller.”

“How do you know that it was the injured man that left the footprint Holmes?”

“The injured man as you may remember had a noticeable and for our purposes significant limp. So of course you would expect one of his legs to make a deeper imprint on the carpet than the other. I have found evidence of such.”

“What of his height, Holmes, you said he
was about two inches taller than Doctor Anstruther.”

“Well as I have demonstrated to you before a man’s height can be approximated by both the size of his foot and to a lesser extent the length of his stride. Of course an individual’s stride is also much dictated by habit and circumstance but on the average a person, say of my height will have a stride of a fixed length.”

“None of this helps much, as there are four and a half million people in London it will be like looking for a needle in the proverbial haystack,” I remarked with little enthusiasm.

“Unfort
unately you may be right, Watson. However we shall file it away for future reference.”

He abruptly turned on his heel and strode out of the bedroom and down the stairs. I followed as quickly as my tired legs could carry me. His eyes never left the faint trail of blood which was upon the carpet. He stopped at the bottom of the stairs when the blood trail itself stopped.

“Why would the trail suddenly end here?” he asked almost to himself. “Judging from the small amount of blood evident the wound would have been but a modest one but I very much doubt that it would have stopped bleeding so abruptly.”

“I never thought of that Holmes, you are right though
and certainly my neighbour in his flight would not have time to bind his wound.”

“Tell me Watson, is your neighbour a large man?”

“No. He is in fact quite small. Why do you ask?”

For a moment it seemed as if he hadn’t heard me.

“Holmes?”

He shook himself from his reverie. “Possibly his pursuer for some reason has carried him away,” he said dreamily.

Saying this he quickly disappeared into the surgery returning in a matter of moments. Without seeming to remember my presence he left the house. He whistled for a cab and stood silently on the sidewalk smoking a cigarette, staring into the blackness of the night.

Within minutes a hansom pulled up. The fog had lifted and I could see steam rising from the wet horse. Holmes leaned back in the seat and closed his eyes.

“Holmes,” I said “I think I should point out to you something which may have escaped your notice.”

“What is that, Watson?”

“One of these men must have a basic understanding of medicine.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Chloroform is a devilishly tricky drug to administer without overdosing the patient. Many patients have died from the improper use of it.”

“That is a good point
Watson. Although I have made a study of such things it is as well to have a professional’s opinion.” Again he lapsed into silence.

“Why would the intruders have used both the drug and rope to subdue their captives?” I asked.

“I fancy the answer is a simple one, Watson,” he said, the light from a street lamp briefly lighting up his face. “In preparation for their task they had of course brought the rope with them. However upon seeing the bottle of chloroform in your neighbour’s surgery they may have thought that it would be a more effective method of rending their captives helpless. They tied them up to make it easier to administer the ether and as a safeguard should the unfamiliar drug not prove effective. As a quick examination of the premises proved, the drug used must have been from your neighbour’s stock as both his surgery and medical bag were unaccountably missing the customary bottle.”

I was about to say something when the cab came to a stop. “You might as well stay the night, Watson,” said Holmes stepping onto the pavement. “Mrs. Hudson can make you up a bed.”

“I was about to suggest the same thing,” I said alighting from the cab and following him inside.

I slumped into my favorite chair and Holmes poured me a brandy while Mrs. Hudson made up the bed in my old room. Holmes lit his brier pipe which was one of his other favorite companions and sat opposite me in his velvet lined arm-chair his knees drawn up to his chin and his eyes closed. The smoke from his pipe curled around his head.

“Why do you not go to your bed, Watson, I will need you at your best tomorrow,” he suddenly said.

“No, Holmes I will nev
er be able to sleep,” I replied. “Besides you may need my help.”

“I will do nothing tonight
, Watson, besides poison myself with several ounces of black shag.”

The day had been a long one and if I was to do Mary any good, I would indeed need my bed. I bade Holmes a good night and climbed the stairs to my old bedroom
. I crawled wearily into the bed and even though I didn’t think I would ever sleep again the arms of Hypnos immediately enveloped me in a welcome and gentle embrace and I was asleep.

I awoke late the following morning and as luck would have it I had no patients needing my services until later that afternoon.

Holmes, as was his custom during our long and fulfilling association, had arisen before me as evidenced by the half eaten breakfast on the table. He was nowhere to be seen.

I shook the cobwebs from my brain and rang for Mrs. Hudson to bring up my own breakfast.

I had just lit a cigarette and begun to read the morning
Telegraph
when the landlady appeared, a welcoming smile upon her face.

“Good morning, dear lady. I was hoping that I could trouble you for some coffee and possibly a piece of toast. I am feeling quite famished.”

“Good morning to you, Doctor. It would be a pleasure to have my cooking appreciated by someone,” she said with a disapproving look at the partially eaten meal left on the table.

She bustled out of the door and
down the stairs but like a genie from a bottle she quickly reappeared carrying a pitcher of hot water, a razor and a towel.

“There is still a wash basin in your old room if you care to have a wash and a shave,” she said opening the shutters, “I shall send up your breakfast.”

“Thank you Mrs. Hudson you are a godsend.” I leisurely performed by ablutions and soon I was feeling like a new man.

I entered the sitting room to the enticing smell of a hearty English breakfast. Kippers, rashers and eggs, coffee and everything else the English hold dear in the morning was on the table. Thankfully she spared me the fate of having to partake of her porridge which was always thick and somewhat bland.

“It is always a pleasure to partake of one of your magnificent repasts, Mrs. Hudson,” I told her as she gathered the detritus of Holmes’ breakfast.

“It is nice to have you with us again
, Doctor,” she replied amiably.

“By the way Mrs. Hudson have you seen Mr. Holmes this morning,” I asked her between sips of hot black coffee.

“He left about an hour ago, Doctor and asked me not to awaken you. He mentioned that he should be back by eleven o’clock and for you to await his return if it is convenient.”

She finished piling Holmes’ dishes onto her tray “Where shall I put this
, Doctor?” she asked picking an item up from the table.

“What is it, Mrs. Hudson?”

She handed a small pamphlet to me. It was Holmes’ own small yet important work on the history of tattooing. “Just leave it on the table. You know how Mr. Holmes hates to have his things moved.”

“Only too well, Doctor,” she said with a small laugh. She replaced the book and without further ado left the room.

Even though I would have liked nothing more than to return to my own house on the chance that Mary would be there I thought it best to wait; if she had made good her escape there was an excellent chance that she would come to Baker Street feeling that our own home would now be too dangerous.

I helped myself to another serving of bacon, eggs and coffee and settled down to finish reading the paper. I had just started to read a small article concerning the opening of the Imperial Institute when Holmes returned. For the briefest of moments I felt a hatred of the man as he looked as if he had just returned from a holiday on the Riviera compared to how I must have looked.

“Good morning, Watson,” he said his voice sounding chipper. “It is nice of you to rejoin the land of the living.”

“Why in heavens did you allow me to sleep the day away, Holmes?” I leaned back in my chair and lit a cigarette, my appetite for food satiated. I was however hungry for information.

“I thought it best that you should get as much sleep as possible. As I said last night I shall need you at your best today if we are to have success in our investigation.”

I had my doubts about Holmes’ need for my help, however I humoured him.

“You have been making inquiries?”

“Yes, Watson,” he said lighting his pipe and taking his chair. I poured him a cup of the strong black coffee.

“I have been back to Kensington. I thought the scene could bear further scrutiny in the light of day.”

“And what did you find?”

“As you know, Watson the pavement is being pulled up in the street just to the north of your neighbour’s house. What you may not know is that your gas supply will be interrupted tomorrow as they replace the faulty line. However that is neither here nor there.

“As is their custom, the workmen have laid planks over the trench to accommodate pedestrian traffic. These planks, as is also the custom, have quickly become covered with the soil which is the result of the digging. It is for the most part a light gray in colour. I saw no evidence of this type of earth on the floor of your neighbour’s house.

“I also spoke to the watchman who keeps guard over the excavation at night and even though I noticed an empty gin bottle in his tent, there is no reason to believe that he was not in full possession of his senses last evening. His eyes this morning betrayed no sign of drunkenness. He says that he saw no one who might match the description of our two suspects. This indicates to me that these two approached the Anstruther house from the direction of your house. Since you have your shingle hung out on the iron fence which surrounds your front yard it seems that they quite purposely went to your neighbour’s house. This would seem to suggest that they really had no need of a surgeon’s services.”

“I think events have already indicated what their intentions were Holmes,” I said rather testily for I could not see where my friend’s investigations had gotten him.

“I agree with you old fellow although it is always wise to confirm one’s suspicions.”

“I suppose you are right.”

“Right or not my little excursion has really brought us no closer to an answer.

“It would only seem to attest to the fact that the events of last evening were no accident or random occurrence. If these men had robbery in mind they would have chosen your house. Your practice being much the busier, you can afford more of the rich trappings of the successful practitioner than can your neighbour. Your premises are also further from the watchman’s tent, so it would be more of an inviting target for a smash and grabber. Therefore this was not some bungled robbery where your wife and neighbour were innocent victims, but rather a well orchestrated plan to abduct your wife.”

I interrupted him. “Why could not the object of this intrigue been Dr. Anstruther and not my wife?”

“You have forgotten something, Watson. According to Mrs. Dobson when the group was marched into the
bedroom they asked for your wife by name, plus the pair were set to truss up the doctor along with the women when he made what seems to be a futile attempt at escape.”

“Yes I
had
forgotten that. You do not think that he has escaped from his attackers then?”

“I have made inquiries at all of the hospitals, and while there were certainly several victims of murderous attacks admitted last night none of them were your neighbour. So now Watson.....”

His discourse was interrupted by a knock. I got up from my chair and opened the door, to admit our old friend, Inspector Lestrade. The sallow, rat faced Scotland Yard inspector was an old acquaintance of ours and while Holmes had little respect for the official police force, Lestrade was a favorite of his. Though he was highly conventional and unimaginative he was tenacious when he got the scent. Despite some mistrust early in our association he was now quick and willing to accept Holmes help and tutelage.

“Good morning, Lestrade. Pray have a seat and a whisky.”

“Good morning, Mr. Holmes, Doctor Watson. No thank you, it is a little early for me. I trust I have not come at a bad time.”

“No, Lestrade we were just discussing a case,” said Holmes
offering the official detective a cup of coffee from the large silver pot on the table.

“Ah, the disappearance of the good doctor’s wife,”
ventured Lestrade.

“How did you come to hear of last evening’s events, Inspector?” I asked him.

“No doubt it was the good Mrs. Anstruther who called in the Metropolitan Police,” Holmes commented with little enthusiasm. He always took exception when the official forces were called in on a case with which he was involved.

“Indeed you are correct, Mr. Holmes. It is for that reason I have come here this morning.”

“Have you solved the case already then Inspector?” Holmes asked.

“Not yet
, Mr. Holmes but I am sure it is but a matter of time. However events have occurred which I think you and Doctor Watson should be made aware of,” he said looking at me.

Holmes’ body tensed and you could almost see his ears perk up like those of the faithful Toby. “What events, Lestrade?”

“A body was found this morning....,”

I gave a start. The sharp intake of breath caused Lestrade to stop in mid sentence. He turned to face me.

“There is no cause to worry Doctor; the body is not that of your wife.”

Lestrade turned back to face Holmes who was sitting with his eyes closed, his hands clasped in front of him.

“A body was found this morning off of King William Street in Greenwich. Constable Watkins who was on the beat in the area has a reputation as a capable fellow although I think a bit of a dullard. He is a good family man....,”

“Get to the facts, Lestrade,” Holmes barked at him impatiently.

“The facts then are these, Mr. Holmes,” the little detective said petulantly.

“It was around two o’clock in the morning when Watkins heard a cry of murder from down the street.”

“Surely a cry of murder in that area of the city and at that time of night is not an unusual occurrence,” I interrupted.

“No Watson, it isn’t, but of course they all must be investigated,” Holmes replied.

Lestrade carried on. “When he got there, a group of people had gathered around the prostrate form of a man lying dead in the street. Death appears to have been caused by a number of stab wounds to the upper body.”

“Did any of this group witness the assault, Inspector?”

“Possibly, however we don’t know for sure, Mr. Holmes.”

“You don’t know?”

“Before Watkins could summon additional help most of the crowd had disappeared back into the night. As is always the way in such things, no one wished to become involved in matters which did not concern them. Of those who remained, they vowed to a man that they had seen nothing.”

“At what time did death occur, Lestrade?” my friend asked.

“I believe that the inspector mentioned two o’clock, Holmes,” I said.

“He said the body was discovered at two o’clock, but it may have been laying there for some time before that.”

“We don’t know the time of death yet, Mr. Holmes. That will have to wait for the police surgeon’s inquest. However Watkins did note that blood was still flowing from the wound and the man’s pipe lay smoldering beside him. In his left hand he held a locket. No doubt this man met his end only moments before the alarm was raised.”

“Tell me Lestrade you say that this man held a locket in his left hand. Was he also mis
sing a finger on that same hand?”

“Yes he was
, Mr. Holmes. How did you know that? The story has not made it into the papers yet.”

“It is a hunch only Lestrade,” said Holmes.

Lestrade looked askance at my friend. All through our long association he knew that Holmes seldom if ever relied on hunches.

“Why have you brought this case to our attention Lestrade? Surely the incidence of someone being murdered near the river is something that the official police run up against every day.”

“That is true Mr. Holmes but it concerns the locket that was found in the dead man’s hand.”

“You have the item with you
, Lestrade?”

Lestrade reached into the pocket of his vest and pulled out the item in question. The familiar smoky
yellow of the Scotch topaz glinted dully in its setting.

“I believe Dr. Watson that you will recognize this. It is your wife’s is it not?” he asked holding up the pendant.

“What makes you think that this item belongs to Mrs. Watson, Lestrade?” Holmes asked.

“My wife always carried a picture of the two of us inside,” I told Holmes.
The words caught in my throat.

“It also contains initials engraved on the back,” said Lestrade.

“Yes I gave it to Mary when we were courting and had the letters MM engraved on the back. When we celebrated our second anniversary Mary had our pictures put inside and she had the engraving changed. She left the first M but added a W on top of the second one. She thought that changing the engraving made it look a little like a butterfly.”

I settled into a silence as I noticed both Holmes and Lestrade staring at me.

It was Holmes who spoke next.

“May I see the locket
, Inspector?” he asked, reaching out his hand to the Scotland Yarder. Lestrade handed him the jewelry.

As Holmes walked over to the window he picked up his magnifying lens from the mantel. He studied the locket with care in the bright sunlight.