The Lost Casebooks of Sherlock Holmes (74 page)

The Case of the Naked Bicyclists

A full account of the case appears in F. Tennyson Jesse (ed.),
The Trial of Samuel Herbert Dougal
, William Hodge, 1928. In her finely intuitive introduction, Fryn Tennyson Jesse remarks of the nude bicycling that Dougal liked ‘a touch of an orgy' in his activities. ‘What a picture in that clayey, lumpy field, the clayey lumpy girls, naked astride that unromantic object, a bicycle, and Dougal, gross and vital, cheering on these bucolic improprieties.'

The Case of the Sporting Major

Though the case against Alfred John Monson was found ‘not proven' under Scottish Law, Edward Scott,
alias
Sweeney, was never brought to trial. When he did not appear to answer the charges of murder and attempted murder in 1897, he was outlawed by the High Court of Justiciary in Edinburgh. The year after Major Monson's trial, Scott was discovered to be appearing as assistant to a music-hall magician. Curiously, no proceedings were taken against him and the decree of outlawry was eventually rescinded.

The Case of the Hygienic Husband

George Joseph Smith (1872-1915) served three prison sentences, totalling three and a half years, for larceny and receiving. Between 1898 and 1915, he also contracted eight marriages, seven of them bigamous. Three of these wives, Bessie Mundy, Alice Burnham, and Margaret Lofty, were drowned by him in their baths. Smith was an amateur musician and, having left Margaret Lofty dead in the depths of her bath, he took advantage of a domestic harmonium in the next room to give a farewell rendering
of Nearer, My God, To Thee
. His principal motive in the drownings was mercenary but he had no conscientious objection to murder. He was tried only for the killing of Bessie Mundy, for which he was hanged. A transcript of the trial is included in Eric R. Watson (ed.),
The Trial of George Joseph Smith
, William Hodge, 1922. The editor remarks on the familiar truth that psychopaths of Smith's type find it easiest to attract victims from the educated and articulate middle class, ‘be it governess or lady's companion, or young lady in business'. In this view, Smith the ex-regimental gymnastic instructor and petty thief, had a knack of detecting ‘fires of repressed passion' in outwardly-conventional young women of the professional class.

The Case of the Talking Corpse

On the gallows trap, Dr Neill Cream is said to have made a last-second confession, ‘I am Jack—' Billington pulled the lever before the name was completed. According to the records, Cream was a prisoner in Joliet Penetentiary, Illinois, until 1891 for having poisoned Daniel Stott. Could he have committed the Whitechapel murders in 1888? In
The Times
on 12 March 1985, Donald Bell, a Canadian journalist, offered evidence that anonymous letters from Jack the Ripper and others known to be by Neill Cream were in the same hand. Though Cream should have been in Joliet in 1888, it was alleged that in nineteenth-century America a convict with money could pay another man to serve part of his sentence for him.

A further curiosity is that Marshall Hall went into court during Neill Cream's trial and recognized him as one half of an ingenious double-act. Two men, whose appearance was near-identical, had worked a system by which they gave one another alibis. One of them had been Marshall Hall's client in a case of bigamy and the lawyer recognized him as the man now in the dock under the name of Thomas Neill Cream. On the other hand, Marshall Hall considered Neill Cream's claim to be Jack the Ripper as no more than the characteristic vanity of the professional criminal. Cf. Edward Marjoribanks,
The Life of Sir Edward Marshall Hall
, pp. 47-8.

For my parents

Justin Melville Gwyn Thomas 1900–92

Doris Kathleen Thomas,
née
Serrell, 1906–55

Contents

The Execution of Sherlock Holmes

The Case of the Greek Key

The Case of the Peasenhall Murder

The Case of the Phantom Chambermaid

The Queen of the Night

Notes

Acknowledgments

I am most grateful for information kindly provided on Johann Ludwig Casper and Carl Liman by Ms. Helen D'Artillac Brill of the University of Cardiff and on respirators of World War I by Mr Martin Boswell of the Imperial War Museum, London.

The Execution of Sherlock Holmes

PROLOGUE

by John H. Watson, M.D
.

Before setting out on my story, I must say something of the late Charles Augustus Milverton of Appledore Towers, Hampstead. Those of my readers who have read the story of that title may recall a little of what follows. Though dead for three years, the ghost of this scoundrel threatened greater harm to Sherlock Holmes than Professor Moriarty himself had done.

Charles Augustus Milverton! My friend called him the worst man in London, more repulsive than fifty murderers with whom we had dealings. A reptile, said Holmes, a slithery, gliding venomous creature with deadly eyes and an evil, flattened face. This king of blackmailers lived in luxury by bribing treacherous valets or the maidservants of men and women in a high position. The most virtuous soul need only be guilty of a trivial error of conduct, no more than a mere indiscretion. Once in Milverton's hands, a single thoughtless letter or even a note of two lines had been enough to ruin a noble family.

Once or twice his fame as a poisoner of reputations reached the columns of the sporting magazines. I recall Sherlock Holmes pointing out to me a couplet in
Turf Life in London
.

A viper bit Milverton—what was his plight?

The viper, not Milverton, died of the bite
.

Such was our enemy. As Holmes remarked, that round smiling face concealed a heart of marble. Milverton squeezed his victims little by little, by holding a threat over them and a false promise before them. One or two more payments and the poor wretches thought they would be safe. They never were. Only when no more was to be got, or in two cases when the victim retired to his dressing room carrying a revolver loaded with a single bullet, did this villain's prisoners gain their release.

Milverton's last extortion was to be £7,000 from Lady Eva Brackwell, shortly before her marriage to the Earl of Dovercourt. This was the price asked for several imprudent letters written by the young woman a year before. These were addressed to a country squire, ending a fond childhood friendship which had briefly blossomed into romance. Unfortunately for her, it was an easy matter to cut off or otherwise alter the date on some of these notes. The ‘warm friendship' was thus represented as continuing secretly long after her betrothal to Lord Dovercourt. A dishonest servant of the squire's, amply rewarded, placed the papers in Milverton's hands. Unless young Lady Eva paid the price, Milverton swore the Earl of Dovercourt would receive this correspondence a week before the wedding. He insisted to her ladyship that he always carried out his threats. To weaken would destroy his reputation and profession.

To any decent mind, the conduct of such a villain is so monstrous that there is a temptation to think it cannot be true of any man. From the evidence of my own eyes and ears, I know it to be true. I was present at our Baker Street rooms in January 1899, when Milverton adjusted his cravat with a plump little hand and said to Holmes in a voice like soft but rancid butter, ‘You may be assured, my dear sir, that if the money is not paid promptly by the fourteenth, there will certainly be no marriage on the eighteenth.'

How supple and skillful a blackmailer is! How knowing in his choice of victims! Many a bridegroom might forgive a past flirtation, and Holmes suggested as much to our visitor. But Milverton was accustomed to choose his prey with care and to infuse his own peculiar venom into the falsehood and rumour that attended the cancellation of an engagement in high society. A year earlier Captain Alexander Dorking had defied him over jewellers' receipts and hotel bills relating to a long-dead liaison with a fast woman. Two days before the captain's wedding to the Honourable Miss Clementina Miles, an announcement in the
Morning Post
informed the world that the marriage would not, after all, take place. The bride's forgiveness of the groom was not enough to repair the damage caused by the incriminating documents. Milverton had also insinuated a tainted gossip into the clubs of Pall Mall so that it might reach the ears of the young lady's family and society in general. This hinted at a loathsome disease, contracted by the captain ten years earlier in an act of undergraduate folly. In January 1899, Lady Eva well knew the sort of tales that would circulate if she called Milverton's bluff. There could be no marriage to any man after that.

Sherlock Holmes had reluctantly agreed to act as intermediary on the young woman's behalf, offering the scoundrel her little fortune of £2,000. Milverton laughed in his face and would take nothing less than the £7,000 demanded. He suggested that her ladyship might easily raise an extra £5,000 by taking the family jewels inherited from her grandmother and exchanging them for imitations done in paste. Even had she done so, Holmes warned her that the reptile would return for more. So long as a penny remained in the victim's purse, there was never an end to blackmail. This was one of few occasions when Holmes and I resolved to do wrong in order that right should prevail. There could be no compromise. A viper's nest can be cleared in only one way.

A week later we set out for Hampstead on a blustery winter's night, carrying what Holmes called his ‘up-to-date burgling kit with every modern improvement which the march of civilization demands.' We judged that Milverton would be in bed by the time we made our way through the laurel bushes of the extensive garden. It took only a few minutes to find the weak point in the defences. Holmes's diamond-tipped glass cutter silently removed a circle from a pane in the conservatory door. By turning a key on the inside we passed into the drawing room, our identities concealed by black velvet masks, like a pair of Limehouse footpads. Ahead of us, the study was sufficiently illuminated by a well-banked fire for Holmes to work on the tall green safe without turning on the electric light.

He would leave no trace, no scratches on the steel mirrors of the lock. With the skill and accuracy of a surgeon he used his instruments upon the somewhat antiquated Milner device. His strong yet delicate hands showed the quiet competence of a trained mechanic. After twenty minutes, the lock clicked. He drew the door of the safe half open to reveal a score of packets, each labeled and tied with pink tape, like a lawyer's brief. At that moment a door slammed somewhere deeper in the house and we heard footsteps approaching us. Holmes closed the safe, though without locking it, and we drew back behind the long velvet curtains drawn across the windows. The door to the inner room opened and the snick of an electric switch filled the air with a harsh brilliance.

He was visible through a crack in the curtains! Not a shadow of suspicion touched his features as Milverton in his claret-colored smoking jacket sat down in a red leather chair with a cigar in one hand, a document in the other, and began to read. The back of his broad grizzled head with its patch of baldness was towards us. My fingers tingled at the thought of how easily a blow to the skull from Holmes's jemmy might rid the world of this genteel blackguard. But that would not serve our purpose. How long we might be trapped behind the velvet drapery was therefore impossible to guess. I noticed, however, that our unwitting host looked at his watch with growing frequency and impatience. He was clearly expecting something—or someone. Presently there was a footfall on the veranda and we heard a gentle tapping. He got up, crossed the room, and went out to open the door.

I heard little of the conversation at that distance beyond recognizing his quiet visitor as a woman. As they turned to come in, I heard him say, ‘Half an hour late!' and ‘Made me lose a good night's sleep!' Then a little more clearly, ‘If the countess is a hard mistress, this must be your chance to get even with her. Five letters which compromise the Countess d'Albert? You want to sell and I want to buy. It only remains to agree on the price.'

They were both in the study now, she a tall, slim, dark woman with a veil over her face and a mantle under her chin. Milverton was saying, ‘I should want to inspect the letters, of course.' She had her back to us, but presently I could see her making the gestures of raising her veil and dropping the mantle from her chin. He turned to her and looked startled at first; then he seemed about to laugh. There was no hint of fear in his voice. ‘Great heavens, it is you!'

‘The woman whose life you have ruined!' she said without the least tremor in her voice. ‘The wife whose husband broke his gallant heart and died by his own hand!'

‘You were so obstinate,' he said softly, wheedling her almost as if offering a caress to console her. ‘I put the price well within your means. Yet you would not pay.' Then his face changed, as if he had seen something concealed from us. ‘I warn you that I have only to raise my voice, call my servants, and have you arrested!'

She turned a little and I caught the suggestion of a smile on her thin lips. There was a crack, no louder than the snapping of dry wood. He stared at her, as if turned to stone, but did not fall. The sharp sound cracked again; her arm was stretched out and now the muzzle of a small silver revolver was not two inches from his shirt front. A third and fourth time she fired. He remained motionless for a moment longer, as if the shots might have been blanks. Then he fell forward, coughing and scrabbling among the papers on the table. ‘You've done me!' he gasped and at once lay still.