The Lost Radio Adventures of Sherlock Holmes (29 page)

“Where are you
going?” Mrs. Wainwright asked.

“To your room,
madam. I’m afraid I must dispense with asking your permission.”

We entered Mrs.
Wainwright’s room, followed by the lady and Sergeant Blake.

“There’s the
bird cage, on the window sill, but the birds are gone.”

“No,” Holmes proffered,
“if you look more closely, Watson, you’ll see them on the bottom of the cage.”

Holmes was
right, as I reached into the cage and pulled the birds out. They lay limply in
my hand.

“By Jove,
Holmes, they’re dead.”

“And yet, when
we entered the inn a few minutes ago, they were still chirping.”

“Who on earth
would want to kill a couple of birds?” I asked.

“That, my dear
fellow, is one of the things we have to find out. So far, I must admit, I’m
puzzled by this whole affair. We have a self-confessed murderer, and the
nearest thing we can find to a corpse is a pair of dead canaries!”

Mrs. Wainwright
looked at us with disdain as I placed the two dead birds back in their cage. It
was a most perplexing problem and I could see Holmes was deeply troubled by the
incidents of Mr. Wilson’s suicide and the poor birds.

“Gentlemen, if
you don’t mind, I’d like to be left alone,” Mrs. Wainwright spoke up. We
excused ourselves as she rudely slammed the door behind us.

“An extremely
hard woman, Watson. I pity poor Wilson for what, I imagine, he must have
endured with her. Sergeant, if you’ll excuse us, Dr. Watson and I have work to
do. I shall be in touch with you shortly.”

“Right you are,
Mr. Holmes,” Sergeant Blake answered.

“Watson,” Holmes
said turning to me, “back to Miss Victor’s room. I’ve not fully examined it yet.”

We returned to
Miss Victor’s room where Holmes quietly and efficiently examined everything. I
watched for a while as he carefully examined various articles with his
magnifying glass. Finally, with thoughts of my own, I spoke.

“You know,
Holmes, the murder that Wilson confessed to before he committed suicide might
have been the killing of those two canaries.”

“I think not,
old chap. Wilson obviously loved the creatures and kept them in spite of the
fact that they were dangerously up to identifying him with his criminal past.
Ah, this is interesting, very interesting.”

“Oh, what have
you found?”

“This note lying
on Miss Victor’s dressing table, partially covered by a paperweight. It’s the
same note she held in her hand when she visited us in our rooms. See where she
pulled at it while she spoke to me? It reads: ‘You think you can hide from me,
Mary, but you can’t. Wherever you go, I shall follow you, so why not get wise
to yourself and stop running away.’ ”

“Sounds as if
the poor girl was in danger, all right.”

“Possibly,
Watson, but the writer of that note was certainly obliging. Though the letter
is unsigned, he at least gives us a clue to his identity.”

“What clue?” I
said, puzzled.

“The phrase ‘get
wise to yourself’ is very un-English; it’s American. Come on, old chap.”

“Where are we
going now?”

“The envelope to
this letter has the Kingsgate postmark on it. I should be surprised if that
fount of all knowledge, the village postmaster, can’t help us find an American
visitor.”

And off down the
street to the center of town we went, with Holmes fairly leaping on ahead as I
protested to him that this supposed period of rest for the two of us had turned
into a nightmare. Holmes laughed, for he knew, as well as I, that no matter how
much I might complain about his running about or being mysterious over some
aspect of a case, I was, in truth, enjoying every minute of my involvement with
my best of all friends. When we arrived, it was but a few minutes before Holmes
obtained the necessary information he wished. The postmaster was most
cooperative, once he obtained a guinea from Holmes. We discovered the “author”
of the threatening note was a Walter C. Bunker who was rooming at 15 Laburnum
Grove, a small hotel just the other side of the inn. Holmes thanked the
postmaster for his information and we left to meet this Mr. Bunker face to
face. Upon arrival, the owner of the hotel, a kindly woman, told us the young
man had left for the nearby cemetery. Once we were directed as to where this
cemetery was, we were off again on this wild goose chase.

As we entered
the cemetery, Holmes finally spoke.

“Well, Watson,
the cemetery seems deserted. Wait, do you hear that?”

“Music, Holmes.”

“Yes, and coming
from the chapel.”

“Good Lord,” I
said, “it’s a funeral.”

“Or a wedding.
Come on. We’ll soon get to the bottom of this.”

Slowly and
carefully we walked to the crest of the hill and, as we entered the chapel, the
music changed to a bright and cheery tune.

“By Jove, it is
a wedding, Holmes.”

“I’m afraid we’re
on a false trail, Watson, but we best make sure.”

“Pardon me, sir,”
Holmes whispered to a man standing at the back of the chapel, “just one
question. Can you tell me the names of the couple who are getting married?”

“Miss Mary
Victor and a young American by the name of Bunker.”

Holmes and I
made our way out of the chapel until we were at a safe distance where normal
talking would in no way interrupt the ceremony.

“Yes, we have
been following a false trail, confound it,” said a bemused Holmes. “The
frightened young lady was merely frightened by her persistent American fiancée.”

“But the
threatening letter he sent her?” I asked.

“Ambiguously
worded, when I come to think of it. In any case, we can cease to worry about
Miss Victor. As she is now Mrs. Bunker, I think we can assume she is out of all
danger.”

“Now you’ve got
to start all over again, Holmes.”

“Oh no, no, my
dear fellow, the field is narrowing. We’ll head back for the inn, and I have a
feeling now that we’re on the last lap of our strange adventure.”

“But Holmes, I
can’t understand any of this. I’m completely in the dark about Wilson’s suicide
and this so-called murder he’s committed,” I said as we made our way back to
the inn.

“Patience,
Watson, patience. We’ll have the answer to this intriguing puzzle in due time.”

When we arrived
at the inn, we met Sergeant Blake, who had been waiting for us, and the
landlord, who handed Holmes a telegram. He opened it quickly to read its
contents.

“What’s it say,
Holmes?” I asked impatiently.

“Here’s another
suspect eliminated. This telegram is the answer from my brother Mycroft. It
concerns my inquiry about the movements of Basil Carter, the young man who left
the inn so mysteriously in the early hours of this morning. His answer informs
me that the gentleman in question was recalled to the foreign office suddenly,
and arrived in London quite safely a few hours ago.”

“Now I’m
completely puzzled,” I said in total frustration.

“And I, old
fellow, at last see daylight! Sergeant, go upstairs and get the dead man’s
widow and bring her to my rooms, please, and then I think I can give you the
solution to this problem.”

As the sergeant
went to fetch Mrs. Wainwright, we returned to our rooms where, lighting his
pipe, Holmes stood waiting, his eyes twinkling with excitement. I, on the other
hand, merely sat dejected, unable to fathom this entire case. In a few moments
Sergeant Blake ushered Mrs. Wainwright into our rooms. She stood before us, as
stony cold as ever.

“What do you
want of me, Mr. Holmes?” she asked.

“Please sit
down, madam. You and Sergeant Blake make yourselves comfortable. Now, in the
first place, the murder occurred this morning and not last night.”

“I know what you’re
hinting at,” Mrs. Wainwright said. “The canaries. I admit I killed them. You
can’t do anything to me for that.”

“Why did you
kill those birds?” Holmes said pointedly.

“I hated them as
much as my husband loved them! And when I knew he was dead, their singing drove
me mad. And so I killed them.”

“Then they must
have been already dead when we told you of your husband’s suicide.”

“True, Watson,
but the lady was fully aware that her husband was dead when we informed her of
the fact. You see, she murdered him!”

“You’re talking
rubbish!” Mrs. Wainwright spat back at Holmes.

“Yes, Mr. Holmes,
how could she have murdered him? We saw him shoot himself before our eyes,” Sergeant
Blake added.

“Because, when
Wilson raised that revolver to his head, he was convinced that it contained
blank cartridges. Unfortunately for him his wife had deliberately replaced the
blanks with live cartridges.”

“Great Heavens,
why? How?” I exclaimed.

“Let me
reconstruct the case for you,” Holmes continued. “Wilson, with the connivance
of his wife here, had contrived a disappearance plot. He knew that I had
spotted his real identity, so he planned this rather dramatic exit, confessed
to a non-existent murder and then, had his plan materialized, he was to shoot
himself with a blank. All from the pier, an apparent suicide.”

“What a
fantastic scheme,” I said. “How did he plan to get away?”

“He would have
swum under the water a safe distance, and so made his escape.”

“But Holmes, his
plan couldn’t have possibly worked.”

“Perhaps,
Watson, but at least it was ingenious. If it had succeeded, he would have
destroyed his true identity and have had his revenge on me by making me search
for a murder that had never been committed! Unfortunately for him, his wife was
his accomplice, and saw in the scheme an excellent way of killing her husband.”

“You think you’re
so very clever, Mr. Holmes, but even if it were true, how could you prove it?”
Mrs. Wainwright asked.

“Observe this
revolver, Mrs. Wilson. It’s the one your husband shot himself with.”

“What can you
prove from that?” she asked, a worried look crossing her face for the first time
since I met her.

“Ever hear of
fingerprint tests?” Holmes asked.

“I’ve heard of
them. But that revolver has been under water.”

“True,” Holmes
continued, “quite true. But, thanks to the researches of my excellent friend
Dr. John Thorndike, an infallible test has been discovered for recording
fingerprints even after immersion in sea water. I applied the test to the
prints on the revolver and the bullets, and compared them with some that we
found on the water glass in your room. They are the same, Mrs. Wilson! Now,
does a man let his wife load his suicide weapon? Sergeant Blake, I think it is
obvious that the time has come for you to take over the case!”

Mrs. Wainwright,
or shall I say Mrs. Wilson, turned pale, grasping at the door to support her,
lest she faint. For a moment I suspected she might indeed faint and I was about
to rise from my chair to help her, when she stood up, straight and tall, that
same cold expression returning to her face.

“All right! So I
did change the bullets,” she said in anger. “I hated him. I’m glad he’s dead.
And what’s more, I’d do it again!”

Sergeant Blake
and I were perplexed by this sudden revelation of truth, for we least expected
this turn of events. Blake secured Mrs. Wilson by the arm and was about to
escort the lady to the police station when he turned to Holmes, a quizzical
look on his face.

“Mr. Holmes,
before I take Mrs. Wilson to the station and book her on a murder charge, I
wonder if you wouldn’t mind answering a question?”

“With pleasure,
Sergeant.”

“This finger print
test. I’d like to know about that. I’ve never heard of being able to take
prints after a revolver has been handled two or three times and soaked in salt
water.”

“Yes, Holmes,” I
added, “and I’d like to know when you performed the test and took the prints
off the glass in her room. Except when I was taking my morning bath, I thought
that I was with you all the time.”

“You were, my
dear fellow,” Holmes laughed. “I can give you the answer in one word: BLUFF!
Yes, Mrs. Wilson, bluff. There is no such test. It would be almost impossible
to expect clear prints after so much handling and totally impossible after
submersion. Fortunately for us, Watson, Mrs. Wilson was gullible enough to
believe me and give us her confession. You may take her away, Sergeant.”

When Mrs. Wilson
realized what my friend Holmes had done to trick her, she began screaming
invectives at him and it was under great duress that Sergeant Blake managed to
drag her away.

“What a strong
headed and repulsive woman she is, Watson. I’m certainly glad this matter is
over.”

“But what about
Dr. John Thorndike? There’s no such person, is there?”

“Yes indeed
there is, Watson. He helped me with some important fingerprints in my great
success last year on the case of the Red Thumb mark.”