The Sherlock Holmes Megapack: 25 Modern Tales by Masters: 25 Modern Tales by Masters (48 page)

“Yes it was, Mr Holmes,” Hemming affirmed.

“Note the fading in the pattern, Watson. Join me if you please.” With effort, owing to his wound, Watson made his way down to the carpet. “What else do you notice?”

“Well,” he replied, “a stain of some sort but certainly not blood. Some caustic agent or solvent, I should think.”

“Excellent, my good man.” His repast clearly had sharpened his powers of observation. “Do you note the peculiar odour?”

I hid my amusement as I was reminded of a walrus in the zoological gardens, as my friend lay prostrate on the rug with his whiskers hovering just above the nap, while he repeatedly sniffed the area in question.

“Quite distinct. Unpleasant, yet somehow familiar.”

I produced a small scissors and gestured for permission from Lord Hemming. He nodded his assent and I took a sample of the weave, brushing the clippings into an envelope. I assisted Watson to his feet and turned attention to examination of the desk. All drawers were curiously empty except a bottom drawer, which was locked. As there was no one able to produce a key and the oak was thick, I asked Watson to draw his revolver.

“Would you do the honours, Doctor?” We covered our ears, as the report from the weapon shattered not only the lock, but also the silence of the sedate home. This sent servants scrambling to the room, no doubt in anticipation of some further tragedy. We assured Phelps that all was under control and he ushered the throng from the room.

The contents of the drawer were few. An envelope addressed to Emmet-Jones in a female hand, the missive having been removed, a small photograph, as one might place in a locket, along with a ledger book. Inspection of the book revealed a recent deposit of account for a rather large sum drawn at Goslings & Sharp, Fleet Street. I showed the balance to Watson, who raised an eyebrow acknowledging the substantial sum.

“Lord Hemming,” I asked, “do you know these bankers?”

“Of course. They have been managing my accounts for years.”

“I take it, and by no means do I wish to intrude on your privacy, that Captain Emmet-Jones’s recent deposit of this large sum was the result of your personal generosity?”

“Quite so. The man had little means and, I admit, was not the sort I would have selected for my daughter. She did, however, profess a deep love for the chap, and since I would be alone had she married a man of more means, I confess I welcomed the prospect of keeping her here in my company, with the wish of one day having grandchildren about. I made the gift so that the Captain should have the capital to start a business venture of his choosing.”

“I understand. I fear that we are losing daylight and Watson and I would like to inspect the Captain’s gravesite. We have taken too much of your time.”

“Nonsense. If there is anything I can do to provide further assistance, I am at your disposal,” the gentleman kindly offered.

“There is one thing for now. I would kindly ask you to contact your agents at Goslings & Sharp. Ask them to quote you the current balance of the account we have just discussed.” He heartily agreed and I gave him my card as Phelps returned with our accoutrements. “Come, Watson, we have business at Brookwood.”

* * * *

With darkness descending, we made our way to Brookwood Cemetery in Woking. I instructed the driver to wait, as the prospect of finding a cab later in this lonely corner of the city seemed slim. Watson lit his torch as we made our way to the caretaker’s house near the main gate.

I rapped with my cane repeatedly until the untidy little man answered. When we told him our business, he seemed not to have been forewarned of our arrival and in no way hid his displeasure at being interrupted at his evening meal. With the invocation of Lord Hemming’s name as well as the proffering of a half-crown for his trouble, he seemed to regain his memory and summoned a measure of enthusiasm for our enterprise.

We lit additional lanterns and made our way through the maze of memorials, some simple, others ornate sculptures honouring the dead. The wings of marbled angels cast long shadows on the winding path. The gloom, combined with the damp smell of earth, seemed to enhance the deepening chill. A slow fog soon settled in the lower grounds and swirled around the various headstones.

“Shadowy place,” Watson, remarked, induced into a whisper by the surroundings.

“Yes, Watson, but I should think rather peaceful on a clear afternoon.” I stopped abruptly, fancying I heard some noise not far off, but the lamps did not have great depth of penetration. Reflections off the mist made visibility null at any great distance.

We pressed on and soon found ourselves at the gravesite. The grave remained open, a dark hole in the floor marked for a young Captain who had yet to accept this final invitation. The coffin rested nearby. “How is it,” I asked our attendant, “that the grave remains open?”

“Rains, sir. Ground’s too ’eavy to lift that muck back in. And, if I may say so, we’ve already dug that plot twice and judging from the looks of the two of you, guv’, youda had me diggin’ it up again tonight. As to the casket, nobody’d claimed it and seems a shame to bury it unoccupied. ”

I had to admit that he had a point. We examined the grave but found nothing of interest in the empty hole.

“The casket,” Watson suggested, “might that not be a source for those finger marks you’ve been working on?”

“
Fingerprints
, Watson. Sadly, no. No telling how many hands have touched the thing and, no doubt, this weather would have rendered any marks unrecoverable by now.”

We turned our attention to the interior of the box. The two men helped me pry open the lid. The lining was a bit soiled from the unusual amount of activity for the object. I probed the quilted lining with my cane and struck an object. “Hello. What do we have here? Bring the beam closer, Watson.”

Using the stick I lifted the metallic object from the coffin. We had no time to examine it as we were abruptly interrupted by the sharp snap of a branch. We were not alone. I reacted instinctively by grabbing my friend’s lamp, tossing it into the open grave while yelling, “Down, Watson!”

The caretaker was, unfortunately, frozen in his surprise. He made an easy target standing with his lantern stretched before him. We saw the muzzle flash just before we heard the crack of the rifle. The missile struck the caretaker in the chest, killing him instantly, we would soon learn, and knocked him back, and I am sad to say, ironically, into the gaping coffin.

Watson fired a shot in the general direction of the attacker to let him know we had not come unarmed. With our lights extinguished there was no hope of pursuing the assassin through the darkened cemetery. I lit a match, allowing the Doctor a brief examination of the victim, but it was immediately clear that there was nothing that could be done for him. We closed the lid and picked our way carefully back toward the main gate.

* * * *

The police were summoned to Brookwood and, when his men had finished their business, Lestrade escorted us back to Baker Street, our driver having fled at the first sign of commotion. Mrs Hudson had thoughtfully laid on a cold supper. I set out the details of our investigation.

“Well, Mr Holmes, it shows how we investigators think alike. All along I suspected foul doings that went beyond a mere grave robbery.” Lestrade sipped his ale as Watson and I exchanged knowing glances, all too familiar with the inspector’s willingness to incorporate our work to his benefit. “Still, that does not answer the question of who is behind this?” Lestrade stating the obvious.

Mrs Hudson cleared the meal as we retired to review our information. “I almost forgot, Mr Holmes,” she said, pulling an envelope from her apron. “This telegram came for you earlier.”

“Thank you, dear lady. Try to get some rest now.”

“I gave up on that long ago, knowing what these rooms are like once you and the Doctor get going on one of your romps. Victoria Station would be quieter.” She took her leave.

I read the telegram to my guests, which confirmed my suspicions that Emmet-Jones’s bank account had been emptied the day before his death. “Seems an unlikely coincidence that he would withdraw all of his funds the day before his death.”

“How about blackmail?” Lestrade offered an unusually insightful suggestion.

“Yes, that is possible, Lestrade, yet who would have known he had any money? Clearly his means of support were derived through his marriage. No, there is something more. I cannot quite grasp the significance of the strange object we found in the coffin.”

“Looks like some implement for cooking eggs,” Lestrade commented.

“More like an odd fencing mask, I should think.” I had to admit that I had reached a standstill in my deductions. The device, for it clearly had some purpose in its manufacture, was an oblong metallic structure seemingly like the frame of a handheld mirror without the glass. Attached to it by means of a hinge was a wire basket. It was then that Watson proved his worth as my able companion. “What do you make of it, Watson?” I called across the room as I held the object aloft.

Watson had left us and had been working at my chemistry bench for some time, so quietly that we had almost forgotten he was there. He had a text open in one hand and was mixing something over a flame. Nearby was the envelope that held the carpet samples extracted at Dunmore. Soon a noxious smoke began to emit from his experiment. This quickly began filling the room, forcing us to thrust open the windows to expel the foul cloud.

The stench and commotion drew another visit from our irate landlady. “What on earth are you men doing now?” she cried. “I shall never be able to get this odour out of these rooms.”

We held kerchiefs over our mouths. It was some time before we were able to converse. “I think I used a bit too much alcoholic potash,” Watson eventually explained, coughing and referring back to his text.

“I have to concur with Mrs Hudson. What
were
you doing there, good fellow?” I asked.

“You remember, Holmes, that the odour we encountered on the carpet at Dunmore, as well as in the coffin, seemed familiar. Well, it came to me during supper that the odour was chloroform. A vapour used as a modern anaesthetic. The experiment there confirmed my suspicion. That device that we removed from the coffin is called Schimmelbusch’s mask. It is a mechanism used to hold a chloroformed cloth in place over the patient’s face while undergoing surgery. There are many devices used nowadays for such a purpose but this instrument is still in employ.”

I could hardly contain my grin. I rushed across the room to shake the hand of my colleague. “Brilliant, Watson! We have our explanation.”

Lestrade stood by with a look of confusion. “Explains what? I should like to know.”

“It now becomes obvious, inspector. Both means and motive.” I paused to light a pipe, both for dramatic effect and also in the hopes that the fragrant tobacco would serve to alleviate the rotten aroma unleashed by my friend’s chemical foray. “What Watson has made plain is that Captain Emmet-Jones is not dead.”

“The Devil, you say,” Lestrade ejaculated.

“It would seem, my dear Lestrade, that Captain Emmet-Jones made the acquaintance of a young doctor while in the service. He was engaged to a woman he did not love, but agreed to marry her to gain access to her wealth. He was in love with another, however.”

“The maid, Nelly,” Watson added.

“She was no more a maid than you or I, Watson. She was his lover.” I withdrew the photograph that I had extracted from the desk at Dunmore. I had been careful not to let Lord Hemming observe it until we could be sure of the woman’s role. “I am sure that this is she. As you can see by her dress, she was likely not wealthy, but certainly not of the servant class.”

Watson and Lestrade drew close to view the picture. “Once Emmet-Jones had Lord Hemming’s money safely transferred to his personal account, he arranged to stage his own apparent demise by allowing his friend, our Dr Knox, to administer an anaesthetic.”

Watson continued the narrative. “To the casual observer, a deeply anaesthetised subject may appear quite dead. Of course any physician worth his salt, such as Dr Sheridan, could easily tell, through auscultation with the stethoscope, that the heart was still beating, but Knox was already on hand and cleverly came up with the story of some contagious disease. This would ensure that the household, and no doubt a well-paid undertaker, kept a distance and excluded the possibility of holding a wake.”

“From there,” I resumed, “it would have been an easy matter to remove the body and rouse Emmet-Jones. When the exhumation was ordered it was assumed the body had been snatched from the grave, when, in reality, it was never present at the interment. The fact that the grave appeared undisturbed should have told you, Lestrade, that this was no routine act of robbery.”

Lestrade looked down, ears turning a shade of red, but he said nothing at first. He then seemed to brighten and offered, “All we have to do is find this Dr Knox. We’ll charge him with the murder of the caretaker. He’ll sing a pretty tune and, I wager, turn Queen’s evidence on the other two if faced with the gallows.”

“The rifle that killed the caretaker no doubt will be of military issue,” I added.

“You will find Knox all right,” Watson said. “In a grave not far from the one slated for Emmet-Jones. He will have been dead nearly thirty years.”

It was my turn to be astounded. “What are you saying, Watson?”

“While I pondered the connection between this Dr Knox and the grave robbery, something occurred to me. Do you remember the case of Messrs Hare and Burke, Holmes?”

I had to ponder for some moments, but then it struck me. “Yes, Watson, I believe you are correct.” I explained for the perplexed inspector’s benefit, “Hare and Burke were arrested for grave robbery some fifty years ago.”

“There was a time, I shudder to say,” Watson mused, “when cadavers for the education of medical students were in short supply. Often students had to resort to grave robbery to find specimens fresh enough for anatomic study. Must have been distasteful business. Soon a lucrative grave-robbing industry was born in the early part of the century to supply the medical profession.