Warlock Holmes--A Study in Brimstone (9 page)

Rushing to the window, I beheld the massive form of Torg Grogsson coming down the street. He was beaming broadly, face alight with self-satisfaction, in spite of the fact that he was practically naked. His left fist was closed around the collar of a battered corpse, which he dragged to our door, before ringing the bell. Presently, Mrs. Hudson began her second screaming fit of the morning and a moment after that, Grogsson himself flung open our sitting-room door and shouted, “I win!”

He triumphantly tossed the body into the center of the room. Only when it gave a groan of protest did I realize the man was still alive. I bolted to my bedroom for my medical bag and then back to attend to him, while there was still time. One side of his face was half stove-in. I later learned that Grogsson had hit him—only once, with his fist—very nearly killing the man.

“Torg find killer,” Grogsson declared, jabbing himself in the chest with his thumb. “Is best ’tective evar!”

No. The man on my floor was younger, shorter and entirely less threatening than the killer had been. I had no idea who he might be, but I knew who he wasn’t.

“Good job, Grogsson,” said Warlock. “I had hoped Watson and I would capture him, but you’ve bested us entirely. Come in, why don’t you, and tell us how you did it.”

Torg Grogsson proudly recounted his morning’s adventure, but I will not relate the conversation. It was so riddled with grammatical and pronunciation errors, so horribly tainted by the most rudimentary attempts at speech, that I hope it is never committed to paper. Instead, I shall offer you my own version of events, reconstructed as best I could manage from Grogsson’s account, witness statements and the police report that Madame Charpontier later filed against him.

It seems Grogsson had arisen at roughly half past seven that morning and proceeded to read the paper (a feat I still can barely bring myself to believe him capable of). When he came to the mention of Madame Charpontier’s boarding house on Toruay Terrace, he became particularly excited; he knew the place. In his eagerness to apprehend the killer, he had neglected to dress and bounded into the street in his nightwear. Unfortunately, this consisted only of underpants, his bowler hat and a tie. After twenty minutes of running through the streets of London, howling his battle cry, he arrived at Madame Charpontier’s. Or rather, near it. He’d forgotten exactly which door was hers, so he frightened a number of her neighbors by bursting in upon them, before chancing upon the correct address.

Madame Charpontier was not overly glad to make his acquaintance, nor was her daughter, Alice, who was also present. This daughter must have been quite pretty, for Torg spoke of her much more than the story warranted, sometimes leering like a maniac, other times tracing delicate patterns in the air with his goat-sized hand, as if softly stroking her cheek. I was sure there was just the hint of a tear in his eye.

At first, communications were strained. Madame Charpontier—assuming herself to be under attack by a rampaging monster—shot Grogsson twice, in the chest. Only after he mentioned it did I realize this was true. One of the bullets had not even penetrated his tough, hairy hide. The other had left a comically small hole and a trickle of thick blood. Torg would not allow me to examine him. He protested that such things happened to him all the time and, in truth, it didn’t seem to have injured him much.

After plucking the offending revolver from the landlady’s grasp and bending it to useless scrap, Torg demanded to know where Enoch Drebber was. It seems he’d momentarily forgotten Drebber was dead and had come to apprehend him. Madame Charpontier also had a copy of the paper handy, and used it to convince Torg that Drebber was… no longer in residence. Torg does not respond well when his plans go awry (even though they usually do), so he began making quite a lot of noise at that point and smashing furniture. Odd as it may sound, this proved to be an adroit strategy. It turns out that if someone of Grogsson’s size, temperament and state of undress begins doing this in one’s company, one will tell him almost everything one knows, in the hopes of finding some tidbit of information that will please him enough to end the rampage.

Madame Charpontier related that Drebber and Strangerson had checked out Friday night and that she was almost as glad to see them go as she would be to see Grogsson leave. Strangerson was a reasonable enough fellow, it seemed, but Drebber was prone to drink and carousing. Happy as Madame Charpontier had been for the near-criminal pound per day she had from each of them, she made it clear that they were not welcome to return. They had both left on Friday, just after eight in the evening to catch the train to Liverpool at a quarter past nine. (I took some satisfaction that I had guessed their purpose.) Some hours later, Drebber returned, much the worse for drink. It seems the two had missed their train by the matter of a few minutes. Strangerson had left for alternate lodging, thinking to meet Drebber there. Drebber had returned to Madame Charpontier’s boarding house claiming to have forgotten one item: Alice Charpontier. What Drebber lacked in sobriety, he made up in obscenity, offering a few choice suggestions for an… unconventional courtship.

Upon hearing this, Torg swore to kill Drebber (already dead) and, according to some sources, proposed marriage to young Alice once the deed was done.

She declined.

However, during this polite rebuff, Alice Charpontier let certain interesting facts come to light. Her honor had already been defended, she said. It seems the exchange with Drebber had awakened her brother Arthur. He was on leave from the Royal Navy and had turned in early, as the military schedule had become his custom. Though he had missed the earlier conversation, Arthur soon caught the gist of it and escorted Drebber out with some alacrity. In the street, Drebber offered a few parting comments that sent Arthur back inside to fetch the family cudgel. Arthur then claimed to have chased Drebber all the way down the street and halfway back up, until the latter staggered into a cab and made good his escape.

All of this was related to Torg, who gleaned nothing from it, except that Arthur Charpontier had motive, means and opportunity to kill Drebber. He elected to take young Arthur into custody, a process that consisted of a single blow to the face and a long drag across town to our place. It never occurred to Grogsson to take him to the police, his urge to brag being a larger portion of his character than his grasp of judicial process. Most of all, he seemed eager to talk to Lestrade.

“Stoopid Lestrade! Stoopid!” Grogsson laughed. “Him think Strangerman did it. Him chasing all over town when Torg have criminal! Torg!”

I had to approach my next sentence very carefully. “So, Grogsson, it is your opinion that Mr. Charpontier here
poisoned
Mr. Drebber?”

“Yah!”

“With a cudgel?”

“What you talking, Watson? Stick for hitting.”

“That’s right, Torg,” I agreed, “but remember: Drebber was not found beaten to death; he had been poisoned. Probably not with a stick.”

Torg stood for a moment. Blinked.

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

He raised his giant fists to smash the closest piece of furniture he could find—likely our table—and, for the first time, I got to see Warlock employ his gifts on purpose.

“Stop,” said Holmes, and Grogsson immediately did so, but not by choice. Understand that no visible force restrained him—it is hard to conceive of one that could. Not chains, but merely the
shadows
of chains sprung from the darker corners of the room and twined themselves not around Grogsson, but
his shadow
. He roared in frustration and strained with all his might, but could not move an inch.

“We’re not going to have any of that in here, Grogsson,” said Holmes. “Watson raises a fair point. Also, I like that table. Now, I’m going to let you go and we’re not going to have any more of this nonsense, are we?”

“But… but Lestrade make fun of me!” Grogsson complained.

“He may indeed,” Holmes agreed. “He’ll be here soon. He’s coming. I can feel him.”

Looking out the window, I realized he was correct. Lestrade was turning the corner onto Baker Street.

“No, he won’t make fun of you, Grogsson,” I told the giant. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so downcast. Something has happened.”

“Oh!” said Holmes eagerly. “The plot thickens.”

How nice for Mrs. Hudson that she got to answer the door once that morning to someone who didn’t make her scream. The third time is the charm, they say. I listened for Lestrade’s step on the landing but could not detect it. Nevertheless, he soon stood in the open doorway, wearing a hangdog look. I began to welcome him, but Warlock clapped a hand across my mouth and said, “Lestrade, how good to see you. You have permission to enter,
only once
, for the purpose of solving this case.”

Stepping through the doorway, Lestrade gave a resentful look and muttered, “You’ve no reason to fear me, Warlock.”

“Caution is its own reward, Lestrade. Now tell us, why have you come?”

“The same reason as always: some fool has got himself done in. I’m afraid I’ve located our Mr. Strangerson.”

I MADE TEA. IT WAS A DREARY SORT OF DAY AND BOTH
of our Scotland Yard friends had nothing else to savor but the bitter broth of professional defeat—a perfect day for Ceylon tea. Soon Warlock and I held steaming cups. For Grogsson, I filled our never-used watering can, though it still looked small in his hands. Lestrade also had a teacup. He held it close, as if treasuring the heat, but I never saw him drink. Arthur Charpontier didn’t touch his, either. As soon as we were all arranged in the sitting room, Lestrade sighed and began to recount his effort.

“I don’t mind telling you, I suspected Joseph Strangerson of the murder of Enoch Drebber. The two were from out of town. Who here would even know Drebber, much less where to find him? Would any Londoner have had the time to form a vendetta? It seemed to me Strangerson was my man. I began looking for him. I went about by night, peeping in windows and knocking on doors. I went to public houses, taverns, hotels and rooms to let, hunting him, always hunting. The dark hours fled, but still I searched, beneath the cursed sun. At last, I came to Halliday’s Private Hotel, on Little George Street. When I asked for Strangerson, the desk clerk said, ‘Finally, you’re here. He’s been waiting for you all day and all night.’”

“Oh? You told him you were Drebber?” I asked.

“No, but he assumed so and I saw no need to correct him. He was perfectly willing to take me up to the room, despite the early hour. We had not made it to the top of the stairs before I realized something was amiss. That wonderful smell… that rarest of blood. Most of the blood was Strangerson’s—a common brew, I’m afraid. But the killer’s blood—that most perfect draught—was there as well. I had the clerk open the door. Strangerson lay by an open window, still in his nightshirt, killed by a single stab wound to his left side. The murder weapon was still lodged in the body—a pearl-handled knife with an eight-inch blade. It struck him right to the heart.”

“Ha!” yelled Torg, who loved a good killed-in-a-single-blow story.

“Stabbed?” I cried. “But our man is a poisoner. Could it be there are
two
killers on the loose?”

Lestrade shook his head and insisted, “Same man. It would be strange indeed to find two killers with that same rare blood. Besides, look what I found in Strangerson’s mouth.”

Lestrade began divesting himself of Mr. Strangerson’s personal effects, which he had purloined from the crime scene, preferring our help to his colleagues’ at Scotland Yard. Sure enough, there lay the aged bakery paper.

“It is the same kind,” Lestrade said.

“It is, in fact, the same one!”

I went in triumph to the cupboard and withdrew the tiny corner I had torn from the wrapper. It fit exactly.

“By Jove,” breathed Holmes.

Grogsson seemed to care not at all. Lestrade was wonderstruck. “How on earth did he get it back?”

“Ask Holmes,” I said bitterly, adding, “And this time, we are keeping it! I’ve had quite enough of entertaining murderers, thank you.”

“As you wish, Watson,” smiled Holmes.

“So, you have seen the killer?” Lestrade asked.

“Rather.”

“Well, we are in luck,” Lestrade said. “He was also observed leaving the scene of the crime. A milk-delivery boy noticed a ladder propped against the wall of the hotel, under Strangerson’s window. He saw a man come down the ladder and run off for a nearby cab. Perhaps we can determine if it was indeed the same man. The milk-boy said he was tall—over six feet…”

“He was,” I answered.

“…red-faced and ruddy-haired…” continued Lestrade.

“Indeed.”

“…in a red and white gingham dress.”

“That is our man.”

“How fortunate,” said Lestrade. “We almost missed the witness entirely. Until I questioned him, the milk-boy assumed the killer was simply a cross-dressing carpenter of some sort, performing window maintenance in the dark.”

I made a mental note, on my sister’s behalf. Her son was so simple she worried he might never be employable. Perhaps he should become a milk-boy. “What is the rest of this?” I asked Lestrade, indicating the pile of personal effects he had deposited on the table.