Chapter Text
February 13th.—“‘Miss Morstan has done me the honour to accept me as a husband in prospective.’ Really, John?” Holmes laid down the freshly printed issue of Lippincott’s Monthly Magazine, his eyes twinkling with amusement.
“A little fictional romance won’t hurt,” I shrugged my shoulders. “And it will serve as a diversion if anyone wonders why you and I have been living together for nine years, and neither of us has married yet.”
“What did the actual Miss Morstan say about this?”
“She didn’t mind at all.”
“Your penchant for turning our cases into sensational literature is deplorable.” Holmes shook his head.
“But the public likes sensational literature,” I said. “And it’s a good way to attract new clients.”
“Portraying me as an unfeeling machine must also appeal to the public, no doubt,” Holmes said, raising an eyebrow.
“Precisely. It adds to the mystery and again prevents any untoward speculations. For heaven’s sake, Sherlock, why do I have to defend my writing every time?” I retorted.
Holmes laughed, and for a few moments his pale features brightened. I smiled back. I would gladly endure his teasing if it could help to dispel the deep apathy which had seized him after he had solved the previous case. Thankfully, there were signs of recovery: Holmes was sitting with me at breakfast and reading the morning post.
I often think how ironic it is that even in my diary I continue referring to him by his surname. It became a habit born of necessity to do so in letters and also in the published accounts of our adventures. There is no need to censor myself here, but the habit persists. The human mind is a queer thing.
Holmes browsed through the correspondence with an expression of a mild ennui, newspapers rumpled and tossed aside. My scribblings had not engaged his attention for long either. He rose and went to the mantelpiece; I already knew what for. I glared at him while he was taking a dose—ostentatiously—as if daring me to say something. But starting the day with a row would be pointless, for my remonstrances would have no effect on him. I picked at bacon and eggs on my plate gloomily.
“By the way, this might please you,” Holmes said, returning to the table and pushing a telegram towards me. It ran:
Found a ring matching your description. Pawnbroker’s at 10, Camberwell Road, Walworth.
N.
At first I stared at the message in confusion, wondering what it had to do with me, but then I remembered.
“My mother’s ring,” I gasped in disbelief.
“Perhaps,” Holmes said. “You can’t be sure until you check.”
“I shall certainly go there at once,” I said. “My appointments with patients start from half past eleven today, so there is still plenty of time. Would you care to accompany me? The weather is wonderful.”
“Why not,” Holmes replied listlessly.
We finished our breakfast and soon were in a cab on our way to the East End. Anticipation took hold of me. The ring, a family heirloom, had been lost long ago. Was there any chance to retrieve it? I couldn’t be at my poor mother’s side to comfort her in her last days. She had left me that memento of her, but my brother had pawned the ring, and it had been sold while I was still away.
The morning was chilly but windless, and smoke from chimneys was rising high in the clear blue sky. Sunlight was playing on the frosty windowpanes. The newly fallen snow shimmered, crunching under passers-by’s feet. Faces of people around were ruddy in the crisp air. The drive was quite refreshing to the senses, and some colour returned to my companion’s cheeks. He sat bundled in his heavy coat, his gaze distant and unseeing.
“Holmes?” I called.
“Hm?” He trained his eyes on me.
“How did you manage to trace the ring?” I asked. “Back then, when I came back to England, I learned the address of the man who had bought it, but he had moved out, and the neighbours knew nothing of his whereabouts. Advertising in the newspapers gave no results either as if he’d just vanished into thin air.”
“Yes, I remember you were upset about it,” Holmes replied. “I visited the neighbours in a disguise, asked them where the fellow worked, and found him in the docks. It was of little help. He had bought it for his wife but lost it in a card game the same evening.
“I went to the public house he named. Briefly, the facts are these: The ring had changed several owners over a few months, and apparently sailed away from the country with one of the seamen. There was slight hope that sooner or later it might emerge in a pawnbroker’s again. To tell the truth, I’m as amazed as you are.”
“But who would know which pawnbroker’s exactly and after so many years? Surely, the Baker Street Irregulars couldn’t do such a feat?”
“Oh, it is an acquaintance of sorts, returning an old favour.”
“Thank you,” I said, astonished.
Not only had Holmes stowed away my passing remark into his brain-attic, he had also looked into the matter. And at the time we had just met. It moved me so much that in spite of our being outside and in broad daylight, I ventured to slip my hand into his. A faint smile touched Holmes’s lips; he squeezed my hand and promptly released it.
“It may be a bit early for thanks, though,” he said.
We were now driving the shabby streets of the East End. On this clear sunny morning dirt and misery of bleak tenement houses was especially striking. It was easy to spot the pawnbroker’s by gaudy vases, cheap silverware, and various jewellery displayed in the dusty shop window. Over the entrance, there was a faded sign “BELLINGHAM” and the customary three gilt balls. A police constable was stationed by the door, warding off curious bystanders, and at the side of the road a hearse was waiting.
“Hullo, that’s unexpected,” Holmes muttered.
Having alighted from the cab, we made our way through the crowd. The constable recognised Holmes, so we entered the shop unhindered. A portly, florid-faced inspector turned around at the sound of the clinking bell.
“Mr. Holmes. Dr. Watson,” Athelney Jones greeted us in his booming manner. “What brings you here? There’s nothing unusual about this case. It’s just a domestic murder.”
Beside the counter of the semi-dark, cramped shop lay an elderly man, bald, wizened, dressed in a tattered brown suit. His pale eyes and his mouth were gaping, his wrinkled face contorted with a spasm of agony. The crown of his head bore a terrible deep wound; the death it had entailed must have been instantaneous. His collar was undone and the tie loosened as if he had been struggling for breath before he had met his end. A middle-sized axe, obviously taken from the rack with other pledged tools, was at his feet.
A woman somewhat younger than the dead man was sobbing, sitting on the chair in the corner of the room. The front of her plain, slate-coloured dress was besmirched with blood, as were her shaking gnarled hands. She was clutching a glass of water but too agitated to drink.
“We came by chance, regarding an item pawned in this shop,” Holmes said.
“I’m afraid this business of yours will have to wait indefinitely,” Jones replied.
“You won’t mind if Doctor and I look around since we’re here?” Holmes asked, already taking in details of the crime scene.
“If you wish. Although I doubt this occasion will find its way into another highly imaginative novel.” Jones gave me a wry smile. “Should I congratulate you on your marriage anniversary, Doctor?”
I did not dignify that with an answer.
“But what really became of Miss Morris—ah, Miss Morstan, that is?” Jones continued. “If memory serves, some months after the incident she departed to America with the family which employed her.”
“So I heard,” I replied curtly.
“It seems that our arrival has interrupted you, Inspector. Pray continue with the interrogation,” Holmes said.
Jones huffed and turned back to the woman, whose sobs had subsided a little.
“Once again, Mrs. Bellingham, do you insist that you found your husband in the present state this morning?” he asked.
“Why, yes, sir. I retired yesterday as usual, at ten. George has a habit o’ stayin’ up, ye see, for there could be belated clients,” Mrs. Bellingham said in a trembling voice. “We ha’ separate bedrooms, sir. I often don’t even know when he’s finished. I am a heavy sleeper and didn’t hear anything at night. When he didn’t show up for breakfast in the mornin’, I called out for him, but it was all quiet in the house.”
“You haven’t got a maid or an assistant?”
“No, George won’t hear of such expenses, he won’t. I went downstairs, and there he—he was a-lyin’. I thought I could help, but he was already cold—”
Her gaze travelled to the still form on the floor, and she burst into a violent fit of crying. Jones crossed his arms over his chest, looking impatient. I had a bottle of sedative in my bag, so I poured a few drops into Mrs. Bellingham’s glass and had her drink it.
Holmes, meanwhile, examined the body, the axe, and the space around, his keen grey eyes bearing no trace of languor, his movements deft, cat-like, full of energy. Time and time again I witnessed this transformation and couldn’t but marvel at it. Intense work would inevitably bring a severe reaction upon him, yet it also dispelled his black moods faster than anything. I joined him to observe the victim’s wound more closely.
“Was anything stolen?” Jones asked Mrs. Bellingham with a resigned air as if going through a formality.
“I didn’t notice. It appears not,” she stammered.
“Well, then, the picture is as plain as a pikestaff, and this performance is quite useless,” Jones asserted. “You’re all covered in blood, Mrs. Bellingham, and your footprints are everywhere. The people who called the police were hardly surprised, for the whole neighbourhood had been constantly disturbed by the rows of an ugliest sort between you and your husband. This morning must have been no exception, and here’s the outcome—”
“No!” Mrs. Bellingham shrieked. “I was telling the truth! We didn’t get on sometimes, but I would never kill him, I wouldn’t, I swear!”
“Sergeant,” Jones said to the policeman who was taking notes.
Handcuffs clicked upon the wrists of the pawnbroker’s wife. She was white as a sheet, shaking and weeping.
“One moment,” Holmes said. “If nothing was stolen, what’s this?”
From the open collar of the victim he pulled out a piece of string torn off at the ends and held it up between his long, thin fingers.
“Great heavens, his purse is gone!” Mrs. Bellingham gasped. “The poor dunce was so obsessed with money he carried large sums in a purse on his chest.”
“And how would you explain this?” Holmes picked up in the other hand a flat rectangular parcel about the size of a cigarette case, neatly wrapped in white paper and tied up with twine.
“I don’t know. Never seen it before,” Mrs. Bellingham replied earnestly.
“It lay beside the body,” Holmes said. “Mr. Bellingham must have tried to open it but only managed to loosen the knot which was very tight.”
“Let me,” Jones said, taking the parcel.
He turned it over in his hands, grunted, and started fumbling with the knot.
“What the devil,” Jones wheezed, “easier to cut it, ‘pon my word.”
Finally, the paper rustled, and when Jones looked inside, his chubby face lengthened.
“It’s a trifle unrelated to the murder. I don’t have time for this.” He scoffed and shoved the opened parcel back to Holmes.
It was a steel plate tied to a piece of wood. No markings, no inscriptions, absolutely nothing to give any clue as to the purpose of this odd item. It appeared to be some sort of a practical joke.
Holmes frowned and glanced at Mrs. Bellingham. She shook her head.
“I would also like to draw your attention, Mr. Jones, to the fact that the murder took place earlier than this morning,” Holmes said. “The blood was already thick and clotted when Mrs. Bellingham stepped into it.”
“He’s been dead for about nine hours,” I said.
“Exactly.” Holmes nodded. “The candle on the counter burned down to the socket. Now to the wound. The blow was made top-down, which means that the murderer was much taller than the victim, whereas Mrs. Bellingham is obviously short.”
“The parietal bone is badly broken, and the skull is twisted a little to the side,” I added. “Gravity was at work here, but still, such blow required a considerable strength which Mrs. Bellingham cannot possess.”
“Thank you, Watson. The weapon was carefully chosen among the tools on the shelf,” Holmes continued, gesturing towards the rack. “Not too cumbersome like this iron and not too light like this hammer. It was the one which ensured the fastest result. In other words, Inspector, it’s a calculated robbery rather than a crime of passion, and the culprit is a tall man, not the lady you arrested.”
“God bless you, sir!” Mrs. Bellingham cried.
“An interesting theory, Mr. Holmes, but, as usual, far-fetched,” Jones sneered. “There is no need to invent something fantastic. They had a row. She accidentally snatched a suitable tool, probably hit him on the leg—an examination at the mortuary will show—he fell, and she split his head open.
It makes no difference: she killed him not today, but yesterday. Then she fainted with the shock, came to only in the morning, and wailed in terror. The purse she hid, for she stated herself at first that nothing had been stolen, didn’t she? Sergeant, take her away.”
“No, no, it wasn’t like that at all,” begged the unfortunate Mrs. Bellingham while the constable was ushering her to the door and out, to the police van which had arrived.
“I suggest that you search the house and verify pledges with the ledgers,” Holmes said. “Perhaps more items disappeared, or perhaps you’ll find the purse if she hid it, as you say.” Holmes almost snorted. “Come now, Jones, you’ve always had a reputation for a diligent approach to the matter,” he added when Jones grimaced.
“Very well,” Jones conceded. “But since it’s your idea, you’ll help with the search because I don’t have enough people, and there’s a lot of domestics in town.”
“Certainly,” Holmes replied, undeterred.
“It’s eleven already,” I said, with a glance at an old clock on one of the shelves and then at my watch. “I must be off to make it to Mr. Archer in time.”
“Then see you later at Baker Street. I shall stay,” Holmes said, giving me a pointed look and suppressing a smile.
Excessive exertion in his weakened state was undesirable and could interfere with his recovery. He, of course, couldn’t care less if a case engaged his attention.
“Holmes, are you sure—” I started to object.
“Go to your patient, Watson,” he cut me off.
It wasn’t a place to argue, and so I went to my patient. According to the schedule, I had actually four: Mr. Archer, Mrs. Prescott, and the Upperton twins—all at the various stages of recovery from influenza. Thankfully, the peak of epidemic had passed. It was a journey to another world of a respectable, conventional life which shunned the grotesque and bizarre, which gave some sense of normalcy, and which was filled with routine and monotony.