Sherlock Holmes - Found Dead Read online

  We did so. The servant watching over the cottage was sent to keep observation at the back, and our conversation did not begin until I had stayed my inner man somewhat. The hamper was well filled, and hungry as I had been, there was sufficient food and wine to allay that more than adequately. At last I enjoyed a final mouthful of pork-pie, drained my glass, and moving the hamper to one side, I took a breath.

  “I could find no conclusive evidence of murder, however, as I said, there are anomalies and I am not convinced that the death was entirely natural. It is only fair to say that Dr. Sedgwick has another opinion, yet I believe mine is the more correct. A careful examination of the body showed interesting patterns of bruising. It also showed atrophy of the leg muscles, and it is my opinion that there is no way the man could have walked even the half-a-dozen steps to the fireside chairs without some support or assistance.”

  “Bruising?” Holmes said sharply.

  “Bruising in one armpit, more down a forearm—those look uncommonly like finger marks to me—and some interesting circular marks on his chest,” I explained. I said no more, and I could almost see my friend’s mind whirring.

  “Carried,” he said abruptly. “While he was unconscious, someone picked him up and carried him to that chair. The bruising was where a hand gripped his forearm, and the marks were the buttons on their coat.” He murmured to himself. “But what of the bruising under the armpit? Ah, yes. He was carried over the person’s shoulder and they took a grip there to let him down into the chair. Or perhaps to raise him into a seated position once he was in the chair.” And to me, “How was Melrose dressed when he was found?”

  “I am told that he habitually wore cotton pajamas. They say that when he was found, he was wearing those, with a warm dressing gown over the top of them.”

  “No doubt the dressing gown was added after he was placed in the chair. Had he been wearing it when he was moved, the marks of the buttons would not have been so clear,” Holmes suggested.

  I could contribute to that. “I would agree. Miss Bibi made a statement on finding the body, and she said that the dressing gown was not fastened at the front.”

  Holmes sat silently for some minutes. I poured myself a half-glass of a good quality wine, and relaxed. I recalled Sedgwick’s foolish accusations and reflected that he was luckier than he deserved, for had he said such to Temberton or Mr. Paget he would undoubtedly have paid. The man was a fool. Not even the only doctor for many miles around could casually state in public that the squire’s daughter was a loose woman and suggest that she was casting out lures. And on that latter, I only hoped that Miss Bibi’s father would not make the same assumption. Knowing the ways of a village, it would not be long before Sedgwick’s incautious words were carried to the two men anyway. The outcome of that would very likely be that the doctor would be removed from his position. He might not be paid by them, but a squire and a nobleman have great influence. In this case I thought them likely to use it.

  Holmes stirred, and I glanced across at him. “I cannot quite see my way, Watson,” he said soberly. “Why would a murderer—and I am not yet certain that it was murder—carry an unconscious man from his bed to a seat and leave him sitting there? What purpose does it serve? Did he know what was within the chair, and was he drawing attention to that, or was there another reason? The person must have been of reasonable strength.”

  I nodded. “That is so. I can tell you that despite a prolonged illness, Mr. Melrose weighed some eleven stone. In his prime he must have been a powerful man.”

  “Could you have carried him?”

  I considered. “Yes, but you must remember, Holmes, that a doctor is accustomed to moving patients at need. Sometimes it is more a trick of balance than brute strength. However, supposing the person who moved Melrose was not a doctor, and not so accustomed to moving such weight, he would indeed have to be fairly strong. It would not for example, have been a child, or even a small woman.”

  “A strong woman, perhaps?” Holmes suggested.

  “I would think it unlikely, unless she was a nurse experienced in handling heavy patients, and unless she herself was a large and strong woman.” I paused. “Nor, in my opinion, would a nurse carry a man over her shoulder. It is possible, but why would she wish to?”

  Holmes frowned. “But it is possible?”

  “Yes,” I agreed, and continued with some sarcasm. “But that presupposes a nurse with a grudge against Mr. Melrose, who sneaks into the cottage by a rear entrance—left fortuitously unsecured—in the middle of the night. Without showing a light she persuades him to drink laudanum, and once he is unconscious, she takes him up on her shoulder, seats him in a fireplace chair, pulls on his dressing gown, and departs, leaving him to die.”

  “From laudanum?” Holmes snapped. “You said nothing of that.”

  I nodded. “I can’t swear to it, I’m afraid. But while Miss Bibi is adamant that none beyond a normal day’s amount was gone, I examined his stomach contents. I feel certain that he was given as much as a double or triple dose, sometime in the evening, well after his last meal. As a result, death occurred in the early hours.”

  Holmes straightened in his chair. “That may shed some light on events,” he informed me. “You saw no sign that more laudanum was gone than should be?”

  I frowned. “It’s this way, Holmes. Sedgwick, perhaps to save himself trouble, provides a large bottle of the stuff each time a repeat prescription is required. A new bottle had been given only three days prior to Melrose’s death. If he received a double dose, in his weakened condition that might have been sufficient. Water could have been added to the bottle to make up the difference.”

  Holmes pursed his lips. “There was no bruising about the mouth?” I shook my head. “No sign of a blow to the head?”

  “No, Holmes.”

  “How then did he persuade Melrose to drink laudanum?”

  “He may have been offered it in some other medium, such as wine, coffee, or even strong tea. Melrose had taken a small quantity of alcohol at some time that evening. I could smell it in the stomach cavity.”

  “Given by someone he knew. Perhaps,” Holmes said, “someone with whom he felt comfortable asking them to make him a drink or to pour him one. Or someone who had brought him a bottle of wine. In short, someone known and trusted.”

  I saw that he could be right, but it disgusted me. “How could anyone do such a thing? What, poison a man who liked and trusted you? Sit there watching him drink, knowing he would die? Waiting for him to fall unconscious, then carrying the body from bed to chair, and all for what purpose, Holmes?”

  “That,” my friend said grimly, “he may tell us once we have him. Be very sure that I shall ask.”

  And with that he stood, picked up the repacked hamper, and, moving to the door, called in the waiting servant to continue his vigil at the cottage. We walked to the village green, alerted the driver that we wished to return to Temberton Manor, and climbed into our conveyance, returning to where Miss Bibi would, we knew, be waiting to hear of our latest discoveries.

  * * * *

  It was distressing to tell her what I discovered, but as we reached dessert, Holmes introduced a new angle on events which thus far had not been contemplated.

  “You have assumed, Miss Bibi, that any murderer must have come from the village, or at least from this area. What if that were not so?”

  She stared. “From where, then? London? But he taught there, why would someone so dislike a teacher?”

  “Ah,” my friend pointed out, “even teachers have private lives, and even as a teacher he may have offended someone. Did he ever talk of his days in the city?”

  Miss Bibi shook her head. “No, we talked of other things. However, I know where his papers are.”

  “Where…”

  Lord Temberton broke in. “I have them. Collin asked me to take charge of his will and a box containing his papers. The box is sealed, and I have not opened that. Once we are done here we can go to my study where I h
ave the box. Under the circumstances, I think it right to open it now.”

  That was done an hour later, and he parceled the contents out amongst we three gentlemen. Miss Bibi sat quietly watching our faces and waiting to hear of any useful discovery. I was first to speak when I turned over a half-sheet of paper containing a couple of scrawled sentences and dated some fifteen years earlier.

  “Holmes, Lord Temberton, here is an I.O.U. Is there anything about this in the will?”

  Temberton took the paper and frowned. “No, there is a list of debts he forgives upon his death, but this name is not amongst them.”

  Miss Bibi moved over to look at the paper and agreed.

  “I’ve never heard that name mentioned, either. But would someone kill for such an amount? Ten pounds? Even if this man could not pay it, I’m sure Collin would not have taken him to court. If you loan money to friends, you do not then sue them for such a sum.”

  “Nevertheless, I think we must find this debtor and investigate his circumstances,” Holmes said. “Let us continue and see what else may be found.”

  In the end there was more than expected. There were two more I.O.U.s of similar type and amount, each of the three marked with some unknown symbol, a letter angrily blaming Melrose for some event unspecified, another that spoke sternly, suggesting that Melrose should take more care in his dealings, and one final poignant item in an envelope at the very bottom of the box.

  Miss Bibi stroked the faded ribbon. “A keepsake, do you think? With that lock of hair, it must be. He never spoke of such a thing, yet he treasured it. And look!” She turned over the ribbon, moving aside the ringlet to reveal a tiny brooch. It was cheap and tawdry, being only brass and blue glass in the shape of a bluebird, the sort of fairing a man might win at a fair and give to his sweetheart.

  Holmes turned to our host. “You say that Melrose grew up here. You know of no one this may be in memory of?” Lord Temberton shook his head slowly. “Then, do you know where he resided first when he went to London?”

  “I do. Once he was qualified he went on to teach at F------ Preparatory School. My father gave him a reference and they took him on at once.”

  Holmes stood, still holding the six items we had culled from the box. “Then we shall begin our inquiries there.”

  We passed a quiet night, agreed that despite everything a watch should still be kept on the cottage, and caught the train to London the next morning. There we would seek out Melrose’s first school and discover what was said of him. Myself, I thought it would be of no importance, for a man does not keep such items if the affair ended badly.

  3

  In the event I was both right and wrong. We called on the headmaster—David Esterbrook—at the school next morning.

  “Yes, I knew Collin Melrose, we began here as teachers together. He was offered a better post and accepted it. I could not leave, as my invalid mother was only a street away and I lived with her. Four years ago, I was promoted to Headmaster. Melrose and I wrote to each other for some time after he left, but within five or six years that correspondence slowly fell away, and I have heard nothing of him since then. No, we were good friends while he was here, and I remember him kindly. But—are you looking for him? Why? He would never have done anything illegal, for he was a good man.”

  “He died,” Holmes said uninformatively, waiting out Esterbrook’s surprise and lamentation. “While he was here did he have a sweetheart?”

  Esterbrook hesitated.

  “It is a simple question, Mr. Esterbrook. Or is it the circumstances that are not so easy to answer?”

  “The circumstances are unpleasant,” Esterbrook said thoughtfully, “and no one but I knew her to be his sweetheart. Nor did I ever think him responsible.”

  With that Holmes pried out further information until we had the whole short, sorry little tale. In his third year at the school, Collin Melrose—being then barely twenty-one—had fallen in love with a girl, a maid at the school. Esterbrook spoke of her kindly, but it was clear that in his opinion the girl would not have been suitable as a schoolmaster’s wife. She was pretty, and while not exactly simple, she was uneducated, had no conversation, and few thoughts of her own. Within weeks of marriage she would have bored any intelligent man to drink.

  “Two months into their courtship he took her to a local fair, and they were separated. He found her after an hour’s searching, and she gave him a bluebird pin, saying she’d won it for him. I asked her later at what game she had obtained it and she fell into confusion and claimed she could not recall. Frankly, gentlemen, I did not believe her. Any game through which she obtained that pin was less than proper. No woman blushes and stammers so much for tossing quoits or hoops. After the fair she was more often in his company. He had a lock of her hair and said he would enshrine it as a brooch together with the bluebird pin.”

  “She died,” Holmes stated.

  “Er, yes. It was near three months after the fair. She was found dead in her room at the school and the scandal was hushed up. The headmaster never knew there was anything between her and Melrose, and Melrose swore he had not been responsible. I believed him!” That last was in mulish tones.

  Holmes made another pronouncement. “She was pregnant and procured an abortion.”

  Esterbrook looked at us. “That I cannot say, gentlemen. It may have been a natural event. All I can say is that she died from blood loss, whether natural or induced I do not know. I do know that Collin Melrose was not responsible.”

  “For which event?”

  “For any of them. I do not believe he would have taken her to his bed before marriage—and I know he intended marriage. Had he known her with child he would have married her, whether it was his child or no—supposing she thought of a good enough story for him—and I most assuredly believe that he would never have countenanced the abortion of a child he believed his.”

  “What, then, is your opinion of the events?” I asked, honestly wishing to know what he thought. He spoke tersely.

  “I believe she had a lover at the fair. She went to him and later, upon finding herself with child, she attempted to rid herself of that encumbrance, so she could marry my friend. I said nothing to him, for the affair cut him up very badly, and I never saw him look at another girl all the remainder of the time he worked with me.”

  He had no more to tell us, and we departed. I demanded lunch before we hunted out any other names from the box’s items. Once we were seated with food and drink, and keeping my voice low, I asked Holmes, “What did you make of that?”

  “I have known young men like Melrose. I think it unlikely he would have taken the girl to his bed, and had he done so, well, he grew up in the country, he would have known the possibilities. He would have spoken to her later, saying that should she find there were consequences, she must tell him, and they would be married at once. In which case she would not have taken such steps.”

  “Then you think the child was not his, and that she had done as Esterbrook thought?”

  “I do.”

  “And he never found another girl he loved,” I said, rather sentimentally.

  Holmes snorted. “It may be rather than he never found another girl he felt he could trust,” he told me. “It will be interesting to hear what is said on that subject at his other schools.”

  I may say that he was right, insofar as from those other places we were told clearly that Melrose had little use for women. He was polite, at times he was kind, but so little was he inclined to act as a beau, that at his second school there had been some talk as to his proclivities, and only for no evidence of that either, he might have been asked to find other employment.

  After lunch, we found another trail when Holmes listed the names on the I.O.U.s and one letter. The headmaster provided an address for a writer of one of the former notes-of-hand, who had been taught by Collin Melrose.

  “Yes, I recall the name,” Esterbrook confirmed when we revisited him. “John Brill was a pupil here almost twenty years ago. A
likeable boy, his father died some years ago and he inherited. He still comes to our school reunions now and then. His address? Certainly.”

  Brill was located outside London, so we postponed our visit and instead traveled to the address of another name on the I.O.U.s, which Holmes had discovered.

  I knocked on the door of a pleasant house in compact but well-tended grounds. The man who opened the door was typical of the middle-class, comfortable in his surroundings, running slightly to weight now that he was in his late forties. His clothes, while well-worn, had once been of moderately substantial cost, and were well-cared for.

  “Mr. Lawson?” Holmes inquired.

  “Yes?”

  “If we may, we would like to speak to you of the late Mr. Collin Melrose.”

  I saw the word ‘late’ register and he opened the door at once.

  “Mr. Melrose is dead? He cannot have been more than in his sixties! Come in, come in. Was it an accident? What can I do for you?” He bustled us into a parlor, all but thrust us into two chairs, and offered us anything we might care to drink. “Whisky, gentlemen? Gin and tonic, brandy, perhaps? Or I could provide tea?” We refused them all and he sat down, eyeing us from his chair.

  “I have not seen Melrose for years now, but a long time ago he did me a great favor and I have never forgotten. If there is anything I can do, you have only to tell me.”

  Holmes met his gaze. “Then tell us of the favor he did you.”

  And after a brief pause he did so. “I was sixteen. I thought myself no end of a fellow and up to all the tricks, but I was green as grass and I fell in with a dangerous crowd. I was persuaded to come with them to a gambling establishment. Oh, I’d know better now, but I fell for it then! At least I had the sense not to bet too deep, no matter how much drink I’d taken, and I knew that disappointed them. But for all that, I came away owing more than I could pay. They said they’d apply to my father. While he’d not have been angry, he’d have been disappointed in me, and I could not bear him to know how foolish I’d been.”