The Mayfair Murder
Chapter One
As I read through my notes pertaining to the cases of my singular friend, Sherlock Holmes, I occasionally find one of such peculiarity that it seems almost criminal not to share it with the public. Such was the case of the Mayfair Murder. Although it took place some years ago, I can recall it with perfect clarity.
It was on an unseasonably warm March day that Inspector Lestrade burst into our Baker Street rooms. Holmes, utterly focused on whatever vital experiment he was performing, merely waved an impatient hand towards a chair and otherwise ignored the interruption. I offered the man a sympathetic grimace as he subsided into the chair. He and his fellow Yarders had learnt to tolerate my friend's brusque manner in return for the invaluable insight Holmes could bring to a case.
However, five minutes had scarcely elapsed before Lestrade exclaimed, "Mr. Holmes, I'm aware that you're an extremely busy man, but would it be too much to trouble you with a matter of life and death?"
With a sigh, Holmes tenderly set down the beaker he was holding. "Not at all, Inspector," he said courteously. "It really is a trifling matter, simply a case of confirming my theory. Ah!" He glanced at the beaker. "As I suspected! If you'll just permit me to make a note of the results?" He scribbled briefly on a piece of paper already covered with numerous other jottings before turning and fixing the Inspector with that piercing gaze that was already so familiar. "Now, Inspector, how may I assist you in the case of poor Simon West?"
That Holmes had once again made the correct deduction was obvious from Lestrade's expression of mingled exasperation and admiration. He seemed determined to retain some dignity, however, and kept resolutely silent.
"All right, Holmes," I said, laying aside my book. "How did you know?"
"Simplicity itself, my dear Watson," he replied. I waited patiently for him to elaborate. "Observe the grains of sand that still adhere to the good Inspector's shoes. An unusual colour, wouldn't you say? I know for a fact that only one building firm in London uses sand of that particular hue. I also happen to know that this firm is at present working in the Mayfair district. From my perusal of this morning's papers I can tell you that a young man by the name of Simon West has been found in a Mayfair house, stabbed through the heart. It is not really so extraordinary to assume that the two are connected."
By the time he had finished, both Lestrade and I were chuckling at the ease with which he managed to confound us. Then the police officer seemed to recall the urgency of his mission
"You are quite right, Mr. Holmes. Briefly, the facts are these: at around six o'clock last night, a Mrs. Jamieson discovered the body of a young man in full evening dress, stabbed through the heart and lying stretched out in the best bedroom of No. 11, Finisterre Street. He had been dead at least eight hours, according to our doctor. As far as we can ascertain, there is not a trace of a clue to his killer, nor anything to hint at what he might have been doing in the house at that time."
"And very naturally you have come to see what light I may shed on the case." Holmes reached out a hand for his pipe. While he lit it, he continued, "But tell me, who is Mrs. Jamieson? How came she to make this grotesque discovery?"
"A local lady who 'does' for the owners of the house – the Penridge family, by the way – while they are abroad."
"Penridge, Penridge," said Holmes musingly. "I don't seem to recollect the name?"
"No reason why you should," returned Lestrade. "By all accounts they're a perfectly respectable lot. There's Mr. and Mrs. Penridge, he a Government man and she a Society beauty, and their daughter Catherine, all currently holidaying in Paris. There's also a son but he's serving abroad at present. We wired his commanding officer and that's all as it should be."
"Excellent," Holmes replied with a distracted air. I could see him turning the problem over in his mind. Suddenly, he appeared to come to a decision. "Come, Watson," he called as he rose from his chair. "To Finisterre Street!"
Following his directions had already become something of a habit, but even had it not I should still have been intrigued by this dark business. Pausing only to snatch up my hat, Lestrade and I pursued Holmes' angular figure down the steps.
______