Prompt from KnightFury: a jar of pickled herring and a lock pick.
Murder in the Parlor
It was an early morning in the spring of eighty-five when a runner came to 221B bearing a note scribbled on a torn scrap of foolscap. I answered the urgent knock at our door in my shirtsleeves and without my collar, having just finished shaving. The message was from a sometime acquaintance of mine, Mr. Harrold Berry, an editor for the Strand Magazine.
Dr. Watson, it read. Please come at once to my home. There has been a terrible tragedy and I am in need of your aid. If at all possible bring your friend. Promise him anything, only bring him at once. The police have been summoned.
H. Berry
The man had been so distressed he had not even thought to write his address and I had to call back the lad who had brought the message in order to learn it. Holmes, intrigued by the message when I showed it him, had instantly agreed to accompany me. Some twenty minutes later we were stepping down from a four wheeler in front of Harrold Berry's home situated in a pleasant, middle class neighborhood. A young police constable was standing at the front door and gave us a cool, appraising look as we mounted the step to the little portico.
"Sorry, sirs," said he, raising a hand. "No one is allowed to enter. Police business."
"I'm Dr. John Watson," I retorted a little warmly and held up my bag as evidence of my profession. "Mr. Harrold Berry, the owner of this home, summoned me."
"Oh," said the constable, looking less cool and sure of himself. He seemed to consider his position for a moment and then said, "I don't know what you can do, Doctor. The lady has snuffed it… I mean, sir, she has died already. Forgive me, sir."
"In that case," put in Holmes, "it is the duty of Dr. Watson to examine the deceased and sign a death certificate."
The constable looked even more doubtful, but made up his mind. He opened the door and called into his sergeant, "Doctor is here, sir."
"Doctor?" called back a gravelly voice. "Let him in, Dukes. Let him in."
Constable Dukes then swung the door wide for us and even tipped his helmet respectfully as we passed inside. We were met in the entrance hall by a short, jowly constable sergeant who was wiping grimly with a handkerchief at blood on his fingers.
"Mrs. Berry is past helping, Doctor," he said, his tone as grim as his expression. "A true pity it is, sir. Terrible thing. Just terrible."
"Where is she?" I asked, hoping the sergeant was wrong.
"I'll show you," he said and turned, leading us through the lobby and up the main staircase to the first floor. We turned toward the back of the house to a well-lit lady's parlor. Only paces from the door we saw Mr. Berry kneeling beside the body of a woman lying upon her back before him. A stain of blood matted the hair on the right side of her head and discolored the fine weave of the carpet.
"Mr. Berry, sir," the sergeant said gently as we entered the room. "The doctor is here, sir."
Berry looked up with damp eyes. He was a man only a year or two older than I, yet his haggard countenance made him seem quite aged with grief. He laid aside his late wife's hand and rose unsteadily to his feet.
"Dr. Watson," Berry said thickly. "I thank you for coming, though, you are too late to help Joanna."
"I am sorry, Berry," I said, shaking his hand before kneeling to examine his dead wife.
It was with no great difficulty I discovered the cause of her death. A blow had been struck her to the side of her head. It was powerful enough to crush her skull and split her scalp. Blood was no longer flowing, but there was a considerable amount of it on her face and neck as well as the carpet.
"I believe the lady surprised a burglar," the constable sergeant said. "The maid said she heard a racket up here and came to investigate. A man she describes as large, wearing laborer's clothes was standing over the lady with that poker."
The sergeant pointed at a rack holding the usual fireplace implements.
"Sergeant, perhaps you could take Mr. Berry to another room while I finish here," I suggested. It would do Berry no good to hear the clinical details of the crime, and it would certainly add to his obvious distress to remain with his dead wife.
"Of course, Doctor," the sergeant agreed. "Mr. Berry, if you please, sir."
Somewhat unwillingly Berry followed the sergeant out of the parlor. Holmes, I noticed, was peering around the room. I had expected him to begin inspecting it in detail as he normally did to every crime scene, but he simply stood and used his eyes for several minutes while I completed my examination of the late Mrs. Berry.
"Well, Watson?" he asked as I closed my bag and began to rise.
"Crushed skull," I told him. "A hard blow. Enough to split her scalp. Her left eye is dilated. No appreciable swelling of the wound. I would say she died within minutes of the attack."
"Would it have taken the strength of a large man to produce this kind of wound?" he asked.
"Not at all," I said. "The human skull is impressively resilient, but even a young boy could swing a fire poker hard enough to do this."
Holmes gave a nod and then knelt where I had. He spent only a minute examining the wound on the side of the woman's head before he rose and went to the rack of tools next to the fireplace. He did not touch the poker, rather, he knelt next to the rack and briefly used his magnifying lens.
"A good quality set," Holmes observed absently, rising. He began pacing carefully around the room, inspecting first the mantelpiece and then the various side tables and shelves. "Several items are missing. It looks as though picture frames were taken from the mantel and some sort of statuette from that table. Something else from the shelf by the window."
"Burglary looks like the motive, then," I said.
"Thievery, certainly, Watson," said he with a quick glance at the doorway. "How well do you know Mr. Berry?"
"Not particularly well," I admitted. "We have had tea together twice and three meetings to discuss some of my submissions."
"Has he ever struck you as the sort to do away with his wife?"
"Not at all!" I said, surprised Holmes would suggest such a thing given the man's obvious distress.
"He does not strike me in that way, either," said Holmes musingly.
There came the sound of the front door opening and footsteps on the floor below.
"Sergeant Warren?" called a voice I thought I recognized. Holmes smiled thinly as he crossed the room to stand near me.
"Up here, sir," the sergeant called back.
The footsteps mounted the treads of the stairs and a moment later the rumpled form of Inspector Michael Lake appeared at the head of the staircase. Sergeant Warren met him and they exchanged a few brief words. Holmes rocked forward and back, apparently suppressing some mirth at the arrival of the inspector. Lake was not a man I had seen many times. Not very senior at the Yard, he was normally relegated to inconsequential crimes in the lower class districts of London. In his rumpled check suit and battered bowler hat he looked out of place in this neatly kept home. The sergeant gestured in our direction and Lake glanced our way. He had already begun to turn away when Holmes' presence registered on him and he looked back with some surprise. His face fell into a frown and he strode into the parlor.
"Mr. Holmes," said the inspector severely. "What are you doing here, sir?"
"We were summoned," said my friend, holding out the scrap of paper on which the note had been written.
Lake took it and read the words before handing it back to Holmes. He said nothing for a time, looking down at the dead woman on the carpet and chewing his lip as he thought.
"I suppose there is no keeping you out of this," Lake said at length. "The sergeant told me the maid has a description of the man that did this."
"Apparently," Holmes said.
"I'll question Mr. Berry first," said Lake, looking down the hall towards the front room. "You can accompany me, but allow me to ask the questions. You can speak with him when I'm through."
"As you like, Inspector," said Holmes mildly, though I saw the corner of his mouth curl ever so slightly.
We followed Lake to the front room, a gentleman's drawing room that looked out over the street. Berry was seated near one of the windows, a slack expression on his face. Though it was still early in the morning he held a glass of brandy in his hand. Lake introduced himself as he took out a notepad and pencil.
"Where were you when this occurred, Mr. Berry?" asked Lake.
"Taking my morning stroll," replied the grief stricken husband. "Normally, Joanna accompanies me. She was not feeling well this morning, though. She complained of a headache. I do not believe she slept well last night."
"What time did you leave the house, sir?" asked Lake, jotting on his pad.
"About six thirty," Berry said and took a sip from his brandy.
Lake took a dented silver watch from his waistcoat pocket and checked the time, noting it on his pad.
"And what of your servants, sir?" asked Lake.
"We have only two," said Berry. "A cook and a maid. Mrs. Spears, our cook, is in Devon visiting her sister for a few days. Her sister is ill, you see. Miss Trent, our maid, was downstairs preparing breakfast, I think."
"Where is Miss Trent now?" Lake asked.
"I left Lessie in the kitchen," Berry replied. "I heard her calling when I came through the door after my walk. The man had locked her in the pantry. I let her out and the poor girl flung herself on me, half out of her mind. It took me several minutes to get any sense out of her. When I understood a man had been in my home and something had happened to my wife, I rushed up here. That was when I found Joanna."
"Why did you send for Dr. Watson and Mr. Holmes?" asked Lake.
"Dr. Watson is a physician I am acquainted with and know to be reliable," Berry said. "Mr. Holmes is a man I know by reputation. It seemed to me the pair of them would be of great help in this situation. I am not sure I was thinking very clearly."
"Clearly enough to send for the police and these gentlemen, sir," said the inspector, not without some compassion. "Forgive me for asking, but was your wife still alive when you found her?"
"I don't know," Berry said miserably. "She might have been. I don't know."
"I see." Lake made another note. "Do you recall what time you returned home, Mr. Berry?"
"Some time after seven, I should think." Berry straightened and looked up at the ceiling in thought. "It normally takes me half an hour to finish my walk. Yes. Shortly after seven would be about right."
"Thank you, Mr. Berry," Lake said and glanced at Holmes.
"Mr. Berry," said my friend, drawing Berry's attention. "Did you touch anything in the parlor when you found your wife?"
"I do not think so," he said. "I rolled Joanna onto her back and felt for her pulse and listened for her heartbeat. When there was none I believe I knelt there for several minutes before going down to the front door and summoning a passing lad to fetch a constable. I then wrote the note I sent to you and had the lad take it when he returned with the constable."
"So you did not touch the poker?" Holmes asked.
"No," Berry said with a shake of his head. "Why would I?"
"Where was Lessie while you were summoning the constable and writing the note?" asked Holmes, ignoring Berry's question.
"In the kitchen, I presume" Berry replied. "As I said, I left her there when I came up here."
"Sergeant, go and make sure Miss Trent is still there," Inspector Lake ordered. "Get a more detailed description of the man she saw. Remain with her until I come."
Sergeant Warren gave a curt nod and left.
"Did you notice anything missing from your wife's parlor, Mr. Berry?" asked Holmes.
"I did not," the man said and hung his head, on the verge of being overcome by his grief once more.
"Have you any idea how the man was able to enter your home?" my friend asked.
"No," Berry said, mastering himself again. He dabbed at his eyes and mouth with a handkerchief and looked up with red rimmed eyes. "We keep the garden doors locked. I suppose he could have somehow jimmied them. I don't know, Mr. Holmes."
"Holmes," said I. "I think that is enough for now."
"Inspector Lake," said Holmes, turning to the rumpled man. "Best we question the maid, don't you think?"
Lake gave a nod. Turning to Berry he said, "I'll send my sergeant up, sir. If you need anything, tell him."
Berry slumped back into his chair and drained his glass with a nod. We left him to his grief.
"Odd that he should mention only the garden doors," commented Lake as we descended the stairs.
"It is natural for a man to assume a burglar entered from the rear of the house," Holmes disagreed. "It is far more likely than a burglar entering through the front door."
"Perhaps you are right, Mr. Holmes," Lake replied, though he did not sound entirely convinced. "Why did you ask about the poker, sir?"
"Did you not observe it with the other tools in the rack?" asked my friend.
"I did, actually," Lake said and gave my friend a sharp look. "It is odd, isn't it?"
"I hadn't considered that," I admitted. "Why would a murderer take the time to return the weapon to where he got it?"
"Habit, Watson," said Holmes.
When we reached the ground floor Inspector Lake made for the servant's stair, apparently intent on interviewing the maid. Holmes, however, turned his steps to the dining room which was situated at the back of the house immediately below the parlor where Mrs. Berry met her end. Lake and I exchanged a brief look and followed. A set of four large French doors gave a view of a small, rather pleasant garden. One of the left hand doors had a pane knocked out of it and there were some shards of glass on the floor.
"It seems Mr. Berry was not wrong about how the burglar entered," Lake said with a speculative frown.
"Inspector," said Holmes, gazing at the broken glass. "Why is the glass here instead of at the foot of the door?"
Holmes' observation prompted me to look more closely. I am, of course, no match for my friend in such matters, but it seemed the glass had fallen in an odd place several inches from the door and somewhat to the left of where I would have expected it to land. Inspector Lake's frown turned from speculative to troubled. He shot a furtive glance at Holmes then returned his attention to the shards of glass.
"Perhaps they were moved when the burglar opened the door to enter, Mr. Holmes," he said at length.
Holmes raised an eyebrow at Lake and casually reached out to open the door. He found it was locked, so turned the key and swung the door open. It glided silently on well-oiled hinges and never touched the glass on the floor.
"It may be nothing, Inspector," said my friend looking at the Yard man seriously. "Then again, this is an odd place for the glass to have fallen."
"It was probably flung there when the man smashed the pane, Mr. Holmes," Lake said dismissively, clearly frustrated and uncomfortable.
"He must have been a very inept burglar to use so much force when it would have taken considerably less to break the glass," observed Holmes mildly. "And shattering the pane in this manner would have made a great deal of noise compared to simply cracking it and then removing the pieces."
"The man was obviously desperate, Mr. Holmes," Lake said sententiously. He raised his chin and puffed out his chest as if that would intimidate Holmes into silence. "He was breaking into a house in broad daylight, after all. Not to mention the fact that he murdered a lady in the bargain."
"Desperate," Holmes murmured with a nod. "I think in that you and I are agreed. I find it very odd that the man relocked the door upon exiting the house in so desperate a state of mind, though."
"Criminals do foolish things, as you well know, Mr. Holmes," Lake said and turned back for the servants' stairs.
"Poor Lake," murmured my friend. "He should not have been promoted to inspector."
"Why's that, Holmes?" I asked.
"He made a remarkably good constable, Watson," said Holmes. "His promotion was a reward for putting a stop to a mob intent on lynching an innocent man they believed had abused a young girl. He later apprehended the real culprit and was made inspector because of it."
"That speaks well of him, at least," I said, not understanding Holmes' assertion.
"It does," Holmes agreed. "Only, you see, he apprehended the man in the act of committing another such abuse of a child. There was no detection in it, Watson. He simply happened to pass at the moment the crime was being committed. To Lake's credit, he knows he is unsuited to being an inspector. He tries very hard, but he has no aptitude for the work. We should catch him up before he gets in over his head with the maid."
We found Inspector Lake and Sergeant Warren sitting at a large kitchen table with a young woman in servant's livery, a pot of tea and a pair of plain china cups before them. The sergeant looked up and rose as we approached.
"Miss Trent," said Lake. "This is Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson. They are here at the request of your employer."
"Sirs," said Lessie politely, stood and curtsied.
"Sergeant," Lake said. "Let Mr. Holmes have a look at the description of the man, then go back up and see what you can do for Mr. Berry. The man shouldn't be left alone at the moment."
Warren fished a folded piece of paper from one of his pockets and handed it over. He was about to leave when Lake stopped him.
"An ambulance should be arriving soon, Sergeant. Show the attendants where Mrs. Berry is."
"Very good, sir," Warren said and left to attend his duty.
Lake placed his note pad in front of him and bade Lessie to return to her seat. He asked a few questions that verified where the young woman had been when Mr. Berry found her. While he did so Holmes handed me the description of the burglar. It read, Tall, heavy built with red hair and a black derby hat. The man wore a dark brown jacket and black trousers with a blue striped white shirt. No waistcoat. Rough-out work boots. No scars or other identifying marks.
"Mr. Holmes?" Lake asked when he had done questioning the maid.
"You were locked in the pantry. Is that correct, Lessie?" Holmes asked.
"It is, sir," she said and put her hand to her mouth, her jaws clinching and tears brimming at the corners of her eyes. "I was so scared, sir! I didn't know what to do."
"You discovered the man standing over your mistress, Lessie," Holmes said. "Why did you go upstairs?"
"I heard noises, sir," she said. "I thought Mister and Missus was out on their walk and had no notion of what it could be. I went up there and he was stood over Missus glaring, with that poker in his big hand."
"And what did you do then?" my friend asked.
"I ran back down here," she said with a broad gesture indicating the whole of the downstairs. "He followed me, sir. And when he caught me he pushed me into the pantry and locked the door. I screamed for help and pounded on the door, but it were no use."
"And it was Mr. Berry who let you out?" Holmes asked.
"It was," she affirmed with a nod.
"Do you normally keep the key to the pantry in the lock?" asked Holmes.
"No sir," she said. "We don't bother locking the pantry with just Cook and me. It's kept on a hook with the other keys, sir. There by the door."
I noted a row of nails driven neatly into the wainscoting of the wall next to the doorway leading out to the rest of the servants' area. Only one nail was bare.
"Where is the key now, Miss Trent?" Inspector Lake asked.
"I don't know," she said. "I suppose Mr. Berry kept it after he picked it up off the floor to unlock the pantry, sir."
"What were you doing when you heard the noises from upstairs?" asked Holmes.
"I was getting things ready for breakfast, sir," she said. "Mrs. Spears is gone to see her sister and it's on me to make the meals. I know how to cook, you see. I'm not as good as Mrs. Spears, but me mum taught me."
"So you were here in the kitchen," Lake said and jotted a note on his pad.
"Where was it that this man caught you, Lessie?" asked Holmes.
"In the hallway, sir," she said. "I was trying to get in here so I could get a knife and defend meself, sir."
"I see," said Holmes and glanced out into the hallway. "You never reached the kitchen, then."
"I did not. No," she confirmed.
"When Mr. Berry released you, did he say anything to you?"
"He asked how I got locked in the pantry and he wanted to know if I was alright, sir," she said. "I told him about the man and that missus was maybe hurt bad. He sat me down right here and dashed off like a shot. I heard him cry out. It was so sad to hear him, sir. I heard him moving about for a bit. I remember he called a lad and I remember the constable getting here a few minutes later. Things have been quieter since the constable arrived."
"When you were in the pantry, Lessie, did you hear the burglar leave?" Holmes asked.
"I heard the garden door close," she said with a nod.
"Thank you, Lessie," Holmes said politely. "If you do not object, Inspector, I would like to have a look at the pantry."
"I see no harm in it, Mr. Holmes," Lake said as he continued to make a few notes on his pad.
The pantry door stood partly open with an oil lamp illuminating the room beyond. Holmes paused to inspect the lock before pushing the door the rest of the way open. He examined the back of the door briefly before waving me to join him.
"Uncommon, Watson," he said pointing to the lock.
"I don't understand, Holmes," I said. The lock seemed common enough.
"Most pantry doors lock only from the outside, Watson," he said. "This lock seems to be of the same variety as those in the rest of the house. A keyhole on either side of the door."
"Is it significant?" I asked.
"Very," said he without explanation.
I was going to inquire why he felt it was, but Holmes moved away in that smooth, predatory fashion I so often noted when he was onto something. With the oil lamp in hand he carefully inspected the shelves of the pantry, going over them meticulously one by one.
"Here we have it, Watson!" he exclaimed suddenly. "Just the thing! Take a look and tell me what it is you see."
I blinked. I am sure my expression said I thought Holmes was mad. My expression did not deter him, however. He thrust his discovery into my hands and stared me in the eyes until I shrugged and examined the item that had excited him.
"Pickled herrings," I said.
"No, Watson!" he snapped, though he kept his voice low enough to not be heard outside of the room. "Use your eyes, man! Really look at it."
I felt quite foolish and it passed through my mind that Holmes might be making sport of me. It seemed unlikely in circumstances so serious, though. I lifted the glass jar closer to my eyes and slowly turned it back and forth so that the light fell on every surface. As I inverted the jar to have a look at the bottom, the liquid inside began to run out and I quickly righted it.
"It's been opened," I said, beginning to understand my friend's interest.
"Obviously, Watson."
"Is that what you wished I should observe?" I asked.
"Only part of it," said he. "Do you note anything about the wire clasp of the jar?"
Curious, I worked the catch and discovered the hinge was bent. When I attempted to lever up the glass lid it slipped free of the thick wire that should have held it to the jar.
"Someone seems to have pried the wire off and restored it, Holmes," I said.
"Yes," he agreed and took the jar from me. I expected Holmes to make some startling revelation. Instead he walked from the pantry and down the hallway to the kitchen. I followed eagerly on his heels.
"You shouldn't distress yourself overly, Miss Trent," Inspector Lake was saying to the maid when we reentered the kitchen. "I believe in short order we will apprehend the man who did this."
"You will apprehend no man for this crime, Inspector Lake," said Holmes and set the innocuous jar of pickled fish on the table in front of Lessie. The young woman's eyes went wide and her cheeks drained of color.
"What's this about, Holmes?" demanded the inspector crossly. He reached out to pick up the jar and nearly spilled it when the lid came free. "Damn it, sir! This is no time for jokes!"
"In that you are very right, Inspector," Holmes said. His eyes were focused entirely on the maid as she continued to stare at the jar. "I think it is time you told us about this, Lessie."
"I don't know nothing 'bout it!" she said too quickly. Her eyes slid from the jar and she refused to look any of us in the face. Gone was the fearful, grieving maid. She was replaced now by a tense, fretful young woman with the look of an animal in a trap.
"Mr. Holmes?" Inspector Lake sounded less truculent than a moment before. He might have been ill-suited to being an inspector, but he could see as plainly as I the change in the maid.
"There was no red haired man in working clothes, was there, Lessie?" asked Holmes mildly.
"Yes there was!" she snapped and shot a hard look at my friend, but she could not hold his gaze and turned away once more. In a more subdued tone she said, "He chased me and locked me in the pantry. It's just as I said."
"Inspector, might I suggest you go and ask Mr. Berry where he found the key to the pantry and where the key is now?" said Holmes. "The doctor and I will wait until you return before asking any other questions."
Lake glanced at Lessie and rose. I noticed her gaze slide to what I took to be a broom closet as the inspector departed. She seemed unusually quiet for a woman who had recently been so distressed. Lake was gone for a few minutes and when he returned he held up a small iron key for us to see.
"Mr. Berry said he found it in the middle of the hallway floor," Lake told us. "Apparently he put it in his pocket after releasing Miss Trent."
"I told you that's what happened," the maid said, glaring daggers at my friend.
"She did say so, Mr. Holmes," Lake agreed.
"Is it not odd that a murderer who had been so careful to return the poker he used to kill a woman to the rack with the other tools, and who had been so courteous as to relock the garden door when he left the house, should then be so slipshod as to drop the key to the pantry in the middle of the floor rather than return it to the nail where it belonged?" Holmes asked slowly. His eyes studied the maid as he spoke. "And how is it that you knew where your master found the key, Lessie?"
"He told me," she said with a scowl.
"You said he asked how you got locked in the pantry and if you were alright," said Lake, his expression turning hard and calculating as he regarded the girl. "You said he rushed off upstairs when you told him about the man breaking in and about his wife being hurt."
"Then I must have seen the killer throw the key down," she said.
"There is no window in the pantry door, Lessie," said Holmes evenly. "The only way you could have known where your master found the key was if you had put it there. More than that, how is it you could not escape the pantry while the murderer came in here, found the correct key among the others and then returned to lock the door?"
Lessie bit her lip and stared hard at the floor, saying nothing.
"Mr. Berry did say the door was locked, Mr. Holmes," Lake said. "Is it that you believe he and the maid worked together to murder his wife, sir?"
"Not at all, Inspector," said Holmes. "I believe Mr. Berry is innocent. His emotional state strikes me as genuine. Miss Trent's emotional state, on the other hand, is a false front. The tears she shed earlier were not of grief or fear, Inspector. I noted she put her hand to her mouth and I saw how her jaw muscles tightened before her tears came. She bit the inside of her cheek."
"How could she lock the pantry door if the key was on the hallway floor?" I asked.
"Would you like to tell us, Lessie?" asked Holmes.
"I couldn't lock that door with no key!" she said. "The red haired man locked it. He put me in there and then locked the door and left me."
"Why would a man who had committed one murder balk at committing a second?" asked Holmes. "Never mind. I will show you how the door was locked from inside without a key. Come with us, Lessie."
The girl was reluctant to comply but came along meekly enough when Lake took her by the arm. Holmes picked up the jar of herrings and led the way to the pantry.
"Observe, Inspector," he said and removed the wire hoop that had held the glass lid to the jar. He inserted the looped end of the hoop into the lock and gave it a twist. As easily as if he had used the actual key the bolt moved and engaged. Holmes twisted the piece of wire again and the bolt returned to the open position. He said with a thin smile, "It is almost a readymade pick lock."
"What have you got to say about this, young woman?" demanded Inspector Lake. The girl tried to pull away but he restrained her none too gently. "Why'd you do it? Why'd you kill your mistress, eh?"
The girl screamed and began to cry genuine tears this time. She pulled away from Lake and cast about for some way to escape. Lake's grasp of her arm was too strong for her to break and she struck at him with her free hand. He caught her wrist and pushed her back against a wall, scowling furiously as Lessie continued to protest her innocence and demand to be let go.
From above came pounding feet. Sergeant Warren stormed down the servants' stairs and burst in on the scene having been alerted by Lessie's cries.
"Take the girl, Sergeant," Lake ordered. "Put the darbies on her and escort her to the station."
"The charge, sir?" Warren asked, taking the weeping girl.
"Murder," said Lake. He turned to my friend as the sergeant all but carried Lessie upstairs. "Why did she do it, Mr. Holmes? Do you know?"
"Theft, Inspector," Holmes replied. "Let us have a look in the kitchen broom closet."
What we found was a burlap sack containing three silver picture frames, a small pewter statue of an angel and a mother of pearl music box. Also in the closet was a rosewood box of silver dinnerware.
"Good Lord," murmured Lake. "Killed her mistress for this? Why?"
"You will need to ask her yourself, Inspector," said Holmes. "I do not believe she set out to do murder, though."
"A woman is dead, nevertheless," I said.
"Indeed, Watson," agreed Holmes.
"Why did she kill Mrs. Berry?" Lake asked again. "I just don't understand."
"Mr. Berry told us that he habitually goes for a stroll in the mornings and that Mrs. Berry would normally accompany him," said Holmes. "Miss Trent must have decided to leave their employ for some reason. Given that she was stealing these items we can conclude she harbored feelings of resentment towards her employers. She waited until she heard the front door close and proceeded to collect items of value that she could quite easily fence. The music box alone would bring several pounds. While she is in the parlor Mrs. Berry surprises her. Miss Trent could not have known her mistress was still home. Likely, Mrs. Berry berated the girl and probably threatened to call the police. Miss Trent seized the poker and struck, killing her mistress. Seeing what she had done the girl thought quickly and enacted the plan we have just uncovered."
"Surely she could have just fled the house, Mr. Holmes," Lake said.
"Had she done so she would have been sought for murder," Holmes pointed out. "Locking herself in the pantry was the most intelligent part of her plan. Had we not discovered the method she used to work the lock from inside, the police would be searching for a large, red haired man and Lessie would be free to profit from her crime. She might have remained in Mr. Berry's employ for some time, stealing items he would not miss. It is too difficult to say how she would have proceeded."
In the days that followed, Inspector Lake paid us a visit at Baker Street. He explained that Mrs. Spears, the cook, had been found and questioned. She told the police that the Berrys had informed Lessie they could no longer afford to keep her on as their maid and were going to let the girl go when she, Mrs. Spears, returned from nursing her sister. During questioning the girl finally confessed to her crime. Her reason for turning to theft was that she wanted to have enough money to sail to the United States where she could begin a new life. As Holmes had surmised the murder was an act of desperation in response to Mrs. Berry's threat to have her arrested. Lessie had gathered the items she wanted and rushed to the garden door, knocked out the pane of glass and then rushed down to the kitchen where she took the pantry key from the nail and cast it on the floor. She secreted her loot in the broom closet and then locked herself away in the pantry using the piece of wire. She explained it was a trick she had learned from her mother who had once been locked in a closet by the girl's father after an argument.
Miss Lessie Trent was spared from execution due to her age and because the murder was not premeditated. She will be starting a new life, after all, in an Australian penal colony. A sad end to a very sad affair.
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