The Mysterious Vagrant
In late January 1899, my wife Mary received a telegram inviting her to visit her former employer, Mrs. Cecil Forrester, who had retired to a small village in Cornwall and desperately desired to see her "dear Mary" again. I had protested when Mary first told me she intended to make the trip, for I couldn't bear the thought of being without her for an entire week. I quickly relented however when she informed me that Mrs. Forrester had no remaining kin and probably wasn't long for this world.
On the second night after Mary's departure, I found myself sitting in front of a crackling fire in my sitting room while absently reading the late edition of the paper in between sips of warm brandy, the tick-tocks of the grandfather clock and steady snowfall outside my only companions.
I eventually lost interest in the day's happenings and moved on to a lengthy novel I had tried to start several times. I passed a few forgettable hours in this fashion and began to feel drowsy, the dull narrative and sedating brandy taking their effects. Just as I was drifting off in my chair, a sharp ring of my doorbell jolted me back into consciousness.
The clock showed the time to be half past eleven. A call at this hour could only mean one thing – a patient was in desperate need of my services. "So much for a good night's sleep," I said to myself as I slid my feet into my slippers and ran over to my front door. You can imagine my surprise when, pulling aside the privacy window curtain and peering out into the snowy night, I was greeted by the familiar form of a man in a grey coat and deerstalker cap at the foot of my front steps, standing in front of a waiting hansom.
I pulled my coat off the rack, fumbled my arms into the sleeves and opened the door.
"Holmes!" I called out.
"Good evening, Watson" Holmes replied genially, as if his presence were the most natural and expected thing possible.
"Holmes, what are you doing here? Is everything all right?"
"Besides this weather, yes. I've merely stopped by to see if my old friend and biographer might be game for a trip to Limehouse."
"Limehouse?! At this hour?"
"I'm afraid so. I wouldn't have knocked you up to propose such an outing if I hadn't seen your sitting room light on and it weren't so apparent that your wife is out of town."
I leaned back against the frame of my door, unable to suppress my amusement.
"No, no, no, Watson. Don't ask. It's too trifling."
"But, Holmes, how could you possibly …"
"Because, my dear fellow," Holmes said with a dramatic sigh, "I'm familiar with your habits. You unwaveringly sweep all the snow off your steps every morning out of a chivalrous concern for your wife's safety, and yet you have at least three more inches of snow on your steps than your neighbors, therefore you haven't swept since Wednesday. Also, I now observe you have two days' worth of accumulated stubble on you face, and the good Mrs. Watson prefers you clean shaven."
I laughed. "Right you are. Mary's away for the week, and I'm ashamed to say I've been a bit of a shut-in since she left."
"Ah! Then it sounds like you could use a little adventure, doctor! How quickly can you be ready to leave?"
"Five minutes! And before you ask, I'm bringing my revolver. I wouldn't step foot in Limehouse without it."
"Good man!"
I beat my own estimation and was out the door, fully dressed in no more than three minutes. "So," I said as our hansom took off towards the worst area of London, "what are we getting ourselves into tonight?"
Holmes pulled a small yellow piece of paper out his coat pocket and handed it to me.
"Read that and you will know all I do."
The telegram read as such:
Mr. Holmes;
Please come to Denmore & Hawking St. in Limehouse at once.
-Lestrade
"Hmm. Short and to the point," I said. "It certainly isn't much to go on."
"It's not, but I'm sure you'll agree that it looks promising."
I looked down at the note again and began searching for some stain or crease or other clue from which I should have deduced the note's sign of promise.
Holmes gave out an amused laugh. "Oh, forgive me, Watson. I forgot that you are not as familiar with Lestrade's correspondence style as I. If you were, you would know that Lestrade always provides some sort of context in his communications as to why my services are needed – a habit I've always appreciated; but here, nothing. His communiques are never lengthy, but I can't recall ever receiving such a brief missive from our favourite inspector. It tells me he wrote it in some haste, and the matter must therefore be urgent and of some importance."
"I see," I said, handing Holmes back his note. "Then I'm glad to be here to chronicle it." Holmes nodded, and we rode the rest of the way in a comfortable silence.
When we pulled up to the intersection listed in the note, Lastrade was waiting for us while some of his constables were busy holding back a small group of local residents that had gathered to see what was going on.
"Good evening, Lastrade," Holmes said in a businesslike manner as we exited the carriage. The inspector appeared anxious and more tired than the hour called for. I could tell his day had been a long one.
"Mr. Holmes. Dr. Watson," said Lastrade. "Sorry to call you to a place like this at such a late hour, but if you'll follow me, you'll see why it was necessary."
Lastrade held out his lamp and led us down the side of a dilapidated building that looked as if it might crumble at any moment. As we turned into the alley behind the building, the night became even darker and the atmosphere gloomier. Trash littered the depressing corridor and rats and mice could be heard scurrying in every direction. Lastrade's men had placed lit lamps on the ground about every twenty yards or so, and they provided just enough light to see where one was going. I could see something sticking out of an inconspicuous alcove ahead, and as we came closer, it revealed itself to be the leg of ragged tramp that lay dead on his back in the snow. Blood stained the front of his dark, filthy jacket just below his wild, graying beard, and his long oily hair ran across his forehead and eyes.
"Poor soul," I said softly and removed my hat to pay a bit of respect to a man who had most likely not received much of it during the course of his life.
"Yes, poor soul indeed," said Holmes quickly and turned to the inspector. "But I fail to see why we were summoned, Lastrade. What's so urgent about a slain vagrant in an area renown for murder and poverty? I do hope there's more to this than meets the eye."
"I was about to get to that," Lastrade said tersely as he fumbled in his pocket. He quickly proceeded to produce an ornate jewelry box, which he opened and held out in the palm of his hand. The plush interior was obviously designed to hold a gem of some kind and yet there was no gem to be found.
"This is why I called you, Mr. Holmes. It was found near the dead man. It's…"
"The box that should contain the Sancy Diamond," Holmes said, the burning fire of interest now back in his eyes.
"How…"
"Oh, I've made a study of the world's great jewels and their boxes, Lestrade," Holmes said distractedly, his eyes now scouring the scene for clues. "I can't imagine the Countess of Burgundy is too happy about her loss."
"Ha! You'd think she lost a child the way she was going on about it."
"I see you've searched the area, destroying valuable evidence while doing so, no doubt. No diamond?"
"Not a trace of it. I've had my men search every crack and crevice within three blocks."
"Where exactly was the box?"
"In the corner by the dead man. It was just laying there, invisible in the dark. We only found it when we brought the lamps over."
"I take it the diamond was stolen this evening, else Watson or I would have assuredly ready about it in the papers."
"Oh, I'm sure you'll be reading all about it in the morning papers! Yes, it was stolen from the safe in her hotel room sometime between six and eight, while she was attending a dinner in her honor in the hotel's ballroom. Some sort of gas was used to incapacitate her guards. We interrogated every servant and guest and came up empty handed. Not a single clue. We had to let everyone go. This man is our first and only connection to the crime."
"Who discovered the body?"
"That was Constable Barker over here," Lestrade said, pointing to a young officer. "Constable! Tell Mr. Holmes what you saw."
A large, tough-looking constable stepped forward. "Yes, sir. I was one street over, walking my usual route, when I hear a terrible yell come from this alley. I blew my whistle, booked it over here and saw the dead man. Looked 'round but didn't see a soul."
"I see," said Holmes. "This is your beat, and you don't recognize this gentleman?"
"That's right, sir. I grew up 'round here, too. Know everyone and make it my business to meet newcomers. Never seen this gentleman in my life."
I could tell this information pleased Holmes. He turned to Lastade. "May I borrow your lamp, Inspector?" he asked. Lestrade complied and Holmes held out the lamp to me. "Watson, if you wouldn't mind." We knelt down next to the body and I hovered the lamp above it.
Holmes removed his gloves and began his examination by gently picking up the victim's left wrist, running his index finger down the victim's filthy palms and rubbing the accumulated dirt and grime between his fingers. Whatever information he received from this activity caused his brow to rise.
He laid the wrist back down slowly, pulled out his magnifying glass and went on hand and knees to examine the deceased's shoes. Upon examining the soles, he seemed even more perplexed.
After a few moments of thought, I could see inspiration strike him, and he quickly crawled to the man's face. When his glass neared the chin, Holmes gave out an involuntary "Ha!"
"What did you find?" asked Lastrade.
"Something pleasantly unique," said Holmes. He then proceeded to surprise everyone by opening the victim's mouth and gazing inside, much like a dentist performing an exam.
"Closer, Watson. I need more light."
I complied.
Holmes brought his face so close to the dead man's mouth that I had to look away to avoid gagging. "Hullo," Holmes said to himself and took out an envelope and small leather case from his coat. Laying the case on the ground and folding it open, he removed a pair of tweezers, which he used to remove two small blood-covered bits and place them onto the envelope. When he was finished, he held the envelope close to his face and then placed it gently on a nearby crate.
"Lastrade, may I please see your notes from this case," Holmes asked with an outstretched hand.
"Certainly." Lastrade handed him his notepad and Holmes scanned through it, flipping the pages rapidly. It was clear he was seeking something in particular, and his eyes lit up when he found it.
"Well, that seals it," he said, handing Lestrade back his notepad.
"Seals what?" the inspector asked excitedly.
"Now," Holmes said, jumping to his feet and thoroughly ignoring Lestrade, "if everyone would kindly move back against that wall – you too, Watson – I will attempt to examine what's left of the evidence on the ground."
I handed him the lamp and off he went, walking all the way up and down the alley, chin in chest and in deep concentration. He took some time examining the ground, occasionally muttering something to himself. Eventually, he returned to the group.
"Well, well, Lastrade, I must thank you. This has been a most enjoyable exercise," Holmes said as he handed the inspector his lamp and began putting his gloves back on.
"Well, I'm glad you enjoyed yourself, Mr. Holmes, but can you help us?!"
"Indeed. I might not be able to give you a complete picture of this affair, but I can advance you some way. Follow me."
We followed him to the northern end of the alley where the alley met the street.
"To begin, our mysterious vagrant arrived at this spot in a hansom …"
"In a what?!"
"In a hansom, Lestrade. Difficult as it is to believe that a man of his financial standing could afford such a ride, the snow doesn't lie. See how his prints begin at the hansom tracks, in the sequence of one stepping down from a slight elevation? They're also nowhere else to be found on the sidewalk. Now, after disembarking from his hansom he walked down this alley …" Holmes took off without notice and Lestrade and I quickly followed him until he came to a stop about halfway down the alley.
"He stopped right where I'm standing," Holmes said, pointing to the ground. "His size 11 round-toed shoes made his path easy trace in the mess of your men's regulation square-toe prints. Once here, he proceeded to lean against the wall – notice the depth of the heel marks compared to the toes – and he began smoking a rather fine Partagas cigar … "
"A Partagas?!"
"Yes, and not just any Partagas, a Lusitania."
I glanced down and indeed, there was the orange and gold label of the Partagas cigar brand, dirty and wet, but clearly recognizable.
"He must have stolen it from the hotel!" exclaimed Lestrade.
"Doubtful. Now, as I was saying, he smoked this first cigar, and he smoked it to completion. We know this because we can see where he ashed the cigar on the wall here and smashed the stub into the ground with his left foot. A leisurely smoke would have taken a minimum of ten minutes. He then began smoking a second cigar and was about halfway through when a short, stout Oriental gentleman rounded this corner. Look at the small shoe size and distinctive point of the Oriental shoe. Our man walked up to meet him. We can see some ash in this spot and both prints are a bit deeper than the others, so we can deduce that they stood here for a minute or so, no doubt discussing something. I don't guess, but if I did, I would surmise that our victim was probably showing the Oriental gentleman the diamond. Why else would he have the box out and open? At this point, something happened that caused the vagrant to drop his half-smoked cigar and begin running down the alley towards the alcove, with the Oriental man in pursuit. Let's follow their paths."
Holmes began walking towards the alcove, and we all followed, rapt with attention. He came to a stop just before the alcove.
"The vagrant's footsteps end here. Why? Because he ran straight into the arms of a very tall, very strong gentleman with size 13 shoes waiting for him just inside the alcove."
"It was an ambush!" I exclaimed.
"Precisely, Watson. This giant of a man had been waiting here, perhaps before our victim arrived, judging by the depth of his prints. At any rate, the large brute picked our man up, turned him around and held him while the short Oriental man stabbed him repeatedly in the stomach."
"Why do you think they left the box? It has to be of some value."
"Oh, it's of immense value. Some collectors seem to covet jewels' boxes as much as the jewels themselves. But there's no mystery there. No doubt the box went flying when the larger assailant threw the vagrant's lifeless body into the alcove after constable Baker's whistle startled them and sent them running in panic."
"So," said Lestrade, "we're looking for a short Oriental gentleman and a tall, strong accomplice. There's no short supply of either in Limehouse."
"Yes, you have a long search ahead of you," Holmes said matter-of-factly. "I don't envy you. I would start in the opium dens. The proprietors of those wicked little caves are usually tied into the criminal underworld and almost all have some muscle in their employ."
"Right … and what about this poor fellow? Any idea how this unfortunate creature came into possession of the diamond?"
"Ah, yes," said Holmes. "He's the most interesting aspect of this whole affair."
"More interesting than a missing pearl and a murderous Oriental and his giant friend?" Lastrade asked.
"Much more. For starters, does anything strike you about his shoes?"
Lestrade studied them for a moment. "Not particularly. They're old … filthy … and … uhh … beaten to hell."
Holmes cracked a small grin. "Yes and no. Take a closer look at the soles."
Lestrade bent down to get a better look and I found myself doing the same. "Why, they barely have any wear at all!" Lestrade proclaimed. "Just a few scuffs and a small scratch!"
"Precisely, and they haven't been resoled. This man's shoes only appear – to borrow your phrase, Lestrade – beaten to hell; they've been prepared to look that way. In fact, I would wager these soles haven't touched an English cobblestone before this very evening."
"I don't understand, Mr. Holmes. How is such a thing possible? Is this a floating vagrant?"
"Would it help if I told you that his mouth contained small bits of tuna tartare and asparagus? Before I removed them that is."
"That was the main course served at the Countess's dinner! Do you think that's how he was paid? With food, like a dog?"
Holmes smiled. "No. Perhaps this will shed some light."
In one swift movement, Holmes grabbed the dead man's hair and beard and ripped them from his face. Lestrade and I recoiled but quickly recovered.
It took me a moment to register what I was now seeing. With the ragged beard and wig removed, the face of renowned stage actor Ronald Lasitar was unmistakable.
"Good lord," I said in quiet astonishment.
"Ah, so you know of Mr. Lasitar then, Watson? Even without his disguise, I don't know him from Adam – for I prefer the concert hall to the theatre – but I do know an expert application of spirit gum when I see it. When you combine that with the doctored shoes, false teeth, soft palms and makeup dirt – you have yourself an actor. Your notes showed a Mr. Lasitar – profession, actor – seated at the very same table as the Countess. You also noted the night's meal, very thorough of you, Lestrade. Now, I have no idea how Lasitar got the diamond or where he hid it, but I would wager that you went a bit easier on him them the lesser-known guests."
"Yes, well … uhh, you've been a great help to us, Mr. Holmes," Lestrade said and extended his hand.
Holmes shook it and shrugged. "Your coroner would have discovered all this, no doubt. I narrowed down your suspects, though not as much as I would have preferred. If you need any further assistance in this matter, you know where to find me. Good evening, Lastrade."