Chapter Two

I do not know exactly what I expected to find at No. 11; possibly something out of a penny dreadful complete with blood running from under the door. In the event, it proved to be an elegant townhouse, painted white and with such an innocent appearance as to deceive the viewer entirely.

Holmes immediately bounded from our cab and, with his usual meticulous care, began to examine the path. It was easy to see from his expression that the paving stones had yielded little though, and soon he turned his attentions to the house itself.

With cautious, precise steps, he made his way to the sole ground floor window. After regarding it intently for some minutes, he beckoned to Lestrade. "Is there another window on the ground floor?" he asked.

"Well, yes," said the Inspector, doubtfully. "There's a little walled courtyard round the back of the house. But the windows there only look in on the scullery. They're far too small for a man to climb through."

"Very well. I should nevertheless like to examine them; it never does to neglect a possible line of enquiry."

On reaching the back courtyard however, we saw that Lestrade was perfectly correct. There were but two windows, each of maybe six by ten inches, and set so high in the wall that it was surely impossible for even a monkey to have gained entry by them. Holmes looked them over, but shook his head in dissatisfaction and turned away after only a short time.

"In which case," said he, "I would be grateful if you would take me to Mrs. Jamieson. She is still on the premises, is she not?"

"Oh yes," said Lestrade. "I believe one of our officers is with her in the kitchen. This way."

"Wait a moment," rapped out Holmes, seizing Lestrade's sleeve. "The door. I daresay it will do little good now half the population of London has let themselves in through it, but I should still like to have a look."

So saying, he drew out his magnifying lens and scrutinised the wood. With a sharp cry of excitement, he plucked at something caught on a screw.

"Look here, Inspector, Watson."

Obediently we stared at the fibre he held in his hand. It appeared to be a scrap of some black material.

"No doubt I am being very foolish, but I simply can't see the significance of it," I remarked.

"Surely you see? If the house has truly been left abandoned this past month, there would be no need for anyone to touch the handle."

"But it could be a friend calling on the Penridges who didn't know they were abroad," I pointed out.

"Or Mrs. Jamieson," added Lestrade.

"Possibly," admitted Holmes, "but if it's all the same to you, I would prefer to hang on to it. And since you mention Mrs. Jamieson, pray lead me to that excellent lady."

As Lestrade had predicted, we found her in the kitchen, clasping a cup of tea under the sympathetic eye of a constable.

"Mrs. Jamieson, this is Mr. Sherlock Holmes," said Lestrade. "He has been kind enough to offer some assistance with a few points of the case."

"Afternoon, sirs," murmured Mrs. Jamieson in a subdued voice. I would say that this was not her natural tone; her flamboyant dress suggested a somewhat brasher character. I also noted that she was not wearing a single black article. I glanced at Holmes to see if he too had observed this, but could tell nothing from his face.

"I understand that you discovered the body," he began. "Would you please tell us in your own words how that came about?"

The lady drew in a deep breath and launched into her tale.

"Well, I come in every Thursday to keep an eye on the place, as you might say, and keep it all looking presentable for when the family gets back. Usually about four-ish, but I was delayed up at old Mr. Porter's, round the corner from here. Coming in though, I thought to meself, 'Something's up here.' I'm sure I couldn't tell you why I thought that, but anyway, I thought I'd better have a look around, make sure everything was right. I thought they might be after the silver. Mr. Penridge has some very nice pieces. I've often told him he should stick 'em in the safe when he goes away, but he doesn't listen to me.

Anyway, I'd gone round all the downstairs rooms and everything looked as it should, so off I went upstairs. Gave me the fright of my life it did when I opened the door to Mr. Penridge's room. There he was, and he looked as though he might be resting almost, except there was this 'orrible red stain on his chest. None on the floors mind you. Just on him and on the bed. Oh, I can still see it now!" She gave a hitching sob and fell silent.

"I'm sure it must have been a terrible shock for you, Mrs. Jamieson," I said, as kindly as I could.

"Oh yes, quite terrible indeed," said Holmes hastily. "But tell me, when you first entered the house was the door locked?"

She looked up at him, an expression of dawning comprehension on her face.

"No, Mr. Holmes," she whispered. "No, it wasn't. And I remember wondering whether I'd get the blame for leaving it unlocked if thieves had made off with anything."

"Do you think you had left it unlocked?" he asked.

"N-no," she said hesitantly. "I mean, I can't remember locking it, but I'm sure I did."

"Please think very carefully," said Holmes in his most serious voice. "If you locked it then we must assume that whoever brought poor Mr. West here was in possession of a key. There were none of the scrapes one associates with a lock pick on the keyhole. If you did not lock it then any person in London could have had access. Of course, I may find other clues to direct me to the murderer, but some way of narrowing things down would be welcome."

A frown crinkled the good lady's brow.

"I think…" she began slowly. "I think… I'm almost certain I did lock it."

"Excellent!" exclaimed Lestrade eagerly. With a smile, Holmes held up his hand to silence him as Mrs. Jamieson continued.

"Yes, I feel quite sure now. I remember last time I came, I dropped the key at least twice before I managed to get it in the lock. My hands were cold," she said apologetically.

"Ah! Perhaps you had left your black gloves at home?"

"Black gloves? Oh bless you, no. I've got a nice red pair that my son gave me Christmas before last. I don't like black. Nasty, gloomy colour if you ask me." She shivered and her eyes widened as she took in my friend's sombre ensemble. "Not that there's anything wrong with it," she added hurriedly. "Good, practical colour…" She tailed off.

Holmes favoured her with one of his rare smiles that come and go as suddenly as the sun bursting from behind a cloud.

"Thank you very much, Mrs. Jamieson. I have no doubt that your evidence will prove invaluable. If you wish, you may return home now. That is unless – Inspector?"

"Oh of course, Mrs. Jamieson. If you could just give your address to Constable Parker here before you leave."

Parker gallantly offered the lady his arm as he led her towards the door. Holmes watched them go with a curious expression.

"There goes a very strange woman, Watson. Did you notice that she does not wear a wedding ring, although she calls herself 'Mrs.'? No doubt there is some perfectly innocent explanation, though I rather fancy she has hidden depths."

Lestrade cleared his throat. "Speaking of which, would you like to see the room where the body was found now?"

Holmes and I followed his lead until we reached the hallway. There, Holmes laid a hand on his shoulder and indicated that he would like to go ahead. He pointed to a small stain, just above the skirting board.

"Blood," he said shortly. "And more just here. I should say the man was not killed in the bedroom but rather dragged there afterwards. Let us go and take a look at the cadaver."