Chapter 4 – A Tangle of Threads
"Holmes," I said, trying to keep a lid on my shock. "They were—we were just—"
"I am aware of it, Watson," Holmes replied, his eyes darkening like steel as they often did when first a crime was brought to his attention. "Our levity seems to have been rather ill-timed." He turned to Lestrade. "When is this murder said to have occurred?"
"Last night, around two o'clock," Lestrade replied. "I left all the evidence completely in place, in case you wished to examine it for yourself before you join us on our hunt."
"What hunt?" Holmes raised his eyebrows. "Are not you getting a little ahead of yourself, Lestrade? Watson and I have an engagement for this afternoon that we cannot neglect."
"Mr. Holmes, I know the official force has no authority over you, but someone must locate Captain Blackwood. There is strong evidence to suggest that he is the culprit, and if so, we have a dangerous murderer walking free in London."
"And if he is not?"
"I hardly think that is possible, given what we know."
Holmes threw his cigar into the fire. "As I believe I've said before, there is nothing more deceptive than the obvious fact. That being so, I think we can spare you a few hours before our other appointment. You have a cab downstairs, I presume?"
"Yes, I told him to wait."
"Then, Watson, if you would be so kind as to come along, we will be very happy to view the scene of this simple crime."
The distance between Baker Street and the Ashley household was not far, but nevertheless, I was surprised that Holmes did not ask Lestrade for one particular of the murder. Rather he sat in silence, and as he had no clues to ponder yet as to this new case, I concluded that he must be absorbed in unraveling that of the bridal shop.
"Any new leads on Miss Larch's case, Holmes? Do you think the man Jones arrested is the vandal?"
"What?" Holmes jerked up. "The drunken man, you mean? Oh, no, no, I'm sure he's innocent. Even if it weren't for our bird-like friend's clever deduction with regard to the newspaper, there are several objections. A drunkard would not exercise discretion over which dresses he ruined. And if he was out for revenge, as the energetic Jones supposes, he picked the worse possible night for it. No, my friend, I must confess that I am encamped in the Callie Larch court, and believe both the man and the motive are yet to be discovered."
"I say, Mr. Holmes, what's this all about? Newspaper? Dresses? And who is Miss Larch?"
"Our client. No doubt you would consider her problem beneath your attention. I see we've arrived."
"So we have. Pull up, man, we're here!"
Holmes barely waited for the cab to stop moving before he jumped out of it and sprang up the stairs. I followed hastily, leaving Lestrade to deal with the fare.
The very air inside the house seemed clouded with grief and utter confusion. I saw no one, servant or otherwise, who did not seem weighed down with horror by the recent tragedy. I instantly felt boorish and out-of-place for daring to trespass on their pain, but no such sentiments impeded my companion. On the contrary, his whole body had taken on that air of mirror-clear energy and adrenaline that seemed all the more intense from being held so firmly in control, all the supposed stagnation of his mind swept away.
"It's just this, Watson," he said, giving the knocker a strong thud. "All my instincts are screaming, but instinct is not enough. I need data; I must have data, anything and everything I can find. The smallest bit of evidence could be the most important, and it is that kind which so many leave out. I hope…" He broke off as an elderly, lace-bonneted woman who I presumed to be the housekeeper joined us in the alcove. "Good morning, madam. My name is Sherlock Holmes, and this is Dr. John Watson. I quite understand that this must be a difficult time for you, but—"
"Oh, Mr. Holmes, if you can just find the scoundrel who murdered my master and good Reynolds, nothing I can do for you will be too much. I've heard something of your skill, and there's not a man or woman in this household who would stand in your way. Mr. Ashley was the best master and the best father anyone could have, sir, and poor Reynolds would never hurt a fly."
"We will certainly do our best," Holmes replied, "and our progress will be made most rapidly if we may view the scenes of the murders. Will you be so kind as to direct us there?"
"Just step up the stairs and through that door, sir, to the hall. You can't miss it. That's where we found Reynolds's body. We were going to have it sent away, sir, but Mr. Lestrade insisted—"
"Yes, and he was quite right to do so. Well, Watson, let us investigate."
As the housekeeper had said, the door led to a dark wood hall, upon the floor of which lay the body of the unfortunate footman. It was a gruesome sight. Blood sprayed from two gunshot wounds in his stomach, and his body was wracked with contortions. Holmes immediately began his usual meticulous process of examination, while I stood out of the way, anxious not to inadvertently destroy any traces left by the criminal. I did not, however, have long to wait. Holmes finished his overview of the body quickly and straightened up.
"There are really no indications as to the identity of the culprit. He, if it is a man, and I am inclined to believe it was so, is a gentleman, unless the wounds are a blind."
"Wounds?"
"Made by a light pistol. Impractical weapons, by the way. Half the time, they misfire and barely leave a scratch the other half of the time—except, of course, when fired from close range, as this obviously was. Very close, actually, if one notes the residue of smoke on this unfortunate Reynolds's jacket."
"The man and his murderer grappled at close range, then?"
"Exactly, which theory is strengthened by the bruises on the arm—" he pulled back the sleeve to reveal them to me "—and the scratches on the face. In which case, the question becomes which man was the aggressor."
"It seems odd that a man without a gun would attack an armed man."
"Not if the gun was hidden, or the motivation strong enough. Well, I believe there is nothing more to be learned here, so let us examine the other victim."
"Strangled in his bed, the poor man!" interrupted the housekeeper. "I am sure I do not know who would have the heart to do it."
"Strangled, you say?" Holmes demanded, shooting a sharp glance at the woman.
"Without a doubt," Lestrade, who had caught up with us, informed him, "as you will see for yourself."
The room we entered seemed more eerie to me by its very peacefulness. The only sign of violence at all was the man lying dead on the bed, his empty eyes staring up; looking not so much angered or frightened but grieved. But perhaps that was my imagination only.
Holmes took a far longer time examining this room than the other, his eyes darting over every atom, searching, analyzing, alighting on those small clues that were invisible to our eyes. After examining the body and the rest of the room carefully, he ushered us all into the hall before turning to the housekeeper.
"Now, madam, I would like to speak with those who found the bodies. I trust, Lestrade, that you have questioned the others in the house."
"That's right, Mr. Holmes. Not all were awake at the time of the murders, but all those who were give the same testimony—gunshots at around two in the morning, which of course must have been the death of that poor fellow downstairs."
"Did no one hear anything earlier?"
"No, I don't believe so. Should they have?"
"Well, Mr. Ashley here ended his life a good ten minutes before his servant. I would have thought it possible, at the very least, that someone might have heard him, had he cried out."
"What! Ten minutes?"
"Oh, come. The crudest medical examination could tell you that. The only thing that is really puzzling is Edward Ashley's cigars."
"Cigars?" Lestrade rolled his eyes. "You don't say."
Holmes waved a hand. "You wouldn't understand. It is those who found the bodies I now desire to speak with."
"That'd be Miss Deborah and her brother Ned, sir," broke in the housekeeper. "They're in the upper sitting room. I'll just show you the way."
"Thank you very much, madam. Watson," he added in a lower voice to me as we crossed to a door opposite, "if you think I trespass on their grief too much, please remember that clients do not come to me for sympathy—and if I go too far, just knock over something not too delicate, and I'll back off."
I was not able to concoct an answer to this paradoxical statement (and indeed, I am not sure Holmes wanted one) before the housekeeper opened the door and showed us into the room where the brother and sister sat awaiting us.
The latter was very pale; she had obviously been badly affected by the shock, but held herself with determined self-possession. (And I shall dare Holmes's criticism to say that she was a lovely woman, with delicate white skin and shining black hair, though farther I will not go.) Her brother, on the other hand, looked nearly sick enough to break down at any moment, his eyes hollow and his hands twitching like spiders.
"Good morning, Miss Ashley, Mr. Ashley. My name is Sherlock Holmes, and this is Dr. Watson. Please do accept my condolences on your loss, and please forgive me if, in my determination to obtain information about your father's death, I am sometimes more blunt than is proper for the occasion."
"We are hardly in a position to demand propriety, Mr. Holmes," Miss Deborah Ashley replied. "If you can merely locate the person who murdered our father, then that is manners enough to suit me." Her brother, from the couch, nodded jerkily.
"Very well, Miss Ashley. I am glad to see you so resolute. Please describe then, in as much detail as you can, what happened last night and anything you have seen or heard that might give some clue as to the motive or identity of your unpleasant visitor." I settled myself with one elbow next to a sturdy-looking bronze statue as Holmes leaned forward to listen.
"You should understand first of all, Mr. Holmes, that our father has—had, rather—no public enemies, and no private ones either, that I know of. He had no temper to speak of, he had no more rivals for his money than any man in trade—in short, nothing that I can think of that would breed hostility. Of course, I am not as familiar with Reynolds, but he has been here for a number of years and as far as I can tell, his situation is much the same.
"Last night, Mr. Holmes, my father and I spent the night in this very room, discussing the preparations for my wedding. My brother Ned here had taken Matthew—my fiancé, Captain Blackwood—out for some traditional masculine entertainment, which he can tell you about as I have no knowledge of what went on. Father and I both retired to bed early, as it was not his custom to sit up late, and I amused myself with reading until I grew tired and put out my lamp—I believe at about ten o'clock. I slipped in to check on Father just before that, as I have nearly every night since Mother died and more frequently since I knew I would be going away. He has a bell to ring if his asthma gets worse at night, but he doesn't—didn't—use it as much as he should."
"A moment." Holmes held up a hand to halt Miss Ashley's story. "Your father suffered from asthma?"
"Yes, Mr. Holmes. It's never been terribly troublesome to him, but then again, he always took such great care, and it has gotten worse with age. The servants and I could care for him well enough, so we never saw a need to hire a nurse."
"But he does not smoke cigars, then?"
"No, Mr. Holmes."
"That is odd. Does anyone in this house smoke, perhaps leaving a yellow ash?"
"I don't think so, Mr. Holmes. The servants all smoke outside, due to my father's asthma."
"I see. Please go on."
The young lady paused, and then plunged forward. "I must admit, Mr. Holmes, that I cannot be sure of what I heard next. I woke up late at night, around one, I think, and thought I heard footsteps in the hall near my father's room. I thought at the time that it must have been Ned, and that he wanted to check on Father too, but as you will see, that could not have been. Well, I went back to sleep, but I was awakened not an hour later by two shots, a scream, and the sound of a door slamming. I jumped up and ran downstairs and saw…Reynolds' body…with Ned bending over him, trying to revive him. He was writhing around, trying to get his breath…and I went to try and help but by the time I got close he'd stopped moving altogether. Then Ned jumped up and shouted, 'Matthew! The scoundrel! Quick, Deborah, Father—see if Father's alright!' I barely knew what to think, Mr. Holmes, but we flew back upstairs, the two of us, and there was Father…just lying there, so still…and at first I thought, the asthma, of course, but then I got close and saw the finger-marks around his throat, and then I, well, I think I would have fainted, but…."
"You put your hand out to catch yourself, and it landed on the hot wax in the blown-out candle, did you not?"
Mr. Ashley sat bolt upright and Miss Ashley gave my friend an astonished look. "Why, yes, I did, and that startled me right up. And then Ned told me Matthew had done it, and shot Reynolds too, and I…well, Mr. Holmes, I just couldn't believe it. I still cannot, to say the truth. That Matthew would do such a thing goes against everything I know of his character. He's an upright, honest man, and he loved Father dearly. But when Ned opened the door, there was Matthew's pistol right on the doorstep. I would have known it anywhere, the silly thing, more fit to hang on the wall than to shoot with. A friend bought a pair of them for him as a joke; I'd never known him to even take them out of the attic. But there it was, and I've just been so confused and horrified since I can barely think. And Mr. Holmes, I beg of you, if Matthew is the murderer, find him and I would gladly shoot him myself, but if you believe him to be innocent, do all you can to save him, and I promise you, you shall be well rewarded."
"Money is of no consequence, Miss Ashley, so please do not worry about it now. You have given me excellent information, and what I want now is your brother's story. Mr. Ashley, if you will?"
The sick-looking man gave a horrid start. "I suppose it's necessary," he said after a pause, "though you'll understand if I find it hard to speak of."
"If your sister can speak of the matter," Holmes returned, "then I believe it not unreasonable to ask the same of you. Proceed, please."
"Well. Yes. My sister, she—she said we'd gone out that night, Matthew and I and some of his friends. Any of them will tell you we were there. And—well, I do hate to say this, Deborah, for your sake, but Matthew, he wasn't the least bit like himself. Perhaps it was my fault, a bit, for I did give him more drink than he usually touches, but—he was acting so oddly, messing around with one of those whores the best places can't seem to drive away—"
I was nearly tempted to knock over the bronze statuette as a punishment to Ned Ashley rather than a warning to Sherlock Holmes when I saw how white Miss Ashley became upon that statement, but I resisted.
"—and so finally I said, I said, Matthew, you're not acting like yourself, it's time to head for home. And so we stopped at my house first, and—"
"What establishment was it that you were frequenting that night?" interrupted Holmes from behind his steeple of fingers.
"Lilac Maria's, sir, is what they call it. And when we got into my house, Matthew said he wanted to check on my father, so we went upstairs and he went in while I waited, and a few minutes later he came running back out pale as a ghost, heading straight for the door, and poor Reynolds was just walking through and slammed right into him. In a second he had his gun out and shot the man down, and fled right down the stairs and out the door. And Deborah told you all the rest."
In the wake of this disjointed narrative, Holmes's eyes had acquired the far-off, dreamy look which meant he was searching for some explanation to ravel the fragmented information into smooth and sensible exposition. The sister and brother were both watching him, the one quite still and pale, the other twitching and equally bloodless, but he seemed to have no intention of coming out of his brown study. I was about to knock over the statue to try and get his attention when he sat up abruptly and turned to Mr. Ashley.
"Sir. Did you see nothing odd in your sister's fiancé going up to check on your father?"
"Well, he's an old friend of the family—I mean, I suppose I was a little surprised, but—"
"And when he came out of your father's room, you saw nothing suspicious in his looks that might have made you wish to stop him?"
"I really could not see him in the dark. I wasn't aware anything was wrong until he bumped into Reynolds and shot him."
"You say so. Why did you not pursue Captain Blackwood after he shot your servant?"
"I wanted to help Reynolds, sir. I didn't know the wounds were fatal—I thought there might be some chance of reviving him."
"I see. Now, Miss Ashley, there are just a few more points on which I should like your opinion. You say the pistol found belonged to your fiancé?"
"Yes, or as near to it as any I have ever seen. Since he never used the pistols, there were no distinct scratches or anything, so I'm not positive."
"Is there any reason you know of that Captain Blackwood would believe himself in danger?"
"No, Mr. Holmes. And I am sure if he did, he would have chosen something more substantial to carry."
"Curious, indeed. And you, Mr. Ashley? Did anything in Captain Blackwood's behavior alarm you?"
"Well, sir, I don't like to speak of it before my sister, but there was his odd behavior at Lilac Maria's, and, well, he's been funny around me for awhile."
"How so?"
"Well, just a sort of general—he'd say ugly things about Deborah and how matrimony tied a man down—and how if one had to marry, one shouldn't have to keep a sick old man around—"
"I don't believe it," whispered Miss Ashley. "Ned, why didn't you tell me? We could have prevented this!"
Ned Ashley leaped to his feet. "Don't you dare blame me, Deborah! You're the one who decided to marry a womanizer and a murderer. It's just as much your fault as mine! You—"
It is unfortunate that tables with bronze statues on them have such a tendency to be unstable. They fall over at the most irritating moments, and make such loud distracting crashes.
"Dear me," Holmes remarked laconically.
"I apologize, Miss Ashley," I said, righting the table.
Miss Ashley was, if possible, even paler than before, but she kept her temper remarkably. "There is no need to be sorry, Dr. Watson, as the statue was not damaged. If it survived the voyage from India, a fall from a table could hardly do harm."
Holmes looked up abruptly. "You have contacts in India?"
"Yes. We even lived there for awhile. Father was in the spices trade before his asthma compelled us to come back to England."
Briskly, Holmes put the statue back in its proper place. "Well, our little talk here has been most instructive. I should like to speak to Lestrade, I think, before we go, and I or Watson will be sure to tell you if anything new is discovered. Good morning, Miss Ashley, Mr. Ashley." And I found myself bustled out of the room with hardly time to fix the bronze statue I had upset.