The Case of the Two Survivors
Chapter Seven
I was very aware of the finality of the inspector's departure, punctuated as it was by the thudding of the door as it closed, sending a reverberation through the confines of the cell.
I sank down onto the bed, with its dirty blanket and lumpy mattress, feeling the bite of its tiny inhabitants as they crawled up and down my arms and legs. Despite the warmth of the evening, I was chilled to the core. My hands were shaking and my teeth chattering. The enormity of my situation was pressing down on me, producing a wild see-saw of emotions that swung from overwhelming despair to the torment of hope.
I did not believe for one minute what Allen had said about Holmes's leaving me to my fate. If I knew him, and I did, he was out there somewhere doing something or other to exonerate me from this charge. Against him was motive, opportunity and a wealth of other points not in my favour. Men had been hanged on a lot less than that before now.
Then, through the noise of my thoughts, came the sound of a familiar voice, hushed, distant and calling my name. For a moment, I was lost as to its point of origin. Then it came again and my sight was directed up to the tiny window with its broken pane of glass set high in the wall above. I scrambled onto the bed and, still unable to reach it, called up, hoping he would hear me.
"Holmes! Is that you?"
"Do keep your voice down, my dear fellow," he returned. "There's a constable on duty around the corner and I would not want to be found consorting with a prisoner."
I stifled a laugh, borne from relief at hearing his voice. "Allen said you'd gone. He refused to let me speak to you."
"Very wise of him too. He intends to divide and conquer. He tells you that I have abandoned you, and me that you are ready to name your confederates in the crime. By keeping us apart, we can neither confer nor confirm the accuracy of his statements. Were we anyone else, no doubt these petty attempts at deception would have worked."
"How long have you been there?" I asked.
"Long enough to hear you near implicate yourself in Reverend Gradgrind's murder. Really, Watson, I did tell you stay away from him."
"He beckoned to me, Holmes. What could I do under the circumstances?"
"What you should have done was to have kept your distance. You have a fatal streak of compassion that will one day be your undoing."
"It seems that day has arrived," I said ruefully.
"I'm afraid that I cannot secure your release," he replied. "At least not yet."
"Then what am I to do? Inspector Allen was badgering me for a confession."
"Yes, I heard. Unless the situation becomes dire, do not do so. Trying to explain to a country magistrate why you committed yourself to rashness would not be the easiest of tasks. I should certainly not wish to call your mental capacities into question for fear it results in your immediate confinement to an asylum for the criminally insane."
"Well, how do you define 'dire'? The conditions in this cell are hardly comfortable."
"But bearable. And, since you have already eaten today, I cannot see you wasting away in the immediate future from the denial of a fish supper and a cup of tea. However, should they find that this has failed to persuade you, tomorrow the situation may become physically distressing—"
"Good heavens," I interjected with alarm. "What are you suggesting?"
"The murderer is a much reviled creature, and justly so. The police have decided on your guilt and they have a strong interest in securing your conviction for the slaying of this harmless and much respected pillar of the community. Inspector Allen has built up an enviable reputation in the past few years for ridding Bournemouth of its criminal element. No one he has sent for trial has ever been acquitted by the courts. I should not imagine that he intends you to start a precedent. Yes, I should say that, sooner or later, he will want a confession."
"He may wish it, but he shall not have it."
I said these words, but my thoughts were drifting back to Allen's insistence that a confession would go easier on me and my family, and his talk of constables with short tempers. I had assumed this was bluff, and mentioned as much to Holmes.
"Let us hope so. Many a man has been broken by the sight of the rack ere he was ever placed upon it. But we are a long way from London, Watson, and Allen's record speaks for itself. I would go further and say that by whatever means he will also insist on your implicating either me or my brother."
I gave a mirthless chuckle. "Which would you prefer?"
"Myself, naturally. The looting of his room Mycroft will eventually forgive, but it would be foolish in the extreme if we were to tempt fate further by tearing him away from the comforts of his club on a spurious charge of murder."
"Oh, it's 'we' now, is it?" I queried. "I believe it was your idea."
The sound of soft laughter drifted up, accompanied by a waft of strong tobacco. I breathed it in, mindful that it had been some hours since my last cigarette.
"As a partner in crime, Watson, your loyalties leave much to be desired," said he. "However, I do not blame you for not wishing to face my brother's ire. Mycroft in ill-humour is not an appealing sight. One way or another, I am sure to feel the rough edge of his tongue, if not for my spate of burglary, then for my choosing to ignore his advice. As much as I hate to admit that he was right, it appears indeed that he was."
"He cannot hold that against you. You did what you thought was in his best interests."
"But not in yours or mine." A note of impatience had crept into his voice. "I have been utterly outmanoeuvred, Watson. Look at the result. You arrested for murder and my good self suspected as your accomplice. No, no, my dear fellow, I will have no consolation. I have handled this business extremely badly. This is what comes of a lack of cases – my brain has become lax through sheer idleness."
"Amongst other things."
"Well, let us not waste time debating that point now. Tell me, how ill, in your professional opinion, was Reverend Gradgrind?"
"Seriously so. From what I could tell, he had lung disease of some sort."
"Consumption?"
"Possibly. He was very emaciated."
"What of his life expectancy?"
"Not long, I should have said."
"Could he have died naturally?"
"Well, yes, but grains of morphine were found in his mouth."
"That in itself is suggestive, but not conclusive."
"How do you mean?"
"The proximity of one to the other does not necessarily mean the man was poisoned."
"Although it would be a reasonable conclusion."
"Which a post-mortem would either confirm or deny." I heard a troubled sigh. "I trust they are proposing to conduct an examination on the body? One would hope that the letter of the 1887 Coroners Act is followed even in these remote parts, although I suspect that the police surgeon has already made up his mind. I wonder if it might be prudent to enlist the help of Scotland Yard to ensure matters are handled according to proper procedures."
So rapid and diverse were the changing threads of the conversation that it took me a moment to understand his meaning. "Are you saying that Gradgrind was not murdered?"
"If he was as ill as you say, he could have expired of his own accord. However, that is a minor point."
"Not to him," I objected.
"Whether poisoned or not, the end result was the same. After we left, his nephews were very busy. With their uncle dead, their next action was to plant that vial. Then they alerted the police."
"But what did they gain by it?"
"Come, come, Watson. I should have thought that was obvious. They have stumbled onto the means of committing the perfect crime, and have placed the blame squarely on you."
"I don't follow, Holmes. If their uncle is dead, then they will not collect the tontine."
"Ah, but you remember what my brother told us," said he, his voice becoming animated. "There is a clause in the tontine that any member found disposing of the others shall have his share revoked. If you are found guilty of murder in the furtherance of my brother's claim, then the tontine will revert to the injured party, the Gradgrinds. It is stunning in its simplicity!"
I saw nothing praiseworthy about it in the slightest, although I dare say my perception was coloured somewhat by my internment in a cell with only a flea-ridden mattress for company and an interminable aching in my neck caused by the unnatural position I had been forced to adopt throughout this conversation.
"Have you told Allen about the clause?" I asked.
"No. I am holding it in reserve."
"Why?"
"It is a capital mistake to show one's hand too early."
"But you are going to tell him?"
"When the time is right. For now, it would do little good. Allen believes the nephews' devotion to their uncle to be beyond reproach. If we could prove that it was not, then we may go some way to convincing him. My hope is that with you arrested, the Gradgrinds may become complacent."
"And I may come to a very nasty end."
"You are safe enough for tonight. Allen has left you to brood on your situation. Should your incarceration continue longer, I concede that you may experience some physical discomfort. As for the Gradgrinds, young Freddie strikes me as the sort who would celebrate this sort of news to excess. Alcohol has loosened the tongues of greater men than him before now."
"Surely his brother would not allow him to take such a risk, not with so much at stake?"
"Well, we shall see, although I admit that it is a possibility I had considered. For all his fusty manner, Fulke Gradgrind struck me as a man of great intelligence. I observed volumes in six different languages amongst those books of his, and all marked with slips of paper where he has been in the habit of referring to them. He was certainly quick-witted enough to capitalise on our sudden appearance."
"It cost a man his life."
"But see the genius of it," Holmes went on. "On the surface of it, the Gradgrinds had every reason not to want their uncle dead. We, on the other hand, have excellent motives. Even the dullest constable would not fail to see that."
"Inspector Allen seems quite sharp to me."
Holmes's grunt of agreement drifted up to my ears. "He has some small spice of ingenuity, I'll give him that. The fact that it is tempered by a degree of ruthlessness makes him a quite refreshing opponent. One wonders how many innocents have languished in that cell of yours as a result of his overzealousness."
His tone, coming on top of something he had said earlier, sewed the seeds of concern in my mind. "You said this was a perfect crime." I hesitated. "You will be able to exonerate me, won't you?"
The slight pause before he answered confirmed my worst fears.
"Let us not deceive ourselves, Watson. It is vastly easier to prove your guilt in this case than your innocence. The evidence is most compelling, more than enough one might say to convince twelve stolid jurymen."
"Do not spare my feelings," I muttered.
"However," he went on, "there are always flaws, even in the best-laid of schemes. Perfection is the reserve of the divine. The Gradgrinds must have erred; to us falls the task of uncovering the truth of their guilt. Are you equal to the challenge?"
"Do I have any choice?"
"Then we both have a long night ahead of us. You can start by telling me everything that happened after you went upstairs. Since that is the only time you left my side, I have to hope that something occurred which will be of material use to us."
I cast my mind back to the events of the afternoon. "Fulke Gradgrind showed me into his uncle's bedroom. The other brother, Freddie, was there, washing the old man's hands."
"Did that not strike you as odd, considering his hostile remarks of earlier?"
"I saw nothing untoward, if that is what you mean. He was most diligent in his care and attention. Indeed, he seemed quite alarmed when his brother permitted me to enter the room."
"As any caring relative would," Holmes mused. "Go on."
"The younger brother left. Fulke Gradgrind introduced me to his uncle and the old man called to me."
"His words, Watson. What were his exact words?"
"Well, he called my name, several times. A lot of what he was trying to say was lost. He had trouble speaking. I asked him what he wanted. He mumbled something about 'my name'."
"Your name? Think, my dear fellow, this could be vitally important."
I tried to recall our conversation. "No, he said, "my name". He might have called me John again, I don't—"
"He called you by your Christian name?" Holmes interrupted, his tone raising a pitch.
I gathered this was something of note, although what it indicated and why it had caused such excitement failed me.
"Why, yes."
"How did he know it?"
"Fulke must have mentioned it."
"Did he? Is it usual, would you say, for relative strangers to address you so informally?"
"It depends. Patients become confused. I've been called 'Aunt Mabel' before now."
A long silence ensued. The strain in the back of my neck had extended down my back, so that now I was in great pain and longed to relinquish my contorted position. I waited in patience, however, since I gathered that Holmes had seen some significance in all this that had escaped me. If so, I did not wish to disturb the train of his thoughts.
Finally, when he spoke, it was to ask me yet another question.
"Since you had the privilege of so close an audience with the ailing gentleman, do you think you would be able to describe him in minute detail?"
"I'll try."
"Good. Begin with his eyes."
"Faded blue, the colour of cornflowers."
"Just the facts, Watson. Leave the poetry for your journals. What else?"
"Bloodshot. And quite yellow."
"A curious combination of colours. What of his teeth?"
"He had few left. What he did have were stained with tobacco."
"He sounds a charming fellow," Holmes said. "Go on."
"I remember that his skin was quite leathery, as though he had been outdoors a great deal."
"Now that is an excellent observation, and entirely in accord with one who had spent a good deal of time in a hot country. Was this just the skin of his face?"
The decaying figure on the bed loomed large in my mind. I thought back to the hand that had reached out to me, of the sleeve that had fallen from the emaciated arm and the collar of his night shirt, slightly open to reveal the withered flesh beneath.
"It appeared to extend to his chest. His hands and arms also showed traces of tanning."
"Ah, his hands. Describe them."
"Feeble. Bony. The nails were greatly discoloured."
"Indeed. Was there a smear of dirt beneath them, did you notice?"
"Now you come to mention it, yes. It appeared to be ingrained."
A chuckle sounded from beyond the walls of my cell. "Well, well, that is quite interesting."
"I hope it is a good deal more than that," I returned. "I should not like stay here for any length of time, Holmes. Between the fleas and the threats, I doubt there will be much left of me." I had pulled back my sleeve to better scratch at my irritated flesh. A distant memory floated back to me of another arm, also adorned with red marks. "Strange," I said. "Now I come to think of it, I saw similar flea bites on Reverend Gradgrind."
"As one might expect," came Holmes's enigmatic reply. I heard the crunch of undergrowth as he withdrew from the proximity of the wall. "Well, Watson, I must leave you to your captivity for the night. Our conversation has been most instructive."
"Then you're going to confront the Gradgrinds?"
"No. I'm going to have soup."
Of all he could have said, this was perhaps the most unexpected. "Soup?" I echoed
"Yes. Soup, soap and salvation, in that order. Chin up, my dear fellow. I hope to see you in the morning with better news. You may keep that appointment with the Forrester children at the Zoo yet!"
I think everyone got the clue in the last chapter. But what does it mean? And where is Holmes going? Why the sudden obsession with soup?
Continued in Chapter Eight!
