Murder at the matinée – Part 3

Sherlock:

As soon as the door had closed behind my wife, I began looking around me, cursing the fact, that I had not brought my magnifying glass with me. But as I had not expected that I might have to solve a crime while out with Harriet and her friends, my bare eyes would have to do. And so I began by first examining the door from the inside, not wanting to attract the attention of the unfortunate man's relatives waiting on the other side.

The ornate brass doorknob did not reveal much, but next to it, part of a bloody fingerprint that disappeared around the edge was visible and there was indeed another imprint, fainter but still clearly outlined, of two fingers and a thumb, where I presumed the person to have killed Mr Thompson had pressed his palm against the door leaf to be able to open it without any noise. Imitating the action, I could establish, that the murderer had been only slightly shorter than myself, but with bigger and broader hands.

Turning around again, I carefully walked over to the chair the man had sat in, keeping my eyes on the ground in the hopes that something might catch my attention. - And it did.

The carpet that covered the floor, was of a silky plushy kind that when shuffling around with one's feet, left an imprint – at least till the next person walked over the same spot. In this case, right behind the late Mr Thompson's chair, the surface of this otherwise fairly smooth carpet was slightly ruffled and by bending down, to inspect the area closer, I could make out the fairly distinguished outline of a rather large footprint, but could not make out any details as to the shoe or its actual size.

The existence of this imprint, however, suggested a certain struggle, at least on the murderers part. So how was it, that none of the other occupants had realised what was going on? After all, the man's son and daughter in law had sat right in front of him.

After that it was but a short time to establish, that the rest of the box was devoid of any further evidence – at least any evidence connected to the crime at hand and so only the dead man himself was left to be examined.

He had been a tall man, broad-shouldered and bulky, but in the muscular sense, not the portly, even though with age – he must have been in his mid- to late fifties – he had obviously expanded his girth slightly. His face, despite having relaxed in death by the lack of tonicity, appeared stern and foreboding, with his thin-lipped mouth underneath the meticulously waxed moustache, the bushy eyebrows, wide forehead and the close-set eyes. In life one would certainly have done well to stay on the good side of this fellow, he did not look like a man to cross and get away with it.

The quarrel with his wife came to mind. And I wondered once again, what it had been about that they had cast propriety aside and argued most privately in public for everyone to see. But as the question would not be answered by staring at the dead man, I continued with the more productive task of making my observations about him as he lay there before me.

In his youth, he had obviously engaged in manual labour, as his hands and built clearly showed and he had also been abroad for some time, as was shown by an impressive and skilful Maori-tattoo circling his left lower arm so that it was just about covered by his shirt cuff. The corresponding New Zealand – Penny he wore on his watch chain bore testimony that it was the other side of the world, that he had been influenced by the most and judging by the remnants of a once deep tan, that still lingered on those body parts usually exposed to the sun, he must have stayed there for many years, perhaps had even been born there and had mainly been working out of doors at that. A farmer he was most certainly not, but he might have been a builder or looking more closely at his hands, a sculptor. Nonetheless, with the evidence I had, that was not to be established, but in the light of what I had found so far, it was the most likely conclusion.

Apart from that, he was right-handed, liked a good drink, chewed tobacco, but did not smoke it, and enjoyed an occasional swig of laudanum. A likely remnant habit of an old head injury he seemed to have sustained some time ago, but that was so badly healed, even though now covered by bushy grizzling hair, the bulging scar above his left ear was unmistakable. At any rate, even while listening to a concert, he had a tiny bottle of the drug in his pocket. I checked the small vial, made from brown glass, against the light and saw that it was about half empty. Now, this might be significant.

If he had taken a swig sometime during the performance, he might have been in such a daze, that it might just as well be, that he did not realise it, when his killer approached him from behind. And if it was a habit of Thompson, then perhaps the murder might have even anticipated him taking some of the narcotic. Which in turn would indicate, that the murderer knew his target well.

Had Thompson worked mainly manually when younger, eventually he must have swapped physical labour with a desk job of sorts. I would, of course, have been more able to tell what exactly he did, had he not worn his dress suit instead of his usual attire, as a dress suit is not quite suited, even for me, to make many deductions from it – apart from that he was well off and could afford one of the pricier tailors on Bond Street. But still, though his hands were clean, on his thumb, middle and ring finger I found traces of fine dusty carbon, suggesting he must have held a charcoal pen shortly before putting on his gloves and leaving his house for the theatre.

Docketing the information for later, I at long last, came around to inspect the man's deadly injury and could not help wondering about the lack of blood. The cut was barely a thin line of red, now only slightly more visible than at first, as Harriet had pulled back the head to show me the extent of the cut and it had not settled exactly into place again, hampered by us laying the body down onto the floor. This could only mean one thing. – The man had not died from the wound but was killed in another way and this had only been an extra. It was quite a consolation, that he had not been alive when being decapitated. I examined the glittering wire more closely, but it was wrapped around the man's neck in such a way, that I could neither establish its length nor the exact material it had been made out of. I would have to be patient and wait for the official investigation taking care of it and request to have a look at it under a microscope.

But how did Thompson die? His eyes did not show any petechial bleeding, nor did the inside of his mouth, so he had not been strangled or suffocated. Once more I wished I had had the foresight of bringing my magnifying glass with me, disliking being this hampered and unprepared.

It was frugal though to carry on, at any rate, as the bell chimed, telling the audience that the break was over and the concert was about to resume and as the lights dimmed already, right now I would not be able to find out any more. So instead of crawling on the floor any longer, I decided to have a good look around the auditorium once again. Some cast a curious glance in my direction, but none lingered. - Apart from the Fraser's, of course. Now being opposite they had taken their seat and did not seem to be surprised to see me where I was and I assumed, Harriet had spoken to them shortly during the break.

Nodding in acknowledgement, I voiced, much as my wife had done earlier, that we would explain the situation over dinner and would rejoin them as soon as possible – meaning as soon as the police had taken over. Anne Fraser nodded, shrugged her shoulders, a wry smile on her handsome face and then laughed, while the colonel leaned back in his seat, closing his eyes and already dozed off again as he had done during the first part. Then the lights went out completely and the music filled the room with its magic once more, making the whole situation seem almost surreal.

xxx

Harriet:

It had been most fortunate, that an inspector had been present in the nearest police station on the Strand, which was incidentally not far from the Lyceum and within less than fifteen minutes the young constable, another two of his rank, a sergeant and said inspector had arrived in the foyer.

While waiting I had been fortunate enough to be able to tell Anne about the emergency and that we would at the latest join them again after the performance.

"You got to do, what you got to do." she had said, with a lopsided grin.

Well, at least this now would contribute to a more interesting than the usual dinner conversation. I hinted as much and I could see her curiosity roused. She certainly would not be disappointed.

The inspector, Lestrade by name, was a wiry man with the alert face of a ferret and eyes just as beady as the creatures. He gave the impression of a capable and intelligent policeman and I remembered faintly that it was him, whom Doctor Watson had informed about the ongoings in Winchester and who had sent down Hopkins in the process.

Young Thompson, now in a state of stupor, as the reality of the situation had finally sunk in, leaned against the bar on the far side of the entrance hall, nursing a glass of brandy, affording me and the policemen a quiet word beforehand.

"You have called for me on a supposed case of murder?" the senior official asked, looking at me and the pale young man in the background, undisguised scepticism in his voice.

"Yes, I have," I replied calmly, bracing myself for what was to come.

"And you base this extraordinary claim on…?" Inwardly rolling my eyes in exasperation, I took a deep breath before answering with forced indifference.

"I base this claim on the fact, that I have examined the dead man after a call for a doctor had been roused and I happen to be one..."

"Oh, all right, Doctor…?" He seemed surprised, but at least did not argue about my experience nor doubt my profession.

"Doctor Holmes, sir."

"Ah."

His eyebrows shot up to his hairline, and an amused twinkle graced his eyes and I could all but see him snicker inwardly.

"As said, I happen to be a doctor and when I arrived at the scene, I could not find a pulse on his wrist, so I went to check his carotid artery and apart from that there was none to be found either, instead I found, that his head had almost been cut off."

"Good God! You cannot be serious!" the inspector cried out, looking taken aback now.

"But I am," I replied with emphasis.

He swallowed hard as he realised I was indeed as serious as could possibly be.

"Then could you bring me to the dead man? Where is he anyway?"

"He is still in the box, where he was killed, just that we have put him on the floor, so he would be out of eyesight. If you will just follow me – oh, and perhaps someone should take care of that young man there, he is the dead man's son. You might need to question him and that might get difficult if he is too intoxicated." I pointed at the miserable looking man who had just ordered another glass of liquor, appearing determined to get drunk fast and hard.

"Dear me… - Yes, of course, Meyers, you'll stay here." he ordered the oldest of the constables, a man with a stoic expression and a slight limp. "And keep him from drinking any more."

"How come they are still performing?" the inspector asked, as we neared the crime scene, about to turn into the corridor that would lead us there, already catching sight of the two women on the far end, still clutching one another in front of the box, appearing utterly distressed and lost, but not in hysterics any more – at least not for the time being.

"We thought it best not to raise an alarm. We kept the family out, claiming the man needs rest and apart from the son, they have not yet been informed about their husbands and father in laws demise."

"Oh dear!" he sighed, obviously looking forward to the task of breaking the news as little as I had been. "We?"

"My husband and I," I explained, surprised the young constable had not mentioned it to his superior. "I left him in the box to keep watch over the deceased and every possible intruder out, if necessary."

A flicker of annoyance crossed the detective's face, mumbling under his breath, but clearly audible: "And destroy any possible evidence while doing so, I dare say."

"That, Inspector Lestrade I doubt very much. I don't think anyone can possibly blame my spouse for destroying evidence, sir. Or being inattentive in the face of crime."

The inspector cast a queer glance in my direction and then towards the two women who were still oblivious to our presence, as we had not yet rounded the corner to approach them.

"Do I know your husband, Doctor Holmes?" he asked after a moment's hesitation, quirking an eyebrow.

"You might."

"Did you get married recently?"

"Two weeks ago."

The man whistled surprised: "That is recent indeed. - And he is not coincidentally a lean and tall fellow in his mid-thirties, with dark hair, sharp eyes and a prominent nose?"

I laughed softly: "Coincidentally he is, Inspector Lestrade."

"Then that is what Hopkins must have meant by extraordinary happenings in Winchester, I presume... - I take it you used to be called Doctor Stephens?"

I affirmed his suspicions while he had confirmed my assessment of him being a clever man.

"Lucky Bastard!" he exclaimed chuckling. "Well, then you actually have me convinced, that it was a wise move, to have your husband stay in that box, keeping everybody else out. - And presumably, gather as much information as he possibly could..."

At long last, bracing ourselves, we turned into the long and gently sloping corridor. The instance the two women saw me and the four policemen walking towards them they paled and hugged each other even more tightly, having their worst fears confirmed at that moment. It took but a few seconds till the younger one had dissolved into tears, while the widow was as stupefied as her stepson, unwilling or unable to take in the information she must know deep within herself, was the truth.

"He is dead, isn't he?" the younger lady finally asked between sobs and placing my hand on her shoulder I answered in the affirmative.

"But that cannot be so!" the lady in green whispered. "He cannot be dead. Not my Charles."

While I tried my best to comfort the desolate dames, Inspector Lestrade had slipped into the box accompanied by the sergeant, while the constables now stood guard officially at a murder scene. Suddenly the brightly lit and dainty hallway had a distinctly sinister feel to it.

A.N.: Wondering how Holmes would recognise a Maori-tattoo? A tattoo!?

In one of the original ACD stories, to be more precise in 'The redheaded league' Holmes states, that he has done some research about tattoos and even written and published an essay about the topic.

Back then, tattoos were not as uncommon as one would think, it was just, that people did not run around in t-shirts or tank tops and certainly not in shorts and miniskirts, so they did a better job at hiding them.

So there are a couple of prominent people from that time, who actually had tattoos without the public being any the wiser: Empress Sissy of Austria, Czar Nicholas of Russia, Thomas A. Edison, Theodore Roosevelt and a couple of more.