Murder at the matinée – Part 6
Sherlock:
The nearest butcher, of course, meant the nearest one who would let us misuse his dead pigs and so, taking a cab to Smithfield Market, Harriet, Lestrade and I arrived there almost an hour after we had left the Yard. It had begun to pour down and the streets became increasingly slippery with the trampled horse manure and the cobblestones. Gusts of wind made the carriage sway precariously and had it not been for this most interesting case, I would not have minded at all, to have spent this Saturday afternoon bunked down on the sofa with a good book and my wife. - Though the book was dispensable.
Climbing out of the carriage, all three of us ran for shelter, as the cold rain was drenching us thoroughly even with the few steps we had to take and I felt extremely sorry for the cabby, as he sat there in his oilskin overcoat and the practical but undignified looking sou'wester.
"So, what now?" Lestrade asked as we pushed open one of the heavy doors to enter the wide expanse of the market hall, lined with stalls and booths mainly offering meat though some also had poultry on offer.
Smithfield Market was a noisy place, the voices echoed from the bare walls and the vaulted ceiling. Animals cried, bellowed and grunted and the overall smell of dried as well as fresh blood was fairly sickening in its amount. - Not that the autopsy room had smelled that much different, but it had just not been the amount of blood that splattered the tiled floor here, only to slowly seep into the clogged drains, where it congealed and clotted, together with the hair and bristles that had fallen to the ground likewise.
"This makes me appreciate to have grown up in the country, where the procedure of slaughtering is quick and does not stress the animal," Harriet remarked, looking around herself with stoic interest. Had I not known any better, I would have almost thought, that her interest was posed, with her being just a little too composed. As a matter of fact, she looked slightly ill, as she stood there, face pale and lips pressed firmly together.
Me, being a country boy myself, knew exactly what she meant. The place was reeking with the stench of distressed beasts, so very different from the home slaughtered animals I knew from my childhood days. Turning around a corner, I walked over to the stall of a butcher I had once helped out and who was always willing to help me since.
"Mr Holmes!" he greeted, wiping his soiled hands on his stained canvas apron before reaching out to take my outstretched hand.
"Mr Hanson, how are you doing?"
"Very well, very well. Thanks to you, sir." the broad-shouldered man beamed as if Christmas had come early. But then again, when I had first met him in 1888, he had been in dire straits indeed, being suspected of murdering several women in the East End.
"I am glad it turned out for you after all. But today, I would actually need a bit of help from you." I smiled.
His eyes widened in surprise, but then his lined features showed a smile that few people would have given this man credit for. "It would be my pleasure, Mr Holmes. But how can a simple man like me, possibly help you? Unless you are looking for a particularly juicy cut of meat."
"That I do as well. What would you recommend for a Sunday roast?"
"How about a nice bit of roast beef? I mean, who can say no to that? With a couple of tatties and some beans?"
"That, Hanson, sounds like a very good plan, you have me convinced. But for the now, I would be grateful, if I could try out something with this incredible thing here. If I may, I would like to see, whether it can cut through that front half of the pig over there." I had taken out the wire saw and the sturdy butcher looked at it with surprise.
"Cut something with that bit of wire?" he snorted. "Knock yourself out."
I took off my overcoat and handed it to Hattie, then wound the wire around the pig's neck and pulled crosswise and only moving it slightly back and forth. It went through the skin and muscle like a warm knife through butter.
"Dear me!" Hanson gasped. "What is that thing? I could sure use it here."
"We think it is called a wire saw. It is used in stonemasonry, apparently." Lestrade answered. "I would not have thought it would go through it this effortlessly."
"No, me neither..." Harriet mused, biting her lip once again.
"What is it, dear?" I asked, seeing her sceptical expression.
"Oh, nothing. I was just wondering if I could have a go as well."
And taking the tool from my hands and handing me back my coat, she stepped to the dead animal and just as I had done, cut through the flesh of the creature without much struggle and only when she reached the bone, did she meet with resistance.
"That is incredible, Doctor!" The inspector cried out.
"Yes, I agree. I had not thought this thing to be this efficient," she admitted, looking astonished at her own handiwork.
"So, now there is only one thing to do," I concluded. "Choosing the beef."
xxx
Harriet:
The rain had not stopped when we exited the huge market hall and for lack of a cab, all three of us made our way towards the nearest underground station, reaching it thoroughly soaked and slightly cranky.
"And now, what are you going to do with the information gathered?" Lestrade asked, wiping his face with his handkerchief.
"Think about it," Sherlock answered nonchalantly, lighting himself a cigarette.
"And the widow?"
"What's with her?"
"Are you not going to talk to her?" the official asked irritated, sneezing twice.
"I will, eventually. But I think I rather talk to the man's colleagues first." he was answered as Sherlock rather hastily smoked his cigarette. "Where was it, that he worked?"
"How am I supposed to know that?" the inspector asked evasively, after blowing his nose. "I had enough on my hands trying to get any information out of these people as it is. It did not occur to me, that the man's occupation might be an issue."
"Where do they live then?"
"No. 8 Somers Road, Brixton for the son and his wife and the widow lives at Havillier House, Lower Richmond Road, Putney."
Taking out his notebook and scribbling down the addresses, Sherlock then ripped out another sheet, made a note and handed it to a dour looking footboy of roughly twelve years old that had sought shelter in the underground station likewise.
"Could you please deliver this to 221 B Baker Street? It's for Tom." the boy wanted to reply something, his attitude being abrasive, but before he could do so, he was cut off by my spouse. "Don't worry, you will be paid and I also pay your fare, so you can take a ride on the underground, instead of heading out in this weather."
The boy's eyes fixed on the gleaming crown that was held up for him. "All right, governor." he agreed and snatched the held up coin and note quickly before holding out his hand for his fare, which followed suit and off he dashed, down the stairs and onto the platform.
"And where are we going now?" I enquired, shivering slightly in my wet dress and petticoat.
"I think you should go home before you catch a cold, Harriet and I will go to Havillier House and pay a visit there. Are you coming, Lestrade?"
"I would, but I have to get back to the Yard. This murder is not the only case I am currently working on. There is also the Kershaw robbery case, that the Superintendent asked me to look into. - Again!"
My husband looked incredulously at the official. "But Kershaw was hanged eight months ago, was he not?"
"He was, and there is little doubt, that it had been him. But the jewels are still missing and now the heir has turned up, finally having made his way across the Atlantic and is making a big fuss about us not having found his valuables. Truth be told, that bloke makes Kershaw appear like a decent fellow. Anyway, I have to find those blasted jewels. If I only knew where to look for them. But they seemed to have disappeared from the face of the earth."
"You know where to find me in case you want for my help."
Lestrade nodded, tipped the brim of his bowler hat, sighed theatrically and slowly walked down the stairs, reaching the platform just in time for the train to arrive.
"Should you not get changed first, too? You are just as likely to catch a cold, seeing you are just as wet." I suggested, shivering. "You know, Putney is just a little down the river from Chiswick and there is a bridge."
"Be honest, Hattie, you want to come, too." my husband teased, cocking an eyebrow before his usual boyish smile conquered his face and made my heart skip a beat.
"Yes. You caught me."
xxx
Havillier House was a modern building of fairly extensive proportions and a pathetic front garden, looking even worse in the pelting November rain. The blinds and curtains were all drawn and it looked astonishingly eerie for a whitewashed house with large windows and a bright red door, flanked by two narrow benches, covered by an elegantly sloping porch roof and a trellis on either side.
"Well, at least we don't need to go anywhere else to find his office..." Sherlock pointed at a large-sized brass plate on the side of the entrance, that gave the name of the house as well as the name and occupation of its owner and hence showed, that he had not just lived, but also worked there.
The door was opened on the third ring, by a wretched looking housemaid, her eyes red-rimmed and her cheeks pale.
"Sir, Madam, I am sorry, but we are in mourning, I must ask you to come again another day," she said with a small curtsey, fully prepared to close the door into our faces, had it not been for the interference of young Mr Thompson himself.
"No, wait, Betty, I know these people and they know what has happened. I actually would like to have a word with them. - Please, Doctor Holmes, Sir, would you come in?"
"I thought we might find you here," Sherlock said, taking the man's hand and introducing himself.
"My stepmother is not feeling very well. She did not know about my father's troubles and it was quite a shock to her. She is upstairs and asleep, I believe. At any rate, the doctor recommended for her to stay in bed."
"Then it was not one for you? A shock, I mean." my husband raised an eyebrow in mock surprise, as I had told him about what Thompson had said on our way to the Yard, earlier in the day.
"No, no it was not a surprise. Not really. I just thought that we would be safe in a theatre. But it seems I have been wrong in that assumption."
"So, he had been threatened?" Sherlock dug deeper. But as if he only now became aware of talking to two people he had never met before yesterday, Thompson bit his tongue and instead led us into a small sitting room that seemed to be the antechamber of the deceased man's study. - The door to it was slightly ajar and afforded a view of a very neat and tidy desk, much unlike mine or my husbands.
"Doctor Holmes, you have been the first to see my father, please, I just need to know how he has died. The police did not want to tell me anything last night and I do wonder..."
"What do you wonder? He did not poison himself if that is what you are worried about."
There was a faint expression of relief. As unfitting as it always appeared, there was an honest threat to the bereaved, had the deceased committed suicide in regards to the inheritance and possible insurance claims and many a family had been left in destitution due to such a situation. After half a minute he nodded demurely.
"Yes, I was worried about that," he admitted, looking embarrassed. "He sometimes was quite liberal in his use of Laudanum, and the dosages went higher and higher."
"Do not worry, he indeed had been murdered. He died of a stroke induced by an injection of air into his arteries."
"That does not sound very deadly. I was not aware air could do that." The surprise on the son's face was evident as he slumped down on one of the armchairs.
"He was also almost decapitated." I carried on matter of factly. "And he hardly could have done that himself."
"What?" he cried out, staring at me in utter disbelief as if he thought he had not heard me right.
"When I saw him first all that held his head in place were the ligaments of his spine - and the starched collar of his dress shirt." I specified, seeing from the corners of my eyes, that Sherlock was busy observing the room in an inconspicuous manner.
It was an austere room, that matched the front garden quite well. Though the furniture was tasteful, it lacked a cosy touch and looked rather barren, an impression heightened by the drawn blinds that only allowed in little light. The settee was decidedly uncomfortable and the same applied to the armchairs. The picture above the far too small fireplace, the grate empty and cold, was one of the usual prints found in an English middle class home, though perhaps it was a bit more daring than was customary for such a public part of the house, depicting a plump brunette with a surplus of bosom and a deficiency of dress.
"Your father worked as a stonemason?" Sherlock suddenly asked, leaning against the door frame to the study, as he had been the only one who had not sat down.
"He used to. Nowadays he earns – well, earned - more money with designing ornaments for mainly public architectural projects."
"And that was able to sustain him?" my husband asked interestedly.
"I have not yet received his papers, seeing that it is the weekend, but it must have."
"May I have a look at his study?"
"But of course."
A.N.: The murdering of women in 1888 in the London East End should ring a bell...