Murder at the matinée – Part 7

Sherlock:

The young Charles Thompson was surprisingly complying as he showed us into his father's study, so I could take a look at his father's correspondence and those papers that he kept there. There almost seemed to be a kind of relief, that it was me, searching through the study and not the police. As I set to work, I felt his eager gaze on me, never wavering, as I looked around the room assessing what to do first. It was a room, that at the same time managed to look airy and oppressive. The ceiling was high, the windows behind the desk tall and wide, the wallpaper a dull green, the carpet brownish and the furniture dark and imposing. It was a fairly large room, and tidy to an extent, that it appeared almost uninhabited. Well, now of course it was, but I doubted that it had ever been any less neat.

Walking over to the impeccably looking desk, I sat down in the comfortable chair behind it and began opening the drawers one by one. The first contained nothing but a stack of empty sheets of paper, the second was stuffed with pencils, charcoal pens, and a box of replacement nibs for the man's dipping pens, which were stored neatly on top of the polished silver-coated desk set, with a well of red, violet and black ink. The third drawer was locked and when I asked the son, he admitted, that he did not know where to find the key, but was willing to ask his stepmother for it. He returned with the message, that his father's key rings must still be with the police. Of course!

"I really have no idea, how we could possibly open the lock..." Charles Thompson the younger looked at a loss, scratching his head.

"But I do." Astonished I gazed at Harriet, who stood there with a sly grin on her face.

"And how?" I, at last, asked, exceedingly curious.

"By employing the help of your lockpicking wife," she replied, taking out one of her hairpins.

"Do I want to know, why you of all people can pick locks, my dear? Or rather not?" I enquired, raising my eyebrows.

"Perhaps the latter, but if I say so, it would only intrigue you more." she quipped and had a point.

Kneeling down next to where I sat, she got to work and in an astonishingly short amount of time had managed to unlock the drawer, without leaving the smallest scratch.

"There you are." my wife smiled cheekily, scrambling back to her feet, straightening her skirts.

Shaking my head slightly, I pulled the remaining drawer open, to reveal an array of neatly bundled correspondence. Most of the letters were on business, very few personal and one stack seemed to be about what the son had referred to – threats.

"These are the ones, I have mentioned." the son said softly, avoiding my eyes as if in embarrassment.

If you don't pay up, I will get the money by force, you lying blackguard. W. W.

You owe me, Charles. Never bite the hand that feeds you or it beats you! W. W.

Charlie, you conniving son of a bitch! My patience is running short, you will reap what you sowed at last. W. W.

And so forth. The messages were all fairly similar, some even having the exact same wording, but there were certainly many of them and only Charles Thompson the elder would have really known, what they were about.

"You would not know who this W. W. is, would you, Mr Thompson?" I asked, going through all the letters of that pile, which all sounded pretty similar.

The son shook his head, staring into space as if contemplating, then said in a quiet voice: "No."

I took out my magnifying glass and had a closer look at the epistles, however. The paper was of ordinary quality, the ink a dark almost blackish blue, the handwriting was rather scrawny, as if the paper had slipped a couple of times, which also went with the wrinkled-up state of the sheets, and it was blotted here and there, but never so much so as to obliterate a word. There was no watermark, but I was almost certain it was from a paper mill only north of London, that sold their product for tuppence for a pack of five dozens of quarter sized sheets and was hence one of the commonest brands. In other words, not much to go on. The envelopes were blank, except for the name of the recipient and there was neither a postage stamp nor an address so that the letters must have been delivered either in person or by messenger. As there was no date on any of them – and no date stamp either, I could not even be sure, whether they were old, or have been written recently, and the paper itself, having been stored in the dark, had not yet yellowed. Though under these conditions, it could take years to do so.

The handwriting was clearly male and despite its scrawniness quite energetic. - The writer seemed to have a certain amount of self-importance judging by the expanse and hight of the upper cases and the descenders of the the lower cases, which looped widely and reached almost into the line below.

Sitting back, I stared into space for a couple of minutes, trying to gather my thoughts, before beginning to look for the flap of the hidden compartment that had caught my attention. While Harriet, who had sat down in a chair on the other side of the desk, followed my actions with mild curiosity, Thompson had resorted to walking back and forth in growing agitation. A spring on the underside of the locked drawer, at last, released it and I found yet another stack of letters. - Threatening ones.

"What is that?" Thompson exclaimed, looking pale and wide-eyed.

"More letters that threatened your father. Just that this time, this W. W. seems to have stepped it up a notch – or two." I answered while reading through the first two notes with a feeling of acute uneasiness.

Pay up! Just place ₤ 500 into an envelope and hide it in the old tree on the common. If not, something will happen to your daughter W. W.

You can run, but you can't hide! The money, Charles. The usual amount at the usual spot, if you please. W. W.

My patience is running, short, I want my money. How dare you not pay your dues! Remember that pretty little daughter of yours. - You love her, don't you? W. W.

Again a whole stack of mysterious messages, but something was off, clearly. The handwriting was not the same for a start, but I did not remark on it just now. It was not completely dissimilar, but decidedly not the same. The paper was different, too and there was not the slightest wrinkle on any of the sheets. The envelopes were slightly more informative than the ones from the other stack, as each of these contained a postmark, giving the point of origin as various places all across London. Well, that would not help me find W. W., but at least I could establish, that these letters were fairly recent, the last one only from five days ago, which considering the happenings, made them likely to have been written by the murderer.

But what could it mean, that there have been two stacks? - Well, two different authors, of course. But how? How could that be? And why? Also, while the first pile suggested money to be owed, these other letters smacked strongly of blackmail, and as it appeared, Thompson must have paid up, at least on occasion.

Did he know, that they were from different people? Thinking of how he had kept the letters, it was likely. And if so, he must have had an inkling, who had written them.

"Do you mind, if I smoke, madame?" Thompson suddenly asked, turning towards Harriet in an erratic manner.

"Well, yes, of course. It is not as if my husband does not smoke either." she smiled, reaching for the stack of letters I had already set aside, to have a look at them, too.

Thompson lit his cigar and dragged at it nervously. "I am sorry, but this business is most difficult to deal with." he excused himself, carrying on walking to and fro.

"Mr Thompson, where does your sister live?" I enquired, wondering if the woman might be in danger.

"She lives here, of course." the young man looked bewildered. "Where else would she live?"

"I take it, she is unmarried?"

"Excuse me?" he gasped, coughing as I had caught him unawares, almost laughing out loud. "Yes, she is, of course."

"Mr Thompson, how old is your sister?" I asked, putting my magnifying glass aside, at last, starting to get irritated.

"Eighteen months," he answered, managing to compose himself at last.

"Are you and her the only children?"

"Yes, there once has been an older sister to me, but she has died even before I was born." Thompson now stood in front of the desk, right next to my wife, who was still busy reading the letters.

"And your stepmother has no..." I was, to my dismay, interrupted by my wife, throwing the letters onto the desk, quickly wrapping her coat around herself and hurrying out of the door.

"If you just excuse me, I just need to step outside for a minute," Harriet whispered, looking pale. I stared at her in concern, my annoyance waning in an instant.

"If you'll just excuse me, sir." I excused myself, rushing after my wife. I found her, leaning against the side of the front door, breathing deeply as if to stop herself from heaving.

"Good God, what is the matter, my dear? Are you well?" It was perhaps not the most intelligent question to ask, as she obviously was not, but what else could I have said?

"I'll be fine, I just needed a bit of fresh air. The room was quite stuffy, don't you think?" she gasped, still looking wretched. I tried to remember if it had been, but could not. I had been too distracted by my work to notice.

"Why don't you go back in and finish what you need to?" Harriet smiled bravely. "I'll come back in in a couple of minutes."

With yet another concerned glance, I stepped back into the house and carried on with my task. But there was not much, that caught my attention, at least at first. A filing cabinet contained the dead man's professional drafts, that were indeed quite good and would certainly have made him a bit of money. There also were a few books on architecture and on art, nothing that was not to be expected. As neat as the office was, everything had its place and nothing seemed to be out of it.

At long last, I reached a small display cabinet that was tucked away behind the door. It held a few items of intricately carved Maori sculptures. Tiny, but most beautifully done.

"Your father must have been very fascinated by this culture," I remarked, noting that my wife had not yet returned.

"He was. It was what influenced him. He managed to combine traditional English stonemasonry with the art of the Maori. This idea was quite revolutionary and he was hired to erect some public buildings. And after that, many rich people were keen on hiring him as well. Then there was the accident."

"What accident?" I enquired, ignoring my growing feeling of uneasiness.

"On one of the building sites, a newly built wall fell apart. You must know that in parts of New Zealand the ground is not as stable as it is here and somehow this wall, instead of being built on solid ground, was built on weak soil and just fell, burying six men underneath it. My father was hit on the head, by a stone, sustaining a head injury and his companion lost his left hand. One man died, but the others got away basically unscathed."

"When did that happen?"

"Close to twenty years ago. I was still a boy."

"Your father's companion, did he come to England, too?"

"No, he stayed in New Zealand, if I recall it correctly." Charles Thompson the son replied, looking at the same time contemplative and evasive. "He blamed my father for what happened and after the accident, I never really saw him again. He never so much as greeted us, when we met in the street."

"Do you know his name?"

"I called him Uncle Bill. But had you not asked, I am quite sure I would have forgotten all about him."

"And your father returned to England after this accident? Straight away, or after a couple of years?"

"We moved to England after my mother's death, that was fifteen years ago."

"Could I take these letters with me?" I asked the young man. Thompson only shrugged his shoulders, looking wary again.

"If you have to," he answered, neither unfriendly nor complying.

Pocketing the epistles, I thanked the man, bowed and stepped outside, overtaken by worry about my wife. Harriet now sat on one of the benches, looking embarrassed and on the brink of tears, and seemed to be extremely tired. It had long gotten dark and we had been on our feet since the morning, never stopping so much as to eat or sit down, other when we were in a cab or the underground.

"You, my dear, will be packed into bed as soon as we are home," I stated matter of factly, berating myself, for not having taken better care of her. "You have been looking peaky for a couple of days – with the exception of yesterday - and I cannot allow you to ruin your health."

She wanted to contradict me, I could see it clearly, but one look into my face was enough to convince her, that for once I would not tolerate any opposition. Smiling exhaustedly, she took my arm and when we had climbed into a Hansom it took but a moment and she was asleep, leaning against my shoulder.