Murder at the matinée – Part 10

Sherlock:

I hastily scribbled a note to be sent to Lestrade, while Atkins put on his coat, still looking confused. Taking the revolver from my desk drawer, I slipped it into my pocket, prepared for the worst and then ushered Atkins out of the room. Bidding my visitor good-bye I hailed a cab and gave Watson's address. I was glad to find him at home and willing to join me and within minutes of appearing on his doorstep, we were off towards Havillier House.

"Say, Holmes, what is going on?" my friend asked, looking eager and curious at the same time. Of course, we had not seen each other for several days.

"I went to a matinée on Friday, together with Harriet and the Fraser's – little Lou's parents – were a man was murdered during the first half of the concert."

"In the middle of the theatre?" Watson asked incredulously.

"So to speak." I agreed. "His relatives called for a doctor and Harriet went to help him, only to find him dead and almost decapitated."

"Decapitated?!" he now cried out in disbelief.

"Yes. He had a wire saw wrapped around his neck. But he was already dead when that was done. He died of an air embolism." I could see, that Watson wanted to reply, that this was not necessarily deadly, but I anticipated him, by answering the unasked question. "He had a predisposition and the air was not injected into his arm, but into his carotid artery, so that it caused a stroke that killed him. The man had also been under the influence of Laudanum, as he had suffered a head wound about twenty years back, that gave him severe headaches. He must have been in quite a daze at the time."

"But Holmes, how can a man be killed amongst so many other people without anybody hearing anything?"

As we dashed towards our destination I explained it further.

"That is atrocious! And you are certain?"

"Yes, I am certain. I only hope we are not too late to save his wife, daughter and possibly even his daughter in law."

We arrived in Putney almost at the same time as the inspector. Jumping out of the Hansom, Lestrade appeared fairly annoyed at having been disturbed on a Sunday afternoon.

"Holmes, Doctor Watson, I hope you did not mean what you said in your telegram." his nerves were on tenterhooks, as he shook our hands.

"I meant every word of it, Lestrade. Have you any back up?" I queried, feeling not any less tense.

"Backup is on the way. They should be here any minute."

"Good, then let us wait."

Hastily smoking a cigarette, I walked up and down, suppressing the urge to dash in straight away. But it would not do, we would need to block the back entrances as well and a house like this was likely to have at least two sets of doors leading into the garden behind.

It was but a few moments, as Inspector Lestrade had assured us, but the minutes seemed to stretch endlessly. With astonishing efficiency, the inspector gave his instructions and then called at the door. The same maid opened, that had let in Harriet and me the afternoon before.

"Is your mistress in?" I asked. The girl nodded, looking wide-eyed and scared.

"And Mr Thompson?" again she nodded.

"What is this about?" the young man's voice sounded from the recesses, and pushing the trembling maid aside he appeared at the door himself. "Mr Holmes? Inspector?"

"Your father's murder," I answered coolly. "What else would this be about?"

"Have you found the murderer already?" Charley Thompson asked, a hint of mocking in his voice.

Taking a step forward, I quickly got hold of his arm and twisting it behind his back answered nonchalantly: "Yes, I have."

For a moment he was so perplexed, that he just stood there, but then he began fighting like a lion.

"You are an imbecile, Holmes!" he cried out, kicking and writhing. "This man is completely mad, inspector."

"Sorry, sir, but as much as I agree, there is, after all, a method in his madness," Lestrade replied wryly while putting handcuffs on the raging man that was beginning to slip from my grasp.

Leaving Lestrade to deal with the captive, I grabbed the terrified maid by the hand and beckoned her to bring me to her mistress, Watson hard on our heels.

Relief washed over me, when I found her in a little upstairs boudoir, toddler in her arms, unharmed, though sad. She had obviously just been crying.

"I beg your pardon, Mrs Thompson, but I needed to ascertain that you are all right and your daughter, too."

"Who are you, sir?" she asked, making me think for a split second, that she might have been drugged not to remember me, but then it dawned on me, that she simply wanted to know my name as we had never been introduced.

"My name, madam, is Sherlock Holmes."

"You are? That is quite bitter, you know?" she smiled sadly, patting her daughter's wispy blond curls, all the while slightly and almost imperceptibly turning the left side of her face towards me, almost as if she wanted to avoid my eyes, had it not been for the fact, that she most keenly glanced at me. "The very last time we ever spoke to one another, was about him not going to seek your help. We quarrelled quite badly, even at the theatre. But he would not listen. And all the while you have been so close."

"Yes, I sat across from you," I said quietly.

"Will you find his killer?"

"I already have," I replied quietly, smiling at the little girl, who stared at me with unabashed curiosity. "That is, why I am here."

"Who? I need to know."

"Your stepson, Mrs Thompson."

xxx

"Holmes, how was it possible that no-one in the box realised what was going on?" Watson queried when we drove towards Brixton.

"I dare say, the young Mrs Thompson did realise, and yet she did not," I answered evasively, nervously playing with my wedding band.

"How is that possible?" Lestrade wanted to know, looking incredulous.

"Would you think, someone is killed in the middle of a theatre? Presumably not. She might have assumed, that her father in law was unwell, which he often was, and that her husband took care of him – which would be a natural conclusion to draw." I reasoned.

"And the widow?" the good doctor again dug deeper.

"I happened to observe just now, that she is almost deaf in her right ear, it is almost imperceptible, but a fact nonetheless. I did not realise this on Friday, as I have not been talking to her then. Mrs Thompson sat in the front row to the left of her husband, who, after their quarrel, sat in the back row, it would have been hard for her, to hear anything of what was going on, especially with the music playing."

"And that wire thing?"

"A ruse. Thompson wanted to make it appear as if the murder had been committed by someone his father had upset in his line work. And I have to admit, I took the bait. There seemed to have been many, who did envy his success, but that is only normal when a man is as successful in his field as Thompson was." Adding in my mind, that had it not been for the visit Atkins had paid me, I would have spent quite some time, to search in that direction.

"What about the blood on the door?"

"Well, that is where I went wrong, Lestrade. I thought it indicated, that someone from outside had entered the box and then had left. As it is, I presume, that Thompson might have realised he had soiled his hands lightly with his father's blood and went to wash them, as I am sure that there was no blood on his hands, when I first met him. And perhaps he also wanted to get rid of the syringe he used to kill his father with. You remember, Lestrade, that Harriet and Doctor Bell were agreeing, that the amount of air must have been quite large, so I am almost sure, the syringe was of the kind a veterinarian uses to treat cattle. - But that is only an assumption. Still, it might be a good idea, to search the Lyceum's lavatories."

When we at long last reached Charles Thompson's Brixton address, we found a rather humble terraced house in a comfortable neighbourhood. With the park only down the road and the small but neat front gardens, it looked a lot cosier than the more imposing Havillier House.

There was no light from within, despite the early November evening. Knocking, there was no answer and so, breaking down the front door, we entered hesitantly. There was the distinct smell of gas pervading the house, making us cautious. The slightest spark would ignite the air in an explosion. Holding our breaths, we opened all windows to create a draught before we proceeded to close all gas jets, carefully climbing up the stairs in the fear of stepping into a trap. But Thompson had either not been this devious or this clever.

We reached the upstairs safely and once more opened the windows, while breathing as little as was possible, trying to avoid fumes. The clock in the hallway ticked ominously and in the recesses, where the bathroom must be, a water tap was dripping in a steady rhythm.

There, in the front bedroom the young Mrs. Thompson lay, spread out on the bed in her nightdress, one arm lifted above her head, the other dangling over the side of the bed, while the legs were spread in an almost titillating manner, had not the state of the blanket, which she must have kicked aside, shown that she had fought violently against her attacker. The crumpled pillow next to her was doubtless the weapon she had been murdered with. She almost appeared as if she was sleeping, had it not been for the complete lack of movement, that, even in sleep, distinguished the living from the dead.

xxx

"And you are sure, it is convenient, Holmes?" Watson asked anxiously, as we drove towards Chiswick.

"Yes. Of course, it is convenient, old friend. And besides, I need some backup." I laughed, taking out my watch, glancing at it consciously. "I told Harriet I would be back before dinner..."

"Then it is lucky you did not specify the exact day." my friend chuckled.

After our discovery, it had taken another two and a half hours, till we finally had been on our way and by now it was well past our usual dinner time. But I could not leave without knowing the motive of this patricide, as that had been the only part that still had been a mystery to me by the time we had joined the prisoner for his interrogation.

Watson glanced up at me, before grinning even more widely.

"She has got you trained quite well, already." he mocked.

"I am just wise enough to surrender, where I cannot possibly win." I joked back.

"Good man!" he laughed.

"And besides, I would appreciate it, if you could take a look at Harriet. She has been unwell for a while and I start to get worried." I admitted, turning serious.

He looked at me weirdly. "Unwell? Why what is wrong with her?"

I explained, telling him that she had a break down the night before and was actually bodily sick.

"You know, it must have been a bit much," I concluded. "She is strong, but that made it only worse, I suppose, postponing the natural reaction and leading to these physical and mental effects."

Biting my lip, I refrained to tell him about my discovery this morning. I still was unable to voice my fears and fidgeting with my wedding ring, I tried to avoid my friends gaze.

"Is there something else?" Watson enquired softly, picking up on my obvious uneasiness.

"Perhaps. I cannot tell. Harriet said it is nothing to worry about, but she was bleeding this morning."

"Bleeding? I am afraid you will have to specify, Holmes."

"I think she might have had a miscarriage. It was quite a bit of blood." I voiced my worries.

The doctor gaped at me for a short moment, letting sink in what I had just said.

"But you said she was not worried or anxious…?" he eventually carried on.

"No."

"Holmes, could it not simply be, your wife is suffering her monthly bleed."

"Monthly bleed?"

"Yes. For a woman, it is perfectly normal. Trust your wife on this one. It just shows she is a healthy woman of childbearing age." he assured me before asking hesitantly, "Holmes, have you never known this?"

"I might have at some point, I don't know. But you know my maxim about useless knowledge. - This was a kind of knowledge I had no use for. - Till now." I replied, relieved and embarrassed at the same time. "And there is nothing that can be done about it?"

"There is, of course, one thing you could do…," the smirk on his face was back. "- I strongly recommend reading your wife's book, old fellow. It might give you an interesting insight into the workings of the female body. It taught me a thing or two. Or alternatively, ask the authoress herself."

The insinuation was clear. And thinking about it, I vowed to myself to do just that. As soon as Harriet was better, I vowed I would sit down with her and ask her.

xxx

When we reached home, we found Harriet calmly sitting on the sofa, knitting. She looked a lot better than in the morning, the rest seemingly doing her a world of good. Though she must have spent quite some time crying still, as her eyes were slightly red-rimmed. When Harriet became aware of us, she smiled, put aside her needlework and welcomed us warmly, and with no hint of reproach.

"It is nice to see you, Doctor Watson. I will just put the roast beef back on and take care of the potatoes. I think dinner should be ready in half an hour."

When I looked at her flabbergasted, she added teasingly: "Did you really think I would rely on your word, that you would return before dinner? With you, one never knows what happens next and I was proven right."

"You sound as if you have spoken to Mrs Hudson."

"I have." was her dry reply. "She had sent a telegram this morning. It arrived shortly after you have left and I replied, asking her, to tell me, when you would leave Baker Street. She did so, informing me, that you were out and about, but not on your way home. So, I assumed, you must have made some progress and prepared everything as far as it would take but a short time to finish the roast."

xxx

Harriet:

"So it was the son?" I asked, shocked, as we had sat down for dinner.

Remembering that I had actually comforted the murderer was unsettling, he had appeared so honestly shocked – but then again, he could have been shocked at himself for having gone through with his deed, killing his father.

"Yes," Sherlock replied, cutting the beef and serving each of us a generous slice.

"And do you know why?" I carried on, helping myself to some beans.

"Yes, he had accumulated a lot of debts and was not very successful in his business. He needed money. He had found the old letters, that seemed to threaten his father and decided to take it up a notch and blackmail him, threatening to do harm to his fathers family."

"That is disgusting! What kind business did he have?"

"He dealt with artworks. Importing objects from all over the empire. Masks, carvings, shrunken heads."

"I would not call a shrunken head a piece of art..." Doctor Watson interjected, making me smirk, as the same thought had crossed my mind.

"That is the point. Most of what he sold, were knock-offs anyway. Industrially produced and cheap, but sold for good money. He seemed to have ruined his reputation quite quickly and his father needed to vouch for him and his credibility. He could have changed his ways then, but decided, that he preferred the easy way out. Carrying on with his ways, his name quickly became tainted beyond repair and his father lost a great deal of money, but other than the son, he was able to afford it. At any rate, Thompson senior refused to help him out again, and the son ended up in the fangs of some shylock and, as he could not pay up, was fearing for his life."

"It still is pathetic." I cried out, stabbing a piece of beef with a vengeance. "He was given a second chance and he did not take it and then he was too much of a coward to deal with it like a man."

"It often is. Actually more often than not." Sherlock mused, taking my hand, while Tom, who had sat there quietly enjoying his meal seemed to ponder on something.

"But how did you know it was the son?" Watson carried on.

"When meeting Atkins, the man I had seen at the Lyceum and who till then I had considered a possible suspect, I knew I could rule him out. He could not have possibly been the murderer. At least not in person."

"Why not?"

"That, Watson is very simple – he was missing his right hand. There was no way, he could have used the wire saw and he could also not have left the bloody handprint. It would not have made sense. He needed to turn the doorknob and he could have only done so with his actual hand, yet the print, smeared as it was, showed some of the typical lines of a human hand. It could not have been him." Sherlock elaborated. "So, I was left with a person, who must have known about the initial letters, the original ones from W. W., otherwise he could not have imitated them and this got me thinking, who might have had access to them. A servant? Perhaps, but how would he profit from Thompson's death? Unless it was some kind of revenge he was after. But the later letters indicated it was money, that was the driving force behind this crime and that was, when I knew, it must have been the son. He had the knowledge, the opportunity, in retrospective it is even likely he knew about his stepmother's handicap, he had power over his wife and he would benefit from his father's death. All that was lacking, was a distinct motive. But I was sure once we had him, this would also be solved. And it did."

"So young Thompson's wife needed to die because she has figured him out?"

"Yes."

With that, he glanced over at Tom, who still seemed to ponder.

"What is it, Tom?" Sherlock finally asked, dabbing his mouth with his napkin.

"What is a shrunken head, sir?"

A.N.: Yes, Tom sits at the table with them. I cannot imagine, Sherlock and Harriet having him sit on his own in the kitchen eating his dinner. After all, he is only eight. This, of course, will change, once Martha comes back. - Or when he is at Baker Street and eats with Mrs Hudson and Jane.

Oh, and yes, I did not explain yet, how Harriet knows how to pick a lock. Holmes will remember to ask her eventually, but it might be a while.