Pecunia non olet – Part 7
Sherlock:
It was easy enough, to establish, once we had reached the police station, and considering that in this case I was employed by the Metropolitan Police, that Jim Kershaw had, as the landlord at the inn had told me, been originally brought in to sober up, as he was extremely drunk and his remarks rather disturbing. It was later in the day, in fact, several hours later, that somebody at the station realised the man was not joking, but actually telling the truth. By then, the infamous murder of Gilad Trenton had reached the press and the sergeant on duty, having read a paper, had written a note to Belcher, telling him about the man they had in custody and who claimed to have killed a man by stabbing him, which led to Belcher earning the praise for work he had not done.
Looking through the register for the day in question, I soon found a young man that fit the description for 'Everett Trenton'. His name was George Walters and though I had never met him, I had heard of him. He was a man, earning his money by fraud of any kind. A professional marriage swindler, impostor and cardsharper. This man had for the duration of two days shared the cell with the rather more likeable Kershaw, who still wallowed in his guilt. It was more than likely, that there and then, the plan to pose as Trenton's heir had been born. All he now had to do, was find a relation that he could pose as. And what better candidate to chose, than a man who had been living abroad for many years? With Belcher on the case, it was simple enough to walk up to the incompetent inspector and introduce himself as Everett Trenton, the heir to Gilad.
"And why did it take him several months?" Hattie asked, yawning, but still managing to look attentive.
"Apart from that, he needed to create the impression he came over from South America? - Because first, he needed to either find or create an identity he could take on, one that was believable enough so no-one would question him – which no-one did, until today. Then he needed to forge all the necessary papers, and appear on the scene with a believable story to boot, as to why he appeared basically out of the blue." I explained, cleaning my pipe before stuffing it into my coat pocket.
"With all these preparations, Walters, if it is indeed Walters, must be very annoyed, that despite living in the house, he still is sans bijoux."
"Yes, so it seems. And he is sure enough of himself, that he even dares to make a scene at Scotland Yard. Then again, it is not unlikely, that he still needs to pay the forger."
"So one crime leads to another crime leads to another crime..." she mused.
"That my dear is the thing with all things negative. One crime leads to another, one lie leads to another and so forth. Shame it does not also work the other way around. This world would be so much easier if one truth would also lead to another." I replied dryly.
"And would you like to live in such a world, Mr Sherlock Holmes?" my wife laughed. "I dare say, you would be bored out of your mind."
"Right you are!"
"And now?"
"We send a message to Lestrade and then go home."
xxx
"There are two things, I don't quite understand, Sherlock," Harriet said when we had reached Baker Street, as it was now very late and my old rooms were just around the corner.
"And they are?" I enquired, settling down with my pipe and preparing for a night of contemplation.
"Why did we need to go to Lisson Grove tonight? And where are the jewels?"
Grinning at her, I replied: "Well, to answer your first question, because I wanted to have a pint at 'The Wheat-sheaf'..."
"Sherlock!" she wagged her finger in mock sternness, her eyes sparkling with amusement.
"No, actually the answer is quite simple and the reason a selfish one," I told her, now serious again. "I needed to make sure my deductions this far had been right, as I have already begun to form a theory. I could not, however, get any closer to the solution, unless I found out, what happened in Lisson Grove. Now I know that Kershaw had not had the time to hide anything, as he had walked from Hampstead to the pub and was actually in custody long before we had thought. He had not been arrested little more than six hours after the crime was discovered, but two and a half hours after the crime had been committed. And having spent some of this time already with getting as drunk as he possibly could, because the man might have been a professional thug, but certainly not a murderer, there was no possible way, he could have hidden anything."
"Could he not have had an accomplice after all?"
"He could have, of course," I admitted. "But I doubt it. If there was another person working with him, why did this man not stop him from going to Lisson Grove to drown his sorrows? Letting him go there in the state of mind Jimmy Kershaw was in, would have been as good as being caught. If he had an accomplice and had handed him the gems, he most likely would have been beaten up to keep him from doing what he had done. Yet, the man ended up in 'The Wheat-sheaf' at barely such a time, that he could have walked there."
"And Dawson?"
"The Dawson's are barely scraping by. If they had the jewels, they would live like kings. But neither has the house been refurbished nor have they acquired any other kind of luxury within the last several years. As it is, they only seem to manage, because Mrs Dawson is doing an enormous amount of sewing."
"But if the jewels are not in the house, not stolen and hidden by Kershaw and not with the Dawson's, where are they then? The lawyer? The friend?" Harriet questioned further, though she looked ready to fall asleep on the spot.
"My dear, it is time for you to go to bed, while I will sit up and meditate on the very questions you have just asked." I smiled, getting up to usher her into bed and kiss her good-night.
But before I could leave, another thought had crossed her mind and holding me back she asked: "Sherlock, what about Miranda Hannigan? She might be clumsy and all, but she is a good-hearted creature who deserves better than to be treated like this. She will be devastated."
"My love, there will always be those suffering from the actions of others. As much as one pities them, you must try and stay detached or else it will break you. If she is as amiable as you say, she'll find somebody worthy in time. Better being duped for a short while and have a second chance, then ending up married and live in misery till death does one part. - Look at Mrs Dawson."
xxx
Harriet:
When I woke up the next morning it took me a while to remember where I was. My husband had obviously not joined me in bed, which meant he either was still sitting where I had left him, or he was already out and about. Glancing out the window I sighed at seeing that today was yet another day of foggy grey London weather and that lighting would be required even in the middle of the day. It was cold and windy and the last few leaves were blown off the lonely plane tree in the backyard of 221b Baker Street. I really needed to convince Mrs, Hudson to plant some colourful flowers in the spring – or at least let me plant them.
Wrapping myself in a shawl I opened the door to the sitting room and found it as foggy as the outside. My husband, the pipe still between his lips was sitting cross-legged in front of the now extinguished fire staring into space, while his fingers drummed restlessly on the armchairs armrest, showing how busy his mind was.
When he became aware of me, he took the pipe out of his mouth and smiled. A triumphant smile that told me, he had solved the puzzle.
"So, where are the jewels?"
"Oh, my dear, how typical of a woman, to first ask about her most precious concerns..." he teased, being in a particularly good mood, by the looks of it.
"My most precious concern is my husband, but as I can see he is well and has solved the mystery, I did not want to insult him, by asking such profane questions as to his well-being. So?"
"Touché! I will tell you, in a moment, but I suggest, we wait for Lestrade. I have sent him a telegram about an hour ago and he should be here promptly. So you better get dressed, unless you want to meet the man dressed in nothing but your chemise."
"No, that is a sight destined only for the eyes of my husband. - And doctor, at most."
"I am glad to hear it."
xxx
The inspector arrived not ten minutes after I had gone to get dressed and only moments after I had finished, though my hair was not pinned up yet.
"Holmes, you cannot be serious regarding Everett Trenton!" the man cried out, as he entered. "And you said you know where the jewels are. Where would that be, I am sure we have looked everywhere."
"I have taken the liberty of ordering some breakfast and as soon as it is served, I will answer all your questions. Just this one I'll answer straight away – I am sure, about Everett Trenton not being Everett Trenton, but George Walters."
"But that would be truly infamous! And engaging the police in his scam is just unbelievable!"
"It is, what stopped people from asking questions, actually. You know how it works. But if he went to the police himself, who would dare think he was not, who he claimed he was?" my husband answered suavely.
He was right. No-one would think a man so impudent, as to do what Walters had done. Yet, it made perfect sense.
Mrs Hudson arrived with the breakfast tray and while I helped her laying out the dishes, she slipped me a piece of paper. It did not escape my husband, however. With a raised eyebrow he glanced at me and I knew, as soon as the inspector was gone, I would be questioned thoroughly. Smiling I thanked her and with a challenging grin, tucked the epistle into my pocket.
"So, now I believe all of us would like to know, where the famous Trenton jewels are, Mr Holmes." Lestrade began the conversation again, helping himself to a cup of coffee.
"It is easy enough, Inspector. I have told you several times, that when you have ruled out all else, the solution must be the one option that remains, no matter how unlikely."
"The dumbwaiter shaft?"
"No. The jewels are actually with their owner." Sherlock answered, with a sly expression that made me cautious. He certainly did not mean Everett Trenton, nor did he mean Mrs Broderick nor the Dawson's, but who was left?
"Their owner?" Lestrade flared up. "But after your conclusion, that Everett Trenton is an impostor, who would be the owner?"
"Mrs Trenton." was the quiet but determined answer.
Lestrade and I stared at Sherlock Holmes as if he had just grown a second head.
"Mrs Trenton?!" the inspector finally ejaculated, looking fairly angry, while I, after having let the information sink in, realised Sherlock must be right.
"Yes, Mrs Emily Trenton."
"Holmes, she is dead." the official still insisted.
"That is my point. Yes, she is. I never said she was not."
"But you said the jewels are with her."
"It is because they are. All trace of the jewels was lost, when Emily Trenton died," he explained. "No-one has heard of them or seen them since. Gilad Trenton even dissolved the insurance shortly after her demise – because he did not have them anymore. The jewels were bought for her and were never meant to be owned by any other person, as the couple stayed without children. Else it might have been different. Trenton was well aware of everybody wanting a share of the riches, and so he decided to elude them all, by putting the jewels into the coffin, to be with the one person they were meant for, the one person he adored, for all eternity."
"It is lucky for you, that this cannot be proven," Lestrade said glumly.
"It can. The Trenton's are buried in a vault and I have already requested permission for an exhumation."
"On what grounds? It needs a reason, you know."
"I gave as reason, that someone made a claim of having seen the late Mrs Trenton alive and well, and that we now, considering she would inherit quite a fortune if she were still alive, want to ascertain, that she really is dead and buried. This should be a sufficient enough reason. And at any rate, I know the judge and he owes me a favour."
"We will need a doctor..."
"We have a doctor." Sherlock pointed at me.
"Yes, of course. How stupid of me! If you are up to it?"
"I am," I assured him, being too curious to pass on the chance of seeing if Sherlock was right. Though I was sure of it, his reasoning made perfect sense. "What will you do with the jewels?"
"Leave them there."
"Good."
xxx
It was only the next day, that we got permission to open Emily Trenton's grave and as the lid of the coffin was lifted and the skeleton revealed, alongside the lingering smell of decomposition, I carefully lifted her head, with her now matted but skilfully braided grey hair, while Sherlock pulled out the discoloured silk cushion from underneath. I could see it was heavy and when he cut it open on the underside with his penknife a thick, padded jewellery roll fell out.
Lestrade gasped, as Sherlock opened the roll to reveal the items within. The pieces were breathtaking, so much so, that by the mere description, I could not have imagined their beauty. Even in the dim light of the vault, the stones shone, as if they themselves were illuminated. After a couple of minutes, my husband rolled the sheath together again, pushed it back into the cushion, to place it once again under the dead woman's skull.