Doldrums and Deep Waters
Chapter 13: Through gritted teeth
It was a grim party who climbed down from the cab to alight at Scotland Yard. We made our way to the holding cells, Holmes' lips drawn into a tight, forbidding line, yet subtlety supporting my still rather unsteady progress. I had insisted on accompanying him upon this mission, keen to see for myself if Dix was indeed the jovial physician wishing to acquire my services.
Lestrade was almost vibrating with fury at being baulked of his prey (although, I thought with rather black humour, his temper may be mollified when he recalled the unfortunate event had occurred on Gregson's watch). The sergeant in charge of the holding cells visibly quailed at his approach. The little detective may occasionally be treated as a bobbing-block by Holmes, but there was no doubt he was regarded with deep awe by his fellow Yarders.
"Inspector Lestrade, Sir! I wired you as soon as Constable Jacks discovered the body. I swear nobody apart from his solicitor has been into the room. Dix must have had the pill hidden about his person, but the Lord knows how – we searched him from top to toe when he came in here. I suppose it's only a tiny thing."
"Pill?" interrupted Holmes, his stern voice recollecting the Sergeant's scattered wits. "Start the story at the beginning, man!"
"Yessir," rapped out the unfortunate fellow, drawing himself up to his full height. "You can see for yourself, Sirs."
At this, the Sergeant unlocked and swung upon the door to the holding cell. It was a plain little room, not particularly squalid - this was where prisoners were held prior to their conviction whilst the law still perceived them as innocent - but austere enough. Light filtered through two small skylights in the high ceiling, and the walls were dry yet roughly whitewashed. The floor was covered in cheap linoleum, easily cleaned, yet providing no sharp edges such as tiles may have done. A covered bucket and washstand stood behind a light-weight screen. A chair, a writing desk with two Bibles upon it, and a thin-mattressed low bed, both with the standard prison-issue dovetailed joints, were the only furniture.
These details meant nothing to me at the time, as my attention was riveted by a stout middle aged man, sprawled upon the bed, sightless eyes staring at the ceiling. The rusty hue to the livedo that had suffused his face immediately diagnosed his condition.
"Cyanide poisoning," I whispered, my throat grating as my rate of breathing involuntarily increased. "The blood has rushed to his face, causing flushing, then the discolouration of ferrous haemoglobin release. The method will have been a gelatine capsule containing prussic acid – it is still clenched between his teeth. A much favoured method of suicide – so rapid as to be almost painless." I stepped a little closer, and examined the face in more detail.
"I met this man in life as Dr Effram Morgan." Nobody was surprised to receive confirmation of this. I felt a pang of strange yet understandable emotion, no doubt the first genuine pang of disappointment and self pity I had felt in some days. So even the uninviting option this man had seemed to offer me was false, and my career lay in greater tatters than ever.
Holmes was examining the room, his grey eyes glittering with steely intensity. He paused and picked up one of the Bibles.
"This is not standard prison issue, Sergeant Walker."
"No, Mr Holmes," answered Walker. "It is the prisoner's own. It is something they are allowed to request. His solicitor brought it; he had a note in the prisoner's own handwriting asking for him to bring it from his home. We searched it when it arrived; opened it up and flicked through it, felt along the spine for razor blades and the like – it wouldn't be the first time a chap'd tried smuggling stuff in from the middle of the Good Book."
"Did Mr Dix give this request to you, Sergeant?"
"No, Mr Holmes. I assumed he must've wrote it when he was arrested, before getting here."
Holmes turned to Lestrade. "We should verify whether he did so nor not." Lestrade was already nodding.
Holmes slid his finger into the opening between the spine and the binding. "It would be difficult to conceal a hard item in here, but something soft, like a gelatine capsule..." he drifted over to the corpse, and looked closely at the capsule clenched between those curiously white teeth, "...particularly so curiously shaped a capsule as this."
Lestrade sighed. "Dix was a chemist, of course. Must have prepared for this day in advance. He could easily shape the capsule as he wanted it."
"A rather pessimistic view for him to take, Lestrade. We have no definite evidence to tie him to the murders as far as he knows. Also, a rather cumbersome method to choose. Surely he would have been better off keeping his engine of destruction about his person? A Medici ring, or a pendant – far more reliable."
So saying, Sherlock Holmes withdrew his penknife from his pocket, and, with the larger blade, gently prised the teeth apart sufficiently that he could withdraw the remains of the capsule, which he laid upon his handkerchief upon the table. It certainly was an odd shape; flat and square. Delicately picking it up with his small forceps, he inspected it under his glass.
"Curious. There are only bite marks upon the upper side. The lower incisors have left no mark. And the tip of the capsule is slightly crushed upon the upper side, as if it had been clamped to a hard surface."
Holmes then returned to the body, and inspected the underside of its chin. He gave a little growl of satisfaction.
"Here, Lestrade, Watson, Sergeant, come and look at this." Upon the chin was a small area of bruising.
"It is not very extensive, as it was made so close to the time of death," declared he.
"What do you think it means, Mr Holmes?" asked Lestrade.
"It means murder, not suicide."
"How on earth do you reach that conclusion? How do you compel a man to bite into a cyanide pill when all he has to do is let out a bellow to summon a bevy of police officers?" demanded Lestrade.
"Perhaps you will allow me to demonstrate," began Holmes, withdrawing a pencil from his pocket. Suddenly he froze, staring up at the skylight. "What in Heaven's name..."
We all followed his gaze, then abruptly, Lestrade made a gagging choking sound, followed by a roar of indignation. Holmes had flown at him, and from what I had been able to detect, struck him upon the chin.
My friend smiled at Lestrade's wrath, and held up his pencil, which now had a neat set of bite marks around an inch from its blunt end.
"My apologies for the over-dramatic demonstration. It is instinctive to open the mouth when looking up. A relatively simple matter to insert something like a spatula with the capsule clipped to it in the mouth, and a firm blow under the chin will cause the teeth to clamp down. I suggest you look into the identity of Mr Dix's solicitor."
We were not destined to learn the identity of this gentleman. He had disappeared without trace. The premises and name alluded to upon his card were genuine, but the person so named was a small, timid white haired gentleman, who had been at his offices throughout the time the murder had occurred, as could be verified by several impeccable witnesses. His description in no way matched that of the man who had come to call upon Dix; a tall, strapping gentleman with impressive brown side-whiskers, a wide, fleshy nose and skin tones suggestive of time spent in the tropics.
Holmes sighed ruefully, with a small smile, as this news was brought to him the next morning, as we sat over our boiled eggs at the breakfast table.
"I suspected as much, Watson. Dix was a medium player. He was expendable. His demise will cut off one of the limbs of the beast that is London's criminal underworld. No doubt it is a significant wound, but the beast will recover well enough, grow another limb in time to replace the loss. Taking out the head, now that is a far greater challenge."
"You suspect a criminal conspiracy, Holmes?"
"Oh yes, Watson. I am getting closer. The very fact that Dix had to be silenced meant that he was close enough to the brain of the organisation to be a risk if he betrayed any secrets. Hithertofore, I do not believe I have come closer than the low menials, who are no more aware of the identity of their great sponsor than you are. We make progress, my dear chap."
He stretched himself luxuriantly. "It has been a trying few days, Watson. Perhaps you would join me for a little relaxation at the Lysseum? I believe for the matinee performance Aleksei Tarentii is taking on Tchaikovsky's Op. 35 – are you up to coming to hear how he fares? My treat?"
I smiled, to conceal the slight edge of bitterness I felt as I replied.
"Thank you, certainly. I have nothing else to do."
"Good." Holmes leapt to his feet, shedding his dressing gown. "I shall, however, leave you to make your own way home after the performance. I have some loose ends from this last few days to tie up. I rather think they will interest you."
...+++...
A much neglected story this, but I'm getting there! Reviews still much appreciated from anybody who can remember far enough back to recall what's going on.