Chapter Two
I dispatched Billy to take word to my wife that I would likely be away for the rest of the night. Kindly creature that she is, she well understood that I was obliged to help a friend; not to mention the unfortunate woman, who had written such a comprehensive article, and whom Stamford now had reason to believe was in the direst peril.
With no further need for delay, Stamford gave us more information on the suspected victim as we hurried along Marylebone Road. Miss Porter was to give her lecture at the Grant Museum of Zoology and Comparative Anatomy, over on Gower Street; however, Stamford explained to us, she intended to use an ape from the Zoo in her presentation, and had insisted on staying somewhere in close proximity. It was near enough to Baker Street for us to reach on foot, explaining Stamford's dishevelled state when he had burst in upon us; he had run all the way to Holmes' place in a blind panic.
"A few years ago," Stamford said, walking at a pace which was leisurely enough to permit him to speak, yet brisk enough to suit the urgency of our purpose, "Miss Porter left England on an expedition to East Africa. Her intention was to study the silverback gorillas that are found in abundance among the unexplored regions of Kenya, just south of Lake Victoria. She was in the company of her father, Professor Archimedes Q. Porter, a brilliant zoologist and scientific authority in his own right. I believe he is also in London at the moment, but as of yet, I have no way of locating him. He should be notified, if indeed the worst is-"
"Do not conjecture yet, my friend," Holmes interrupted him, sternly. "We will only draw such conclusions once we have compiled all the available data that the scene has to offer. If it comes to it, I'm sure we can devise some way to reach the professor. You say that they have both just recently returned to England?"
"Yes, they arrived last Monday."
"And it is only Wednesday now."
"Yes, it is a flying visit. I believe they mean to return to Africa almost as soon as the lecture is done."
Holmes raised an eyebrow. "They are as devoted to their study as that?"
"I didn't have occasion to ask," Stamford replied, colouring slightly. "I didn't wish to pry too much into the young lady's affairs."
"Quite so. I'm afraid your discretion could now do us some disservice, under the circumstances. Do you know of any other party who may have accompanied the Porters here from Africa?"
"None that I am aware of. I rather believe that Professor Porter is the only family that she has left. They likely hired some help on their expedition, a caretaker or guide, at the very least; but I have met no one of that description, nor heard any mentioned by her."
"What about associates here in London?"
"I think she may have briefly talked about some old school friends she intended to look up. She and her father have been away for several years; any acquaintances they have here will be old ones. Whenever I met her to discuss academic matters, she was always on her own."
"Ah." Holmes' brow furrowed. "A woman friendless and alone, unaccompanied amid the harsh wilderness of London's backstreets. Such is the most vulnerable prey to be found in our fair urban jungle."
"I might be mistaken," Stamford admitted, with weak optimism. "The landlord of the hotel can likely verify such things better than I can. She may have had some visitors whom I do not know of."
"That is a logical first line of enquiry," Holmes assented. "If this is the place just ahead, we will be able to pursue it soon enough."
As we spoke, we came upon a small hostelry in an off-road, little more than a block away from the western-most border of Regent's Park. The establishment looked respectable and reasonably well-kept, though slightly dinghy, with many of the fittings rather in need of replacement.
"The place is popular with zoology students," Stamford explained, as we entered the foyer. "Miss Porter chose to stay here at my recommendation." He looked down at the much-chipped tile floor with a remorseful gaze. "If only I had suggested more secure accommodation when I had the chance-"
"You suspected such a thing might happen?" Holmes asked, curtly interrupting his self-reproach.
"I admit, I did. We have had similar presentations sabotaged in the past. Some lecturers have been hassled on their way to their lodgings, had things thrown at them or been booed offstage during their talks - but never anything as serious as this."
"Has the culprit behind such pranks ever been caught?" I asked.
"I'm afraid not. It is not the sole work of one person, you see. There is a mystic society, based in Bloomsbury we have reason to believe, known as The Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn. They are opposed to the concept of evolutionary theory, and may have interpreted Miss Porter's findings as being in support of Darwinism."
"I see. You know of no other parties who might have wished harm upon Miss Porter?"
"Absolutely none. It is all rather hard to believe. She is, as much as I can tell from our very brief acquaintance, a very kind, well-mannered, respectable young lady. I cannot fathom why anyone would wish ill upon her."
"That is for us to ascertain. We had better take possession of the crime scene, and see for ourselves exactly how things stand."
At the front desk, we found a small, weasely-looking man fidgeting at his post. Indeed, given his proximity to the nearby zoo, he rather fittingly resembled a caged animal. He glanced furtively at us, in a manner so obviously suggestive of guilt, I wondered to myself whether my friend's deductive powers would be necessary at all.
"Mr Sempleston," Stamford greeted him. "This is the famous detective, Mr Holmes, and his esteemed associate, Dr Watson. I could think of no finer friends to call upon in this grave matter."
"A pleasure, gentlemen, I'm sure," Sempleston muttered; the sentiment of his tone did not match the meaning of his words. I was instantly suspicious of this man; everything about him suggested some form of duplicity. I already had half a mind to reach for the old service revolver I had secreted in my pocket before we left on our errand. He was so inexplicably twitchy, it set all my nerves on edge. Glancing at Holmes beside me, I could see that he had been similarly impressed. However, he maintained an air of outward nonchalance, as he addressed the unsavoury little man.
"Mr Sempleston, there is one point which you can perhaps clarify for me, before we proceed to examine the premises themselves. Are you aware of any visitors Miss Porter may have had, besides Dr Stamford here?"
"No, " Sempelston replied, with some hesitancy. "I-I mean, that is to say, I don't keep tabs on my lodgers at all hours. The lady may have had a visitor while I was otherwise detained; she didn't have a latchkey, but she could have easily let someone in without my notice. Mostly, though, I only ever saw her talking with Dr Stamford, or some of the other tenants, on occasion."
"We may need to enquire further into these other tenants," Holmes said, with professional briskness. "For the present, however, I should like to see the room in question, if you would be so kind as to show us up."
"O-of course." The little man came around the desk, then stopped a few feet shy of us and regarded us warily, as if he were a mouse and we a pride of lions set to pounce upon him. "If you please, sir, the police... there isn't any really reason to summon them yet, is there?"
"That depends on whether a crime has been committed," Holmes returned, with an impressive air of gravity which did little for the man's skittish nerves. "If it is indeed confirmed that some atrocity has taken place, of course we will need to notify the rightful authorities."
"Yes. Right. Q-quite so. Well, this way, if you please."
We followed his tottering gait up a small flight of stairs to the second level. The hallway branched off into a number of closed doors adorned with numbers, each evidently a separate flat.
Halfway down the passageway, there was a small alcove hung with curtains, intended to be a reading nook or snug of sorts. It was otherwise unfurnished, save for a wooden chair of a rather weather-beaten appearance; the backrest was practically rotted, the veneer scraped back and the topmost edge of the wood crumbling into splinters. I saw Holmes eye it with interest as we passed. It seemed indicative of some hidden squalor we might find beyond the smartly-painted doors of the surrounding apartments.
Sempleston stopped before door number four. "This is it, gents," he said. "I trust you will not need a key to get in?"
Holmes turned to him sharply. "You mean the door has been left unlocked?"
"Well, y-yes," the landlord said, giving another nervous twitch. "Dr Stamford told me to leave everything exactly as it was until he returned..."
"And I found the door to be unlocked when I first arrive," Stamford confirmed.
We were all rather taken aback by this. Surely any woman living alone would have the good sense to lock her door against intruders?
"Perhaps," I suggested, "she has spent so long outside of civilization, she has forgotten that she must safeguard herself against the particular dangers of the city. It is little wonder that something of the kind has happened."
"Quite," Holmes murmured in reply, though he looked to be deep in thought.
"I always knew her to keep her door locked," Sempleston ventured to interpose. "I cannot think why she hadn't done it this time." At his words, Holmes' abstracted gaze suddenly sharpened and focused upon his, making him flinch. He swallowed nervously. "If that is all you require...?"
"For the time, Mr Sempleston. I would be much obliged if you would remain downstairs, in case I have further questions for you."
"Right. Yes. Well, if you'll excuse me, gentlemen." He sidled away, then all but jogged back down the stairs. I half expected to hear the front door slam behind him; but we were left with only a fitful silence in his wake.
"What the devil has gotten into that man?!" Stamford exclaimed, once he was well out of earshot. "I had thought for some time that the fellow seemed more than a bit suspect, but his behaviour tonight is downright incriminating!"
"I would not go so far as that," Holmes said, with a wry chuckle. "It appears we have severely rattled Mr Sempleston."
"But why?"
"Hum. I have my own idea, though I do not dare conjecture before I have come to know some more about the matter." So saying, he knelt down at the threshold of the flat and began to examine something on the floor just outside it.
"What do you make of this?" he asked, holding up a wisp of something long and thin, resembling a twig.
"Was it brought in from outside?"
"Perhaps. You'll note that it is lacquered on one side, raw wood on the other. Obviously it has been scraped off something larger."
"It is not evidence of the door having been forced," I pointed out. "All the doors along here have been whitewashed."
"Quite so. This must have some other origin, then, which we shall need to investigate presently." He put the fragment in an envelope, which he then tucked into the pocket of his overcoat for safekeeping.
"Well now, shall we survey the scene of the crime?" So saying, he pushed open the door to the flat.
I let out an involuntary gasp. The room was not so squalid as I had expected from the state of the hallway, but it was in complete shambles: furniture had been overturned, papers scattered, sheets torn. A pillow had even been split, scattering stray feathers all over the bedstead.
Its most arresting feature, however, was a sinister-looking red stain upon the floor. It was still wet and partly congealed, glistened darkly in the light from the hall lamp behind us.
It was little wonder that Stamford had been overcome by such a strong reaction whence he first sought our aid. At the repeated sight of this scarlet puddle, he baulked a little, and turned white to the lips; however, he rallied quickly, and stood beside me with relative calm. Hardened though my nerves were, it sickened me to think of the blood pool's source, and the unfortunate, absent women who had likely shed it. I expected there to be a body lying somewhere in some gloomy corner of the room's depths, or at least some other sign of tragedy; however, except for the lamentable state of the furnishings, there appeared to be none.
Holmes did not so much as blink at this horrific sign of violence. He swiftly crossed the room, stepping carefully so as to avoid disturbing any aspect of the scene, and turned on the lamp which stood on a small bedside table, thus giving himself ample light by which to begin his investigation. Then he returned to Stamford and I, who still lingered in the doorway, both of us a little transfixed by the scarlet pool in the centre of the room. He began an exacting analysis of the door itself.
"Simple bar lock," he murmured, more to himself than to either of us. "Easy to break, yet no sign of forced entry. Key still in the lock, on the inside. You know of no one else who would have a key to this door?"
His question was directed at Stamford. "No," he answered. "I certainly didn't have one. I suppose Sempleston likely has duplicate keys to all the rooms..."
"We shall have to ask him later. For now, it is of little consequence; if another key had been used from the outside, this one would have been dislodged from the lock. Either Miss Porter herself opened the door to someone, or..."
"Or?" Stamford repeated.
"Or the door was not used at all."
Stamford blinked, then turned to me with a rather doubtful expression. I was rather more used to Holmes' methods, and so only gave him a wry smile. "Have confidence in him a little longer, old man. His ways are unconventional, but it is this very characteristic that so invariably ensures his success."
"Any possibility," Holmes broke in, with the air of a clinical professor expounding to his class, "must be considered, however implausible. There are many ways into a closed room, besides the most obvious one. There are some suggestive factors here, and a good many theories which are certainly substantiated by the evidence. I shall need to gather more data before I can draw any more specific conclusions."
Having thus lectured us, he suited the action to his word, beginning one of his utterly thorough examinations of the entire room. Drawing a strong lens from his coat pocket, he minutely scrutinized the edges of the torn sheets, and the seams of the split pillow. He lifted the toppled furniture, examined each piece and the floor beneath it, then carefully set it down again. He paused at a certain chair, which had been tipped over on its side.
"Have a look at this."
Picking our way gingerly through the field of debris, Stamford and I made our way over to him. Holmes set the chair upright, carefully matching the position of its legs with impressions made upon the floor; it had obviously been standing on this spot for some time.
"Look here," he said.
It took some time for my eyes to pick out what he referred to. At last, I saw it: a faint mark upon the edge of the chair, right in the outer corner of the seat. There was a large blot, darkly-coloured yet only faintly distinguishable, as though left in a very fine pall of dust. Beneath it were five smaller, circular impressions.
"A paw print?" I asked, incredulously.
"Hmm. Something of the sort." Holmes gestured to the floor. "There is another one there; nearly obliterated, as though someone tried to erase it, but still quite visible."
Both Stamford and I bent over it. "What manner of animal would make such a print?" Stamford asked.
I was reminded of the mongoose that Holmes and I had encountered in the 'Case of the Crooked Man'. These prints were significantly larger, with no sign of claw marks - thankfully, nothing like the tracks of the cheetah we had very nearly had altercation with in the 'Adventure of the Speckled Band'.
Holmes gave a laconic chuckle. "A very familiar beast, I fancy." He turned his back to the chair and perched one foot upon the edge of the seat; the other, he planted on the floor just in front of it. Then he stood upright again, and I saw that he had left light impressions from the soles of his boots beside the pre-existing prints; they were much the same size, and similarly situated.
"They are human," Stamford said, with a breath of wonder.
"Yes," Holmes replied, folding his arms and casting a critical eye on the set of footmarks. "Though I cannot for now determine why a man would strike such a posture; he did not stand on the chair in order to reach something, nor was he merely sitting, in any conventional sense. How curious."
He turned and continued his scrutiny of the scene, with renewed vigour. At last, he turned his attention to the most obvious piece of evidence: the ominous red pool beside the hearth rug.
"I-is it," Stamford asked, haltingly, "enough to... to suggest...?"
I knew what he was trying to ask; it was little wonder that he had so greatly feared for Miss Porter's well-being. There must have been two pints of blood there at least - enough to suggest a near-fatal haemorrhaging in any woman.
"You are drawing premature conclusions, Stamford," Holmes said, reproachfully. "I already have my suspicions about this mark. Notice that there is no drip patterns leading to or from it. If this is indeed the site of some violence, there should be an undisturbed body lying right in the middle of it. Yet there is not so much as a trace of one. If a body bleeds out at the primary site, then is moved to another location in an effort to conceal the crime, it cannot be done without some sign of directionality."
"Perhaps the body was wrapped in a sheet, or something similar?" I suggested.
Holmes shook his head. "If a body fell here at all, the blood pool should be disturbed in some way; there would be the slightest signs of scuffing at the edges, or drag marks, yet I can find no such indications. I rather think that this would be a prime candidate from the Sherlock Holmes Test."
He reached into an inner pocket and drew out a small packet, along with a test tube. On looking closer, I saw that the flask, which I at first thought to be empty, was in fact filled with a clear fluid, which I took to be distilled water. Holmes carefully used a small chemical spatula to scoop up a sample of the blood pool; he deposited it in the test tube, turning the contents a faint reddish-taupe. He then opened the packet and added a few small, white crystals to this solution.
All those years ago, in the testing lab at Barts, we three had witnessed the first demonstration of the Sherlock Holmes Test. It was so strange, to find the exact same company assembled once more, for the exact same purpose, albeit under far more extraordinary circumstances - with the life of a woman at stake.
Holmes swilled the test tube gently, tapped it with one long finger, then smiled grimly. "No precipitate has formed, indicating that there is no presence of haemoglobin. It is not blood."
"Not blood?!" Stamford all but shouted. He drew his coat sleeve across his brow, looking almost faint with relief; I cautiously put my hand on his shoulder to bolster him, though he otherwise maintain his composure. "Oh, thank God! But what is it, then?"
Holmes dabbed at the puddle with his hand, then sniffed delicately at his fingertips. "Some kind of fruit, I'd wager."
"Ah!" Stamford gasped. "The basket! I brought it as a gift, you know... young lady had returned to dreary old England from exotic climes, I thought she might appreciate..."
It was sitting on a side table, where Stamford claimed to have last left it himself: a small wicker basket, decorated with a festive ribbon. It contained a bunch of grapes, a couple of bananas, some ripe green apples, and several clementines.
"A few bananas are missing," Stamford said, "and all of the plums-"
"-have met their demise," Holmes finished, pointing to the red stain with a hearty laugh. "I suspect the fruit was wrung out for its juice, along with a bit of pulp for added viscosity; then the skins and pits were discarded somewhere, probably out the window." He cast a critical eye over the puddle on the floor. "It was admirably done. I have authored a trifling monograph on the analysis of blood stains, and I would say that whoever did this knew what a textbook arterial spray should look like."
"Does this mean," Stamford broke in, "that this entire macabre scenery was... staged?"
Holmes allowed himself to smile, and to furthermore engage in a flash of wit. "Yes; as you doctors would put it, that is my diagnosis." He dusted off his hands and thrust them in his pockets, eyeing his surrounds meditatively. "I suspected as much at first glance. You'll notice that the furniture has all been placed on its sides, not overturned; there is no damage done to any of it, nor to the floor beneath it, which would assuredly be the case if it had been knocked over with some force. Likewise, the sheets have only one straight, regular rip down the centre, and the pillow has been torn neatly on one side; the edges would be frayed, and the damage far less regular, if it had been done in a struggle, as we were meant to believe."
"But... why?" Stamford asked, his expression bewildered. Thankful though he was for evidence of Miss Porter's survival, the affair was rapidly becoming far more complicated than first imagined. "Why would someone do this? And... where is Miss Porter?"
"Hmm. I have some ideas that would answer those questions. But my theory still requires some elucidation. And there is the matter of the door, for which we still have no satisfactory means of explanation."
"Perhaps," I said, "the key was left on the inside as another blind, meant to mislead us?"
Holmes shook his head with a dissatisfied frown. "It doesn't fit the pattern. If that was indeed their aim, it would have been better to break the lock, or to have locked the door from the outside and take the key with them; either of these possibilities would have more readily suggested the entrance of some intruder. No, there is yet some other vital piece here yet..."
So saying, he took up his magnifying lens again and began to scrutinize the floor. Every so often he gave an exultory little mutter to himself; evidently, he had spied some trace of his quarry, though it was quite invisible to me. His trail seemed to swiftly reach a dead end, for it merely led him towards the partially-opened window. He scanned the windowsill with his glass, giving a little murmur of satisfaction.
"I was quite right," he declared. "This seems to be where the unfortunate plums met their gruesome fate. There are numerous drops of juice upon the-"
He stopped in mid-sentence; so abruptly that, for a moment, Stamford and I were almost alarmed. He was examining something halfway up the window frame, just to the left of the sash. I saw his brow compress in consternation. Then he turned to us with a chagrinned look of utter bemusement upon his face.
"Well, this case does turn out to be far more singular than I had originally thought! Just look at this!"
I looked, and felt a thrill of horror pass right through me, from head to foot.
There, applied to the whitewashed plaster in sharp distinction, was a clear print - the pad and toes of what appeared to be a well-formed foot, almost level with the height of my shoulder. It faced into the room, having apparently been directed whence from the sheer drop outside the window.
For a time, we were all rather flabbergasted by it.
To my mind, it recalled a grim prospect; namely, it reminded me of Tonga, the savage little native who had been of deadly service to Jonathon Small, the malignant man who would have victimized my then-to-be wife, back when we had first met. I still had terrible visitations of that lethal dart hitting the boards just shy of my companion and I. Even now, the mere remembrance conjures up a horrendous thrill of fear and loathing. The possibility of facing a similar antagonist by no means appealed to me.
Holmes seemed to divine my thoughts, transparent as they were; I am sure that I must have turned a few shades paler. He gave a grim smile.
"But what does this mean?!" Stamford asked; without our dubious wealth of former experience, the print had him quite in the dark.
"It means," Holmes said, in measured tones, "that we are likely dealing with another visitor from Africa."
Author's note: my apologies to the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn. It was a real mystic society, though I do not think it in any way opposed Darwinism, nor championed Creationism; I just needed someone to use as a red herring. ~ W.J.