From W. Y. Traveller: Corpse
From mrspencil: the finest Scottish whisky
Part 1 of 2
December 1895.
Nobody knew the dead man, or how he ended up in the private study. He had been stabbed to death, and the door was deadbolted from the inside.
"There's no other key?" inquired Inspector Lestrade, for the third time. He ran a hand through wisps of windblown hair.
Lord Conrad Cowen shook his head. "I'm telling you, Inspector, my study was deadbolted. It couldn't have been opened from the outside."
Mr. Brian Dodger rubbed his shoulder. "If we had a key, then we wouldn't have broken it." He gestured to the walnut door, split by the doorknob with a pry bar. Splintered bits of dark wood were scattered across the threshold.
Lord Cowen was head of a sizable estate—patriarch, husband, father. He and Mr. Dell Remington (his groundskeeper) rose early for a few hours of deer hunting in the nearby forest. Partway through their excursion, Lord Cowen chose to follow a fresh trail of hooves while Mr. Remington went off to check a few hare traps they set the day before. The temperature dropped, and the west wind picked up, stinging Lord Cowen's face. His fingers numbed, and he couldn't aim his rifle without shivering. Lord Cowen turned back. He made a few calls for Mr. Remington, but heard no response. He was probably returning to warmth and shelter as well.
When Lord Cowen returned in the late morning, the first thing he noticed was the old ash tree on its side in the yard. For weeks, the tree looked ready to drop, and today's strong winds were enough to finish the job. The next thing Lord Cowen noticed was Mrs. Emma Verner (his son's tutor) and Mr. Evan Lipman (his house steward). They were outside his study window, Mrs. Verner boosted up by Mr. Lipman's outstretched arms, such that Mrs. Verner could peer inside. She screamed upon looking through the window, and fell crashing down onto Mr. Lipman. Lord Cowen rushed to their aid.
"Jesus, Mrs. Verner, are you all right?" said Lord Cowen. He extended a hand to help her up from the cold dirt, and then turned to help Mr. Lipman to his feet. "What's going on?"
"He's dead," said Mrs. Verner. "There's a dead man in your study."
"Who?" said Lord Cowen.
"I don't know," said Mrs. Verner.
Mrs. Verner was with six-year-old Jonah Cowen when she heard the ash tree fall in the blustering wind. They used the second-story parlor as a makeshift classroom. The sound stretched across several seconds, splitting bark and wood, tearing shear force, crescendoing to a thunderous crash. The explosive cacophony interrupted the current reading lesson with Jonah. Mrs. Verner dropped her piece of chalk, and Jonah fell out of his chair in surprise. Mrs. Verner was transported back to a childhood memory of a firework show on New Year's Eve, wherein a bundle of malfunctioning fireworks detonated all at once.
"Are you hurt?" Mrs. Verner said to Jonah.
He shook his head, floppy blond curls bouncing from side to side, blue eyes wide. "What was that?"
"It sounded like a tree falling," said Mrs. Verner, thinking of the crooked old ash tree in the side yard.
She walked to the window and looked out. Sure enough, the old ash tree was on the ground, pushed over by the wind. Thankfully, the tree hadn't landed on anything but an empty patch of grass and dirt. Jonah joined her at the window, gazing down in awe at the toppled tree. He once climbed halfway up, and then sprained his ankle on the way down. The jolt of excitement was beginning to wear off when Mrs. Verner heard a pained moaning from the level below. It sounded like a man, directly below the parlor, dying an agonizing death. The moaning rose to a wail, with intermittent sobs. Mrs. Verner thought the man was speaking, shouting something, but she couldn't make out the words through the floor. LIVE! As in, he ceased to live.
Jonah was frozen. "What is that?"
"I don't know," said Mrs. Verner, struggling to maintain her composure. "I want you to stay here, in this room. Can you do that, Jonah? I'm going to find out what's going on, and then I'll be right back."
Jonah nodded. He took a seat in the corner of the room, out of sight. Mrs. Verner left the room with a reassuring nod to Jonah. She disappeared into the hallway, and Jonah heard her hastened steps hurrying toward the stairs. Jonah sat in solitude, listening to the last dying groans of the man below. He didn't recognize the voice. Then another voice sounded, a familiar one. Mr. Dodger, the man who fixes things. Maintenance handyman. That's what Jonah's father had told him. Jonah could make out a few words. Lord Cowen? That you? Do you need help? The door is locked! Jonah's legs shook under the table.
Mrs. Verner's heart leapt when Mr. Dodger rammed his shoulder into the door. It didn't budge. Walnut. She heard Mr. Dodger before she saw him, descending the stairs and rounding the hallway, ankle-length skirt hiked up a few inches for optimal mobility. He was trying to force his way into the private office.
"Open this door!" said Mr. Dodger.
"Dodger, what's going on?" said Mrs. Verner.
"Someone's locked themself inside," said Mr. Dodger. "I think maybe Lord Cowen. He sounds hurt."
Mrs. Verner listened at the door. "Lord Cowen! Are you in there?"
The painful groans were reduced to weeping through heavy sobs. Then silence. Mrs. Verner tried to peek through the keyhole, but she couldn't see anything. She thought Lord Cowen was going to be away this morning, out deer hunting.
"Do you know if he keeps another key?" said Mr. Dodger.
Mrs. Verner wasn't sure. Maybe Jonah would know. Or Lady Cowen—she was out in the greenhouse. Mrs. Verner tried the doorknob, and it turned just fine, but the door wouldn't open.
"It's deadbolted," said Mrs. Verner. "There's no key."
"Oh Jesus," said Mr. Dodger. He banged on the door.
Mrs. Verner leaned her weight against the wall. Who else was here at the estate today? She thought Lord Cowen and Mr. Remington were planning a hunting trip for today, but then who was in the study? There was Mr. Dodger, here to fix the oven. Lady Cowen spent at least a few mornings every week in the greenhouse, built off the southern side of the house. This week was no exception. There was Jonah upstairs, as well as Old Lady Cowen. She was a dowager after the passing of Old Lord Cowen, five years past. Old Lady Cowen slept-in most days, and went to bed early—she was probably in her cushion-filled bedroom at the far end of the second floor. Mrs. McGuire was downstairs, in the cellar prepping fruit preserves. She might have a servant or two with her. Ms. Brisly, the housekeeper, was around here somewhere, as well as Mr. Lipman the steward.
"I'll get Lady Cowen," said Mrs. Verner. "And you should find Mr. Lipman. Maybe they know of a way to get in."
Mr. Dodger nodded. They split up, and Mrs. Verner made her way across the house, down the hall and through the dining room. She hurried through the solarium. Despite the cold season, the glass walls of the solarium and greenhouse kept the space insulated and relatively warm. Mrs. Verner opened the greenhouse door and looked around.
"Lady Cowen!" she said.
Lady Cowen popped up from behind a row of beets, spotted with soil, dark hair in a tangle. She pushed aside a hanging bundle of dried garlic, staring at Mrs. Verner with wide, sable eyes. "Verner? What's the matter?"
"Someone is in the Lord's private study," said Mrs. Verner. She was breathing heavily. "It sounds like they're badly injured. We can't get in."
Mrs. Verner recounted everything she could remember as she and Lady Cowen hurried back to the study. Mr. Dodger and Mr. Lipman beat them there. Mr. Lipman tugged on the curly hairs of his white mustache in mute contemplation. Mrs. Verner had a terrible thought. How was the man in the study injured? What if his assailant was still in the room, not responding to Dodger's calls? We left the door unobserved to gather Lady Cowen and Mr. Lipman, during which time an assailant could have escaped! A pit formed in her stomach. She tested the doorknob and found it was still deadbolted, eliciting a bittersweet wave of emotion. The injured man is still trapped, but there's no way that a hidden assailant could have escaped and relocked the door from the outside.
"I'm sure Lord Cowen is away this morning," said Mr. Lipman. "I saw him depart at dawn with Remington. As for other ways into his study, the only one I can think of is the northern window facing the side yard."
Mr. Dodger put his palm against the door. "That window is broken," he said. "The lock is stuck. Lord Cowen told me he hasn't been able to get it open since last week."
"Even still, even if we can't enter through the window, I'd like to look in through it," said Mr. Lipman. "Verner, you come with me. We'll go around, and see if we can find out what's going on in there. Mr. Lipman, get your toolbox ready. You must have something in there that can pry this door down."
Mr. Dodger and Lady Cowen stayed behind as Mr. Lipman and Mrs. Verner circled around out the side door. Mrs. Verner flinched at the frigid air. For a moment, she was distracted by the sight of the fallen ash tree, sprawled across the yard. It looked much larger on the ground than it had standing upright. Mr. Lipman reached the study window, but it was too tall for him to look through. He boosted up Mrs. Verner on an outstretched hand to give her a better vantage point. Gripping the lower frame of the window, and struggling to balance with Mr. Lipman's support, Mrs. Verner slowly rose high enough to peek inside.
There was a man on the floor of the study, collapsed in a pool of blood. He was sprawled faceup, icy corpse eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. Mrs. Verner didn't recognize him. Donned in a dirtied, patched jacket and pants, the man contrasted strikingly with Lord Cowen's luxurious study, between the polished oak desk, towering shelves of books, and crystal decanter side table. Snarled straw-yellow hair covered part of his face, and his mouth was contorted into an agonized grimace. Mrs. Verner saw no attacker in the room with him.
"What do you see?" said Mr. Lipman with a grunt, straining to keep Mrs. Verner elevated.
She tried to respond, but no words left her mouth. She screamed. Unbalanced by the shock, propped on the weakening arms of Mr. Lipman, Mrs. Verner slipped out of his grip and came crashing down onto the frozen soil below. In a daze, Mrs. Verner heard approaching footsteps, and the voice of Lord Cowen. Jesus, Mrs. Verner, are you all right?
Mrs. Verner described the grisly sight in the study. Lord Cowen, Mrs. Verner and Mr. Lipman returned indoors to find Mr. Dodger, Lady Cowen and Ms. Brisly standing at the door. Ms. Brisly was cleaning the upstairs lavatory before being drawn downstairs by the combined commotion of the ash tree falling and the panicked shouting. Mr. Dodger attempted to force the door with a sharp metal pry bar, clenching his teeth as he pulled. The heavy door began to splinter, and the group of six witnessed the wood split near the knob, followed by the lock breaking apart and the door swinging inward. The corpse awaited them.
Mr. Lipman summoned the constabulary immediately. Several officers of Scotland Yard, including Inspector Lestrade, arrived at Lord Cowen's estate around the same time as Mr. Remington. He was shivering and splattered with the blood of two dead hares that he carried over his shoulder. All estate occupants were accounted for, and asked to remain indoors, in and around the dining room, until further notice. Owing to the high-profile status of Lord Cowen, and the perplexing nature of the mysterious man's death, Inspector Lestrade wasted little time before calling for Mr. Sherlock Holmes.
Holmes and I stood over the corpse in Lord Cowen's study, carefully stepping around the pool of thickening blood. We were joined by Inspector Lestrade and Constable Morley. Holmes crouched low, inhaling deeply. He ran his slender fingers along the body, examining the clothing and wounds with a magnifying glass. The man carried an empty tin flask in his pocket. It was cheap and relatively new, with three letters roughly scratched into the base: E.O.E. He suffered four puncture wounds: two to the mid-back, and two to the chest. None of the wounds were more than one or two inches deep. His hands and clothes were soaked in blood.
"Well, Holmes, what do you make of it?" said Inspector Lestrade after recounting the family and staff testimonies. "No one knows who he is. No one saw him enter the house, let alone the Lord's study. Regardless of his identity, and his motives for trespassing, we have no indication of who stabbed him, where the murder weapon is now located, or how the murderer escaped through a deadbolted door."
Holmes didn't seem to be paying particularly close attention to Inspector Lestrade. He focused on the shallow wounds, going so far as producing a thin pair of copper tweezers to pluck a speck of dirt off the man's shirt, and hold it up into the light for a closer examination. He came out of what appeared to be a trance, and just as I thought Holmes was going to address Inspector Lestrade, he again redirected his focus, this time to an open whisky bottle at the foot of Lord Cowen's desk. It was half-full, with some of its contents spilled and soaked into the ornate rug. Holmes wafted the scent, and studied the label (single malt Scotch whisky, aged fifteen years, premium-grade), before rising to inspect the side table with the crystal decanter and a collection of bourbons and tequilas. He spoke to himself under his breath.
The cuts on the chest were relatively shallow and jagged, inflicted with a dull blade. It looked like the murderer pierced the left subclavian artery. After that, it was just a short matter of time. The wounds reminded me of Charasiab, Afghanistan. On the battlefield I treated a similar injury, inflicted with a two-pronged bayonet. The wounds before me were like scaled-down versions of the lieutenant's in Charasiab. The two pairs of punctures were too similar for this to be the result of four quick jabs—the murderer made two attacks with some type of twin-blade weapon.
"It's not possible," continued Inspector Lestrade. I don't think he was speaking so much to Holmes as he was speaking aloud into the ether, walking himself through his own thoughts. "Lord Cowen told me that he doesn't always keep the door locked when he's out, so someone could have entered, but how did they get back out? Looking at the way the door broke, and the damage to the doorframe, I concede it must have been deadlocked when they pried it open. Is there another way out of this room? The window is jammed shut."
"He's a common burglar," interjected Constable Morley. He was hulking wide, the buttons on his uniform pressed to their limits. "That's why nobody recognizes him."
"But there were no signs of forced entry into the house," I said, recalling part of Inspector Lestrade's lecture from the cab ride here.
"That's right," said Inspector Lestrade. "Which means someone must have let him inside."
"Then there's an inside man, or woman," said Constable Morley.
"One of the servants let the burglar in, with plans of sharing the spoils," said Inspector Lestrade. "They picked a time when Lord Cowen would be away. Something went wrong, a disagreement that led to a violent end—no honor among thieves, as they say."
Constable Morley crossed his arms and tapped his foot. "I don't trust that Remington fellow. He showed up out of the blue, covered in blood."
"Agreed. He said the blood was from the trapped hares, but something about him struck me as off," said Inspector Lestrade. He snapped his fingers, eyes narrowing. "The maintenance man, Dodger, was first at the scene. I wonder if he has some kind of tool that could deadbolt a door from the outside. Ever heard of anything like that, Holmes?"
Holmes straightened up his posture, rejoining us in the world outside his own mind. He still held the open bottle of Scotch whisky in his hand. "No. I can't say that I have. And for a premeditated heist, I find it odd that the burglar didn't bring a bag to carry away his prize, or tools to infiltrate locked rooms, drawers or safes, nor did he touch the exposed banknotes or jewelry on Lord Cowen's desk. By my observation, it appears the only thing the victim moved was this bottle of Scotch whisky, some of which he drank shortly before his death, along with the rum from his tin flask. Smell the alcohol on his mouth and chin. Not the most reliable partner in crime."
"So, he's a drunkard and a dimwit," said Inspector Lestrade. "Wouldn't be the first criminal accomplice offed for being unreliable."
"A drunkard," said Holmes. "What a simple reduction. Yes, perhaps in recent months he succumbed to the vice grip of alcohol addiction, but this body does not present the telltale signs of lifelong alcoholism. No skin sores from a weakened immune system, yellowing skin tone from prolonged aggravation of the liver, excessively brittle nails from chronic dehydration, or broken capillaries in the nose or face. The onset of rigor mortis makes it difficult to gauge his muscle tone, but based on assumptions regarding the decomposition of the human body, the ratio and distribution of muscle and fat, and signs of stretched clothing and newly notched belt loops, I deduce that most of his health's degradation took place within the past three to nine months. Prior to that, I suspect this man was an impressive physical specimen. An elite-level athlete, even. Observe the tendons and muscles in the legs and right arm, especially the right wrist and shoulder. Watson, your thoughts? Do you have any critiques of my anatomical analysis?"
Prompted by Holmes, I performed a closer examination of the body. The longer I looked, the more inclined I was to concur with Holmes's deductions. The victim's frame was indicative of years of agility training. Additionally, I noticed a scar on the right ankle, and a skeletal asymmetry of the legs that was surely the product of the corresponding injury. Applying Holmes's methods of deductions, I studied the underside of the man's shoes, and saw an uneven distribution of wear indicative of a habit of awkward limping. There was a lack of hair growth around the ankles and shins, and the bones in his feet appeared to be molded by years of quick start-and-stop side-to-side movements. He had faded blisters on his right palm.
"I follow your reasoning," I said. "The victim had the body of a professional athlete in rapid decline. It appears as though he injured his ankle quite badly, less than a year ago. Perhaps around the time he began drinking heavily."
"Professional athlete, indeed," said Holmes. "Any guesses about his sport of choice?"
The dead man on the study floor was tall with long arms, and was presumably once slender with lean muscle. I glanced across the study at Lord Cowen's collection of sport books and memorabilia for inspiration. He apparently followed several different collegiate and professional leagues, including boxing, cricket, golf, horse racing, lacrosse, rowing, rugby and tennis. Based on photographs and signed equipment on the wall, Lord Cowen spectated the Epsom Derby and the Wimbledon Championships almost every year. He had the signed boxing gloves of Bob Fitzsimmons, The Freckled Wonder.
"I'd wager badminton or tennis, or perhaps lacrosse," I said after a minute of contemplation. I thought of the apparent strength that the man's right arm once possessed, and the blisters on his hand. "A sport that involves quickness, and swinging a racket or bat."
"I lean toward tennis," said Holmes. "The stunted hair growth around the ankles from tight tennis socks, and the size and shape of the right shoulder muscle from countless overheard serves inform my opinion. Judging by the contents of his study, Lord Cowen himself is an avid sports spectator. His passion rivals even yours, Watson!"
I chuckled. "I think he outclasses me in passion for athletics. I place the occasional wager, but the back of this study makes Lord Cowen look like a sports historian."
"I wonder, do you recall the details of this past July's Wimbledon?" said Holmes. He tapped a finger to his forehead, eyes closed in thought. "You made a wager on the men's singles division, if I'm not mistaken."
"That's correct," I said. I bet on the all comers' final, doubling my money by predicting the tournament's winner.
"There was a bit of drama in the quarterfinal round," said Holmes. "An accident resulting in a disqualifying injury, hours before the match."
I recalled reading the splashy article in the Times. One competitor was struck with a carriage before his match, breaking his ankle. When following the story back in July, I thought of it as a tragic disappointment for the man's tennis career, and wished him a speedy recovery. Now, in the context of the murder at Lord Cowen's estate, the story took on a new meaning. Having read the article months ago, I couldn't recall the injured athlete's name. "Holmes, you don't mean to say… Are you implying he's the very same man?"
Inspector Lestrade and Constable Morley exchanged a glance. "I remember that as well," said Constable Morley. "A friend of mine was planning on watching the quarterfinal match. Sorely disappointed."
"Come on, Holmes," said Inspector Lestrade. "What are the odds that this is the injured tennis star?"
"Admittedly, unlikely," said Holmes. As he spoke, Holmes removed a volume of sports records from the back bookshelf. He flipped through to a page detailing the 1895 Wimbledon Championships roster and bracket. "The victim has the body of a professional-level injured tennis player, and the times and natures of the injuries appear to coincide. This is hardly conclusive evidence. But we cannot overlook coincidences in our line of work. So, how can we delve deeper down this line of inquiry? The initials E.O.E. are engraved on the man's flask. Let us check the name of the injured tennis player in Lord Cowen's book of sports records."
"Eaves!" said Constable Morley with a finger snap. "His name was Eaves. He was supposed to compete against Bartlett."
Holmes grinned. "Yes, indeed. As noted in the official record, Emrys Oscar Eaves, age twenty-seven, was scheduled to compete in the quarterfinal round before his untimely injury."
Inspector Lestrade mouthed the letters, E.O.E. "So, Mr. Eaves was injured before his big match in July, and he's been circling the drain ever since? From professional athlete to dead drunkard. What brought him here?"
Holmes addressed the body as he spoke. "It can't have been pleasant to travel far with that limp of yours, Mr. Eaves. In the raw cold, no less. He didn't come here to steal." There was a glint in Holmes's hawkish eyes. "He came here for an audience."
"Who?" said Inspector Lestrade.
"Whose private study are we in?" said Holmes.
"Lord Cowen," said Inspector Lestrade. "Did they know each other?"
"Possibly," said Holmes.
"I suppose if anyone was to know about a secret escape from this room, it would be Lord Cowen," said Inspector Lestrade. He groaned. "But he was away at the time of the murder, seen approaching from a distance by Mr. Lipman and Mrs. Verner within minutes of Eaves's death."
"The dimensions of this study, relative to the hall and adjacent rooms, seems perfectly reasonable," said Holmes. "We've searched the room thoroughly, and discovered no indication of a hidden passage. No draught of wind from the solid walls, no removable floorboards, no covert mechanisms. No, I don't think anyone fled through a secret door."
"Then how did it happen?" said Inspector Lestrade. "Can the murderer walk through walls?"
"I'm compelled by the spot of blood four inches above the interior door frame, and the smear of blood on the deadbolt switch," said Holmes.
Inspector Lestrade, Constable Morley and I looked up at the door frame. Sure enough, there was a small red dot on the wall which had gone unnoticed by the three of us.
"I know you're enjoying this, Holmes, but you'll need to elaborate," said Inspector Lestrade.
"Note the Scotch whisky, and the victim's hair, Inspector," said Holmes. With that, he grabbed the whisky bottle and left the study.
"Elaborate!" said Inspector Lestrade as he and Constable Morley followed Holmes down the hall, toward the dining room.
I took a minute to reexamine Mr. Eaves's hair before pursuing the others. He had a head of thinning, blond hair, windswept to the right, and flecked with blood. I wondered what exactly Holmes had seen. I looked up at the spot of blood above the door frame, and the faint red smear on the latch for the deadbolt. How did his blood end up there?
I tried imagining a plausible sequence of events. Mr. Eaves limped to the estate, possibly already drunk. Someone let him inside, and he found his way to Lord Cowen's private study. He took the Scotch whisky from the side table, a much higher quality of alcohol compared to the cheap rum in his flask, and continued to drink. He was stabbed twice with a two-pronged weapon, once in the back and once in the chest. Perhaps the murderer was the same person that let Mr. Eaves inside, though I couldn't say for sure. The murderer was relatively quiet, as no one claimed to notice Mr. Eaves until he was already moaning, bleeding out on the floor. After delivering the killing blow, the murderer somehow escaped through a deadbolted door, rather quickly, based on the fact that Mr. Dodger and Mrs. Verner were at the study door within minutes of Mr. Eaves crying out. As Inspector Lestrade had said, it's not possible.
I considered the possibility that the murderer didn't leave the room until after the door was broken down. They would have needed a good hiding spot, and I didn't see many options. Mrs. Verner had looked in through the outside, which probably would have caught the hidden murderer off guard if they were trying to hide from people entering via the door. I was starting to think that many members of the household were wrapped up in a conspiratorial web to misdirect the constabulary. How else could the murderer have slipped away so inconceivably? Maybe Inspector Lestrade was on to something, and the murderer could walk through walls.