December 2: "A case hits close to home" (from Hades Lord of the Dead)
Continued from December 1. This section went on longer than I anticipated but I hope you enjoy it! Expect the third installment shortly. :)
We stepped down from the carriage and Lestrade and I allowed Holmes to lead the way, and he did so slowly, bent nearly double and examining the path leading up to the house. When he was satisfied, we entered. A constable led us upstairs to the scene of the murder.
The room was cold; the fire must have died some hours ago and had not been revived, presumably in an effort to preserve the scene as undisturbed as possible. My attention was quickly captured by the body sprawled upon the floor, hips and legs nearly supine and upper body twisted so that her right shoulder was upraised and her left cheek rested on the floorboards, a dried pool of blood surrounding her dark hair like some sort of grim halo. Her eyes were open, an expression of open fear and horror writ across the still features. Even I, who had seen many horrors, from Afghanistan to the dark alleys of London, to the well-lit examination room had to suppress a shudder. Whoever—or whatever—had killed this woman had not done so without some warning.
Holmes knelt by the body, lifting it carefully to examine the wound at the back of the skull, then lay her back down. He made a minute study of her hands, his hawk nose mere inches from the dainty painted nails.
"Have the deceased's pockets been gone through?" he asked.
They had, and a constable produced a dainty pocket watch and a small whittling tool. Holmes examined them both, then made a small sound of frustration and waved them away. He shook his head.
"This is a dark business," he said. "Lestrade, when the body is removed, instruct the police surgeon that tests for poison should also be done."
"Poison?" said Lestrade with a frown. He glanced to me, perhaps for support. "Surely the cause of death is from that blow to the skull."
"Nonetheless, I insist upon it," said Holmes. He turned to me. "Come, Watson, give us your opinion on time of death." Turning away from the body, he threw himself into what seemed to be a careful study of the baseboards.
I gave Lestrade a shrug, and knelt to make my examination. "I should say given the current state of rigor mortis, she has been gone some twelve hours, give or take an hour on either side. It is nearly noon now, which would put the time of death between eleven and one."
"Thank you, Doctor," Holmes replied.
I hauled myself to my feet with a grimace and a sudden effort. The chill of the room had not been kind to my game leg, and my friend cast a sharp glance in my direction. "You had better wait downstairs, Watson."
I admit I was somewhat peeved by the remark, but I knew my friend well enough to understand he meant no injury to my pride by it, and acquiesced. Lestrade showed me downstairs to the sitting room, where a constable motioned me to a chair near the fire. It was an awkward few minutes, for most of the household had been instructed to wait in the sitting room, and any little whispers or chatter between them ceased now that another stranger was in their midst. I knew better than to make conversation, and so sat for some few minutes quietly warming my leg.
On the settee was Sir Carter, a tall, thin man with a hairline just beginning to recede and a distinguished mustache. His daughter, Elizabeth, sat on the settee also, and she must have taken after her late mother, for where the father's hair was pin straight and dark, the daughter's was a golden auburn and where it was not pinned back, it curled in the most lovely ringlets about her face. On a second glance, though, I saw that where their coloring differed, the shape of brow and jaw was very much alike. There could be no mistaking the family resemblance. And something, too, in the shine of her blue eyes reminded me with a pang of my dear Mary. It would soon be the eighth anniversary of her passing, and while time had dulled the pain, I still felt it very keenly when the cold and dark of winter closed in around me each year.
In the chair across from me was the butler, a heavier man, who mopped his brow and sighed heavily at intervals. A woman who must have been the cook stood behind him and patted his shoulder. The chambermaid and lady's maid stood together in the corner along with a maid who could hardly have been fourteen, the three sharing anxious glances.
Holmes and Lestrade entered the room, and I rose again to my feet. Lestrade made a swift introduction of us to the household.
"Thank you, Inspector," said Holmes. "Now, Sir Carter, if you would be so kind as to lead the way to the dining room, I should like to speak to each of you individually."
I shall not here reproduce all of the interviews in their entirety, for much of the information we had already learned from Lestrade's summary in the carriage. The principal facts which we learned from the interviews are these:
After dinner, Miss Carter retired to her rooms to read for a while before ringing for the maid to help her dress for bed around ten, at which time she retired. Her sleep was restless, however, and around half past eleven, she gave it up for a while and departed her rooms for the library. She passed her father's bedroom, where she reports she heard his snoring. She also reports hearing footfalls from upstairs while on her way to the library, most likely from the stepmother's studio. At a quarter to one, Miss Carter returned to her rooms and slept at last. On the return journey, she again heard snoring, but no footfalls.
The girl who helps in the kitchen departed for home at eight, after which time the butler locked up the house. The cook and the chambermaid share a room, next door to the lady's maid. All three women had retired by a quarter past ten. Though the chambermaid fell asleep quickly, the cook confirmed that before she fell asleep, she heard the lady's maid come to bed, for the walls are rather thin. The time that Miss Carter gave for the maid leaving her rooms corresponded to the time that the cook heard her come to bed, so that the four women servants were all accounted for throughout the evening.
The butler's room being in the eastern wing of the house had no one to corroborate his movements after his locking the house (which was observed by the chambermaid at around eight in the evening), but according to his own report, he retired to bed at nine and slept soundly until he rose again at a quarter to six.
I confess I did not expect the narrative of the young kitchen maid to be very enlightening, as by all accounts she was at her home at the time of the crime. Holmes, however, seemed to take a particular interest in her narrative, asking several questions throughout. I felt for the poor girl, as she seemed quite affected by the ordeal, and I wished my friend would leave her soon in peace.
Lastly, by all accounts, the groundskeeper had not been on the property at all the previous day, his duties being much less time consuming in winter than they would be in the other seasons.
Our final interviewee having been sent away again, Lestrade turned to Holmes. "Well, have you any of your little theories developed yet?"
"Eight separate theories," Holmes replied, "though that number has now winnowed down to three. It remains to be seen which will best fit the facts. But what is your theory, Lestrade? I can see by the way you have been gripping your pencil that you have developed one yourself."
The Inspector flushed. "You ought to be spending your energy making deductions about our suspects and not me."
Holmes gave a small chuckle.
"In any case, it seems to me that Hartman, the butler, has the least alibi of any of them. He was hardly seen past eight, and his rooms being isolated, no one can account for his movements."
"How do you suppose he murdered the poor woman, then?"
Lestrade shrugged. "He could have used any number of blunt objects. A club, a pipe, a board, who knows? I shall soon have the house searched to see if such an object can be found with signs of having been used to inflict violence."
"Indeed," Holmes replied. "But how did Hartman make his way into the locked room, to which Mrs. Carter held the only key?"
"That is difficult to account for," said Lestrade. "The locked room is why I summoned you in the first place. But someone got in there somehow to do the deed, and it is possible that Hartman had a duplicate made. I intend to have the house searched also to see if such a copy could be found. That would be pretty damning evidence."
"A very neat theory," Holmes replied, "but I do not expect you will have much luck with the key. As for the murder weapon, well, I will not say much, but I would begin your search in Mrs. Carter's studio, on the west wall."
"It is hardly fair that you ask me to share my theory and in return give me only cryptic clues."
Holmes gave a soft tut tut. "You know my methods, Inspector. Now, I should like to borrow a boot or shoe from every occupant of the house. And after I examine kitchen and back garden, I should like to speak to Dr. John Wright. Do you know where he might be found?"
"I am certain that will not be difficult to ascertain," Lestrade replied, with a frown. "But I am afraid that goes a bit afield of where the facts as I see them lead, and beyond where my power as an officer of the law extends."
Holmes sighed quietly. "I imagine so. Well, it is no matter. If he is willing to speak to us without pressure from the official force, we should not require a warrant."
Without another word, Holmes swept from the room, I at his heels. His examination of the kitchen and back garden were swift but thorough, and I could see nothing of note save for some muddled foot tracks outside, but as always they revealed much more to my friend than they did to me, and I watched him pace about and crouch in the snow, muttering to himself and making the occasional soft exclamation of excitement or disappointment. Soon enough, we had the address of Dr. Wright and were in a cab en route to his practice.
It was foolish, I know, but between the time of year and the way Miss Carter's expression had for a moment recalled to my mind my late wife, I could not help but imagine myself in the shoes of this yet unknown Dr. Wright. My Mary had been a victim to tragedy when I met her, and she, too, had for a time anyway seemed to be beyond my station. It was in this painful direction my thoughts had turned when we arrived at Dr. Wright's practice. I endeavored to put my grief aside, as I followed my friend into the waiting-room.
To be continued...