Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine, Volume 5 Page 16

  “It seems that Lestrade is satisfied that he has the guilty party, and that the case is solved,” I said.

  “When Lestrade feels satisfaction, the world trembles,” said Holmes, with a half smile, then took a few photographs out of the same envelope that the letter had come from. “I must caution you, Watson, despite both your military and medical experience, you will find these photographs nothing short of gruesome.”

  Holmes handed me the pictures. Given his usual flair for the dramatic, I wasn’t sure what to expect, but in this instance, he was not exaggerating. I stared at the photographs with revulsion. Each one was a picture of the severed arm, taken from different angles. I took note of the particularly strange manner with which the arm had been cut, then at the two tattoos on the upper bicep. The top one was of a nearly rectangular shape, and the one below it was an illustration of two intertwined vines. Further down, I noticed three dark circles, which were not tattoos, though exactly what they were, I wasn’t sure, perhaps wounds of some kind. Then I saw an area of blackened puffy skin, which is common among drowning victims.

  “What can you tell me about Mr. Harris from looking at his arm?” asked Holmes.

  “It is the arm of a healthy man, if not somewhat overweight,” I said, “The fingers have calluses, so it stands to reason that he worked with his hands.”

  “Excellent, Watson.”

  “The tattoos, are, of course, distinctive. Perhaps he was a lover of the art, or merely a follower of fashion. Since a number of royals created the vogue, the public has, as they always do, followed suit.”

  Holmes glanced at the photographs, then said, “The victim weighed twenty stone, stood six feet tall, had grey hair, spent much time outside, (no doubt tending to his animals). He was a widower who lost his beloved wife not more than five years ago, after which he sought seclusion. But, while many men who find themselves in similar circumstances turn to drink in an effort to quell their sorrows, Harris indulged himself with cakes, tarts, scones, pies, cookies, and eclairs. All of which came naturally to him, as his profession was that of a master baker. Since his wife’s death, he has had no other romance in his life. He was a compulsive man, whose outward anger masked his inner emotional pain.”

  “How could you possibly know all that, Holmes?” I asked, stunned.

  “The circumference of the arm indicated his girth, and from there one has only to gauge the proportions of the body and reconstruct it exponentially, much the way a naturalist, who specializes in paleontology does, when unearthing a new dinosaur bone. The hair color is evident by small follicles that are still intact. The dark complexion indicates someone who has spent much time in the sun. The second finger from the pinky has a lighter color around the third knuckle, obviously from the impression of a wedding band which was only removed within the last few days. If that wasn’t enough to declare his eternal love, the tattoo of the intertwining vines, a popular image symbolizing such everlasting devotion, removes all doubt. As for his weight being a product of his own overindulgence, the illustration above the vines is that of a loaf of bread. A tattoo proclaiming one’s profession is not uncommon, especially among certain classes. His anguish and compulsion is evident by the condition of his fingernails. They have been bitten, a nasty habit, which would suggest that he was alone, as few women would put up with such unhygienic and socially unacceptable behavior in their man.”

  “Astounding,” I said.

  “At the risk of repeating myself, Watson, it’s really quite elementary. However, having said that, these photographs raise more questions than they answer. Would you care to speculate on what sort of instrument could have been used to sever this man’s arm?”

  “Other than perhaps having been caught in the gears of some large factory machine, of which I am unfamiliar, and even then, I’m frankly at a loss to explain the odd uneven nature of the cut. It appears unlikely that even a surgeon’s knife could have achieved these results.”

  “My thoughts exactly.”

  “It’s not often we agree on something.”

  “Don’t sell yourself short, Watson, your observations are invaluable.”

  I looked out the window, as the countryside went by, and thought about poor Mr. Harris. A few hours later we arrived at Harbourton, and were met at the station by Lestrade and the local constable, a dour looking man called Dunbar. We were escorted to a carriage, driven through the sleepy little village, and into the hills beyond. A quarter hour later we turned onto a secluded road, and there we stopped at a cottage, which we were informed belonged to, Edmund Collier, the man in custody. The door to the cottage was opened by a beautiful woman of no more than twenty years, with pitch black hair.

  “Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I presume,” she said, curtsying, as if she were greeting a visiting noble, “I am Katherine Collins.”

  “Miss Collier,” said Holmes, “this is my friend and associate, Dr. Watson. I take it that you are already acquainted with Inspector Lestrade, and Constable Dunbar.”

  “Yes,” she said, looking none too happy about that fact.

  We stepped into the living room, and Holmes went over to a painting that hung above a mantle. The portrait was of a gaunt man in his sixties, who was dressed in a plain white shirt and dark trousers.

  “Your father,” said Holmes.

  “Yes,” said Miss Collier, “he traded a local painter for a sculpture he’d made of the man. A portait for a portrait.”

  “You contend that on the night of the murder you were here?” said Holmes.

  “Yes,” said Miss Collier, “I was with my father the entire night. When we heard the news the next day, from the constable, it came as a complete shock to us as it had to everyone else.”

  “Is it possible that your father could have gone outside that night without you hearing him?” asked Holmes.

  “No, Mr. Holmes, even if I had not seen him, I certainly would have heard him leave, since I have the room next to his and am a very light sleeper. In addition, the floorboards groan, and the doors and windows squeak when opened. Though, as I understand it, whoever did perpetrate this heinous act would have needed more than a few minutes’s time to do it.”

  “Quite so,” said Holmes, “may we look around?”

  “Of course,” replied the girl.

  I accompanied Holmes through the house’s few rooms, each of which contained wooden sculptures. Most of them were busts, or small figurines. In a shed behind the house, we found a workroom, with a table on which rested a number of saws of various sizes, as well as hammers, axes, and other craftsman’s tools. From there, we went outside, and saw a horse and cart. Here, Holmes knelt down, and examined the cart’s wheels. After a moment or two, he stood up, and met the gazes of Lestrade and Dunbar, who were standing a few feet away, watching us. Katherine Collins went over to Holmes and said, “Is there any hope for my father?”

  “If you’re asking me if I believe that he murdered Mr. Harris, the answer is no.”

  “That’s preposterous,” said Lestrade.

  “We have the right man,” said Dunbar, “of that you can be certain.”

  “When it comes to crime, nothing is certain,” said Holmes, “except uncertainty. Keep your spirits up, young lady. I expect to bring you good news soon.”

  On the trip up the road, in Dunbar’s carriage, I wondered if Holmes should have been so optimistic. I’d seen nothing that cast doubt on the official version of the case, let alone that would point to Edmund Collier’s innocence. But once Holmes had an idea in his mind, there was no talking him out of it. My concern was for Miss Collier. I didn’t want her to have unrealistic expectations, and as a result, subsequently be disappointed.

  In five minutes time we stopped in front of another cottage. This one was bigger than the previous one, and the grass in front of it, a bit overgrown.

  “We’ve preserved the scene,” said Lestrade, as we walked up the path to the front door, “for what it’s worth.”

  Holmes turned to Lestrade, seemingly una
mused, then Dunbar unlocked the door, and we went inside. The living room was simply furnished with a wooden table and a few chairs. On a cabinet were some framed photographs of a fat man, whom I assumed was Harris, with a plump woman, presumably his late wife. A search of the pantry turned up tins of dried fruit, chocolate, and some jars of jam. On a counter were a stale loaf of bread and a few traditional Cornish pies, which, judging by the smell, had gone bad.

  Then we went outside and walked to the barn, which was empty. On the ground, in front of it, were the blood stains that Lestrade had mentioned in his letter. Holmes examined them, then drew his attention to a horseless cart that stood nearby. As he had done at the previous cottage, he inspected the cart’s wheels and after that, seemed to take notice of a small wren that had landed on a nearby log. The bird was eating a worm. Holmes then walked to some shrubs not far from the barn and examined them. I turned to Lestrade and Dunbar, who were watching the proceedings, with what I took to be expressions of extreme boredom.

  “And the prisoner,” said Holmes, returning from his foray into the bushes, and directing his attention to the two lawmen, “may I speak with him?”

  “By all means, Mr. Holmes,” said Dunbar, smugly, “if it’ll hasten your departure from our midst, you’re welcome to have a brief chat with him.”

  It was now obvious that Lestrade and his new found friend were enjoying themselves immensely at our expense. While this annoyed me no end, Holmes seemed to be oblivious to their attitude. When we arrived back in town, the lot of us descended upon the local jail. Edmund Collier greeted us in his cell with the enthusiasm of a condemned man resigned to his fate. He looked even more gaunt and frail than in his portrait. Holmes’s interview was short and seemed to add nothing of substance to the case. Afterward, Holmes asked Dunbar if he could recommend lodgings for the night. The Constable gave us the name of the town’s only inn and public house, The Harborview, which, it turned out, was a short walk away.

  Once there, and finally free from Lestrade and his shadow, Holmes seemed to relax a bit. In the public house we ordered poached cod for dinner and after it arrived, Holmes said, “We seem to have a most singular case, Watson, one filled with many twists and turns.”

  “Despite Lestrade and Dunbar’s claims to the contrary,” I intoned.

  “Neither of our friends seems to have the slightest concern with the fact that Collier, a man of no more than seven stone, is supposed to have taken on Harris, who was twenty stone, in a fight, using what was undoubtedly a blunt instrument, based upon my examination of the blood stains, and single handedly, overpowered him, removed the body, presumably for burial in some secluded spot, of which, incidentally, there are certainly are no shortage of in that region. And yet, all this was done clandestinely, without his daughter’s knowledge, consent, or cooperation.”

  “She could have been lying,” I said, reluctantly.

  “You don’t believe that any more than I do.”

  “And that does not explain the arm.”

  “No,” said Holmes, finishing his dinner. “If we are to believe Lestrade and Dunbar, a simple murder, which was committed for no other purpose than to quell an annoying neighbor, resulted in a piece of the victim being found five miles away from the scene of the crime at a beach.”

  “It does beg certain questions,” I said.

  “Indeed, at the risk of repetition, such as how would a frail, slight fellow overpower a man over three times his size, lift the body onto a cart, and, rather than bury it privately and conveniently in a secluded area, instead, choose to, at enormous risk of discovery and capture, cut the body into pieces, and drive five miles to dispose of it in the ocean.”

  “Quite a conundrum, indeed.”

  “To say the least,” said Holmes, “but then I have neglected to mention one trifle. What do you make of this, Watson?” Holmes produced a small glass vial from his pocket and handed it to me.

  “Where did you get this?” I asked, examining the ampoule.

  “From the bushes near Harris’s barn, right from under the noses of Lestrade and his friend.”

  There were bits of a brown residue on the glass, which could have indicated a number of substances, but the odor, though faint, was unmistakable. “It’s chloral hydrate.”

  “As you know, it is a powerful, quick acting tranquilizer.”

  “Could Alvar Harris have been drugged, then beaten to death?”

  “The idea does seem to complicate matters.”

  “It also suggests a careful premeditation of the crime, which would appear to further rule out Mr. Colliers as the perpetrator.”

  “We may be approaching a record, Watson, for drawing the greatest number of similar conclusions on a single case,” said Holmes, smiling.

  As we were paying the bill, Holmes asked the barkeep if he knew of any land in the nearby hills that was available for purchase.

  “Now and again,” responded the ruddy faced man, “are you considering moving here, sir?”

  “Yes,” said Holmes, “I have an idea to become a dairy farmer.”

  “Oh?” said the barkeep, wiping his hands on his dirty apron, as he looked at Holmes incredulously.

  “How is the farming here?” asked Holmes.

  “The farming is fine,” said the barkeep, “but if you’ll be owning cows, my advice is to keep a good watch on them, as lately there’s been a rash of theft.”

  “Cattle rustling?”

  “From all accounts, done at night. Yet, no one’s reported a local farmer with any more cows than their own.”

  When we had exited the public house, I turned to Holmes and exclaimed, “What was that all about?”

  “Just a theory I’m pursuing,” he replied, smiling, “no need for concern, I have no immediate plans to move from our lodgings at Baker Street any time in the near future. Now come, Watson, it’s imperative that we get some salt air immediately.”

  It was late afternoon, as Sherlock Holmes, and I walked through the cobble stoned village streets, and in a short time found ourselves on the town’s rocky beach. Other than a few fishermen, sitting near beached boats, repairing their netting, the place was deserted. The sky was overcast, and a cold north wind blew across the ocean before us. Holmes wandered off, looking in all directions. I glanced at the village behind us, then to the right, and, in the distance, saw a rather imposing manor house high atop a cliff, overlooking the water. When I noticed Holmes staring at it as well, I went over to one of the fishermen and said, “Pardon me, but would you happen to know who lives there?”

  The craggy faced man, barely looking up from his mending, responded, “It belongs to Dr. Phillip Paxton, my biggest customer.”

  “He eats a lot of fish?” I asked.

  “Not ’im, ’is pets.” When the man noticed my perplexed look, he added, “He’s a scientist. Keeps aquariums of fish, big ones too, and even seals. Bloody hungry, they are. In the last two months, he’s doubled his orders. I provide ’im with at least a hundred pounds a week lately, as does my friend over there, and so do some of the other men, too.”

  I thanked him for answering my question, then rejoined Holmes, and we returned to the inn. When we were back in our room, I recounted my brief exchange with the fisherman, as Holmes lit his pipe, and to my surprise, replied,

  “Dr. Phillip Paxton, is the scion of the tea importing family of the same name. Though at one time a prominent naturalist and marine biologist with the public aquarium at Regent Park Zoological Gardens, he was expelled by the Marine Biology Society and forced to resign from his position at the aquarium, due to his unorthodox theories on ocean life.Keep in mind that many a scientist whose ideas were scorned in their own lifetime, were then accepted by later generations.”

  “How is it that you are aware of such a man?” I asked.

  “Watson, I make it my business to read the newspapers and when I received Lestrade’s letter I remembered, Paxton had left London to live in his ancestral home in this part of Cornwall. As I’ve told you, u
pon occasion, when I explain my methods, they seem much less dazzling, not unlike a stage magician revealing his illusions.”

  I took a sip of brandy from my flask and reflected upon what we’d learned in the last few hours. Holmes went to the window, took a puff from his pipe, and looked out at the now darkened sky. On the table, I noticed a copy of the local newspaper that had probably been left by the maid when she’d turned down our sheets. The headline read, Local Man Held On Murder Charges.

  Holmes turned to me, and said, “I suggest that we get some rest. We have a most busy day ahead of us, and we will need to get an early start.”

  “But,” I said, “haven’t we already questioned everyone connected with the case and looked at the scene of the crime?”

  “There is much that remains to be done,” said Holmes, in his usual cryptic way.

  I knew better than to ask him what would be on tomorrow’s itinerary. Instead, I had another sip of my drink and readied myself for bed.

  When I awoke in the morning, Holmes was gone. The moment I finished dressing, he burst into the room.

  “There you are, Watson, put on your coat and hat, and we’ll be on our way.”

  Outside the inn was a waiting trap and driver, and we got inside.

  “I thought of someone whom we haven’t spoken to,” I said, “Millicent Stokes, the woman who reported Harris missing, and found the blood in front of the barn.”

  “I questioned her before you arose,” answered Holmes, while the driver guided his horse through the cobblestone streets. “As I had thought, she had no relevant facts to add to our investigation, but I would have been remiss if I hadn’t consulted with her.”

  “Oh,” I replied, crestfallen. For an instant I felt as if I might have actually stumbled upon an idea that Holmes had somehow overlooked.