The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes--The Counterfeit Detective Read online

  “Come now, Watson,” my friend chided, “there is no call to take offence so readily! You described the earrings and bracelet as matching; it is surely not too great a leap to suggest that there was once a necklace in the same set? Or that its absence is the cause of the lady unconsciously reaching up and touching her throat several times in the past few minutes?”

  I thought I had spotted a flaw in his reasoning: “Even so, perhaps it was stolen, and not broken?”

  “I would say not,” replied Holmes firmly. “Judging by the quality of the remaining pieces, the missing necklace was a spectacular item. Its theft would raise a hue and cry on land, far more so at sea, where there is almost no chance of escape. No criminal would take so foolish a risk.”

  “It may have been stolen on land.”

  “And the lady chose to wear an incomplete set rather than buying new jewellery before boarding? You have been married, Watson. Does that strike you as at all likely? No, the necklace was damaged in some way today, soon after the young lady came on board – within the past hour, at most. She has not taken the time to go to her cabin to change because she wished to see the ship embark from the quayside. Doubtless she tucked the necklace inside the bag she carries, which, as you noticed, has a stout clasp.”

  Holmes’s argument was convincing. “Very well done,” I exclaimed, slapping him on the shoulder in a fit of bonhomie. Then, determined to keep his mind active, I continued, “but now, having dealt with our fellow passengers and the ship’s crew, have you had any further thoughts on the scoundrel we are crossing the Atlantic to confront?”

  There was no doubting the change that overcame Holmes as he spoke of our current case. He pulled a folded sheet of paper from his pocket and handed it to me. I had no need to read it, however, for Holmes quickly explained its contents to me. “As you know I contacted the New York police force, who were able to confirm that Sherlock Holmes is, indeed, currently a resident of their city. Beyond that they would not elaborate, on the admittedly sensible grounds that they were unwilling to discuss the habits of Sherlock Holmes with Sherlock Holmes.”

  He smiled, the first such expression I had seen on his face for months. “Fortunately, that letter you hold is a note from our own Inspector Gregson to one Inspector Simeon Bullock of the New York constabulary. It appears that Bullock is a Yorkshireman by birth, and trained alongside Gregson when both were callow constables in England. They have kept in touch intermittently since Bullock emigrated to the United States, and the letter should serve as a useful introduction once we arrive.”

  “Well, that is a stroke of luck!” I exclaimed – and nothing made me more sure that this trip had been the tonic that Holmes needed than the pained expression which crossed his face in response.

  “My apologies, Holmes,” I replied with a small smile of my own. “I should have known better than to give any credit to mere Providence.”

  Holmes acknowledged my gentle barb with a raised eyebrow, but said nothing. He continued to scan our fellow passengers and such crewmen as were above decks, and I was reminded – not for the first time in our acquaintance – of a young boy considering an ant colony. I did not give voice to this observation, as I knew Holmes would not be flattered, but instead suggested lunch in the ship’s luxurious dining saloon. Remarking that the sea air had left him hungry, Holmes agreed with my suggestion and, with a final glance around the deck, led the way.

  I admit to having no great knowledge of passenger liners or of sailing ships in general, having until that point exclusively travelled in army ships, which are not vessels renowned for their luxury. Even I was in no doubt, however, that the dining saloon of the Oceanic was a wondrous sight. With seating for several hundred diners and a massive and ornate domed glass ceiling, reminiscent of a similar feature in the library, the room was also lit by a series of oversized portholes along each side of the ship that bathed the whole room in a deep golden late afternoon light. The maître d’ hurried over as Holmes and I entered and quickly showed us to a free table. Around us, diners chatted loudly as at least a score of waiters weaved amongst them, lifting and depositing silver salvers and delicate china plates with complete aplomb. We ordered our meals and sat back in contented silence.

  * * *

  In this manner, we passed the first three days at sea. Every morning after breakfast I would stroll to the library, where I would spend my time writing up my notes on recent cases. Holmes, meanwhile, disappeared into the body of the ship without explanation. I would see him now and again via a window as he strode across the deck, or through the library door, as he made his way from one unknown location to another, and though I was aware that I should call his name and ascertain what he was doing, equally I cannot deny that the peace and quiet of solitude was refreshing in its own way. At exactly one o’clock we would meet in the dining room for luncheon when, in the absence of any news regarding Holmes’s American double, we would desultorily discuss the weather and the state of the sea, then part immediately afterwards. Twice, I tried to bring up topics that I hoped would stimulate his mind, but he seemed uninterested and answered in monosyllables. Holmes, I feared, was bored and would likely soon descend once more into the dark mood that I had hoped this trip might alleviate.

  In spite of my concerns, I would not have wished for the news that greeted me later that night, however. When a firm knock at my cabin door caused me to lay down my book and glass of whisky, the last thing I was expecting was to be informed of a murder on board.

  I recognised the young officer who stood before me as the one who had greeted us on our arrival – Sub-Lieutenant Agnew was his name. He described the discovery of a crewman’s body inside an otherwise empty starboard lifeboat, and the ship’s own doctor being occupied with a passenger in First Class running a dangerous fever, he explained that the captain wondered if Dr Watson might spare the time to examine the body and provide some idea of the cause of death?

  “The dead man is one of the crew – Fireman Thomas Bellamy – and, obviously, the location of the corpse suggests foul play,” he continued in a suitably serious tone. “But nobody has touched anything and a professional opinion would be most helpful to the captain.”

  I immediately agreed to dress and go with him, asking only that he make his way to Holmes’s cabin and apprise my friend of what had happened. “I’ll meet you both at the lifeboat in ten minutes,” I concluded, already casting my eye around my cabin, wondering where I had stored my medical bag. Although I was sorry to hear of the dead man, I cannot deny that I was also envisioning the improvement a case would bring to Holmes’s disposition and, perhaps, even hoping a little that it would not prove to be a simple case of a drunken seaman falling and breaking his neck. I am not proud of the admission, but such was my concern.

  * * *

  Shortly afterwards, Holmes and I stood to one side as two crewmen rolled back the heavy canvas which covered one raised lifeboat. The night air was chill after the warmth of my cabin, and this section of the ship was gloomy and deserted, the sun having set. I shivered a little as we waited, but Holmes stood stock still with his head to one side, taking careful note of every element of the scene before him. Finally, the lifeboat was secured satisfactorily and I was beckoned forward.

  I clambered up the ladder that had been propped against the side of the small boat and, with the sailor who was already inside holding a lantern above my head, leant forward and looked down at the bottom of the vessel. The wood was painted white and, in spite of the canvas cover, wet, curving down on either side, with benches stretching almost the entire length. The flickering light illuminated a dark, humped shape partially hidden by one of these benches, but it was impossible to make out any further detail without a closer examination. Moving to one side, my helpful companion laid down his lantern and, reaching out an arm to balance himself, pulled me over the side of the boat.

  I heard Holmes scramble down beside me as I squatted and carefully rolled the body onto its back. A thick hank of dark hair co
vered the man’s forehead, but nonetheless I could see enough of his face to know that he had suffered a fairly severe beating before he died, including one particularly vicious cut across his left temple. From habit alone, I felt for a pulse at his neck and, as expected, found none, though I did pull my hand away sharply as I felt the unmistakable wetness of congealing blood. I heard Holmes softly hiss at my side, then he took the lantern from the waiting seaman and brought it down close to the man’s neck. In the yellow light a gaping razor wound, stretching from ear to ear in a crooked line, was hellishly obscene, though thankfully there was not a great deal of blood.

  With such an obvious cause of death and in such poorly lit conditions, there was nothing more for me to do, and I said as much to my audience. “I cannot be absolutely positive until I examine this poor chap under more favourable conditions, but he has been dead for around three hours, I would say. The condition of the wound and the fact there was still a little unabsorbed water under the body supports such a timescale, as does the fact that this area of the ship will have been quiet at that time, allowing the hiding of the body in this lifeboat. I should add that he is unlikely to have been killed here. There would have been a great deal of blood, and as you can see, there is little such to be found.”

  I couldn’t help but glance at Holmes as I laid out my conclusions, lacking though they were any solid medical basis, and was gratified to notice that he was smiling with obvious satisfaction at my recital.

  My part complete, I moved back to allow Holmes access, and as I did so my foot kicked a small, hard object across the bottom of the lifeboat. “Hello,” I said in surprise, “what’s this?” I scrambled unsteadily across to the object, whatever it was, and picked it up. Held to the lantern light, it was plain that we had found the murder weapon – a commonplace shaving razor, with a wooden handle and a blood-encrusted blade. The letters “BP” were carved in the handle, a fact that caused our officer escort to give a sharp intake of breath as I handed it to him.

  “If you will excuse me, gentlemen, there is a matter that I must urgently attend to,” said Agnew. He made to leave, then, evidently remembering that we were passengers and not members of his crew, briefly turned back. “Smith!” he shouted to one of the waiting crewmen. “Look after Mr Holmes and Dr Watson until I return. Do not leave this area until you hear from me. Clear?”

  With that, he made to leave, but before he could do so, Holmes called him back.

  “You recognise the blade?” he asked.

  “I believe that I do. If you will excuse me, sir, I will ensure that the owner is held secure.”

  I thought that Holmes would say more but instead he nodded his agreement, and we returned to the task at hand. Holmes knelt down beside the body, seemingly unconscious of the water soaking the knees of his trousers, bending so close to the dead man’s face that they were almost touching. He examined the killing wound for a long minute, then inspected the hands and particularly the fingernails of the victim. Finally, he undid the man’s shirt and, holding the lantern close to the skin, checked both sides of the torso.

  “See, Watson,” he said, “there is a mixture of old and new bruises extending from this man’s waist to just below his collarbone. Nothing further up, excepting the perimortem damage to the face, which was part of the final assault, so before tonight his many injuries would not have been visible.”

  “You think that was deliberate? That someone has been beating this man for some time, but carefully, so as to keep his abuse hidden?”

  “More than one person, I believe,” Holmes replied. He held up the man’s right hand. “Notice that although the skin is tough, as befits one who does manual work aboard a ship, the nails are not recently broken nor are there any cuts or other marks on their backs. Sailors are no shrinking violets, Watson, as I am sure you are aware. It seems exceedingly unlikely that our victim would not at least attempt to fight back against a single assailant, given time and repeated attacks.”

  “A gang, then?”

  “I would say so. Two men at least to hold him, while another administered the blows.” He considered the scene again. “More like a punishment than an assault.”

  “An official punishment?” I asked, doubtfully.

  “To this degree? Of course not!”

  He shook his head briskly, but his face was puzzled as he re-examined the man’s wounds. “We are looking at the problem from the wrong end, Watson. It matters not, for the moment, how he gained these old bruises, but how he came to receive the new. How and why did regular beatings turn to murder?”

  “Could he have defended himself, on this last occasion? Fought back and so provoked his attackers that they made an end of him? Three men you said, Holmes! What if there were only two at the outset, allowing their victim to defend himself for once. It remains two against one, of course, so he still takes a beating, but perhaps he holds his own for long enough to worry his assailants that they will be discovered. Long enough, even, for a third man to make an appearance, coming up behind this poor man and cutting his throat!”

  I admit I was pleased with my theory; it fitted all the facts admirably. It was clear from the look on his face, however, that Holmes did not share my enthusiasm.

  “I hardly know—” he began, only to be interrupted by a shout from the deck. A head appeared over the side of the lifeboat, as Agnew returned with further news. The dead man’s bunkmate had been accused of the crime and was being held in his cabin until Sherlock Holmes could question him.

  Holmes, however, did not move. Instead, he pulled out the magnifying glass he always carried and held it close to the wound on the victim’s neck.

  “Holmes?” I said, as the officer cleared his throat loudly. “I think we are wanted elsewhere.”

  For a moment I thought he had not heard me, then he whipped his head round and, with no attempt to conceal his irritation, snapped, “Nonsense. If they already have the murderer, then a delay of a few minutes while I ensure that I have all that I need will make no difference, and if the killer is not he, then this examination is certainly a better use of my time than an unnecessary interview. Now, do you have pencil and paper about you?”

  Used as I was to Holmes and his often eccentric behaviour, I had made sure to bring both items with me from my cabin. I handed them to him and watched as he drew two horizontal lines, one long with a very slight upturn at one end, the other shorter but straighter, the two lines just barely touching at their tips.

  “That should suffice,” he said and, without warning, jumped to his feet and gestured impatiently for Agnew to get out of his way. Within moments he was back on the deck. I followed him more sedately, feeling my old Afghan wound begin to flare up as I manoeuvred my way down the ladder to the deck.

  “If you will just follow me, gentlemen, I will take you to Fireman Bellamy’s cabin,” began our guide, but Holmes cut him off with a raised hand.

  “Never mind that for now,” he said. “Answer me this one question instead. Is the dead man’s cabin mate clean-shaven?”

  No doubt I looked as perplexed as Agnew at that moment, but the sailor quickly rallied. “Not clean-shaven, no, but neither does he have a full beard, Mr Holmes. Many of the crew below decks only shave occasionally. Bob Peters is such a one.”

  Holmes brushed some dirt from his sleeve before he replied. “In which case, I do not need to speak to Mr Peters. What I do need to know is exactly where Bellamy worked. That is where I need to go.”

  Agnew was clearly torn between a desire to help the famous Sherlock Holmes and a need to satisfy the orders of his captain. In the end, obedience to authority won out, and he shook his head. “I’m afraid I can’t take you down to the engine room, Mr Holmes. Not only is the area forbidden to passengers, but it is dirty and dangerous – and besides, Bellamy’s bunkmate has as good as admitted doing the deed!”

  “Really?” I said, then, hoping to find some compromise, “Do you hear that, Holmes? The fellow’s admitted it.” Though I remained keen to
see Holmes alleviate his ennui by investigating a case, I preferred to do so in a comfortable cabin rather than amidst the filth and noise of a ship’s engines.

  It was a disappointment, therefore, when Holmes pedantically corrected me. “As good as admitted it, I believe. Which is not quite the same thing as an actual confession.” He turned his attention to the officer, who was by now barely hiding his impatience. “How – exactly – has this helpful soul confessed to the murder of this man?”

  “The razor Dr Watson discovered is his, and he cannot account for its whereabouts, or his own, earlier this evening!” announced Agnew triumphantly, then, with every sign that he considered this entirely conclusive, added, “And the two were seen arguing violently this morning. In fact, Andrew Harper, Bellamy’s foreman in the engine room, overheard Peters threaten to kill him just a few hours ago and warned the two of them to sort out their differences before their next shift.” He swallowed heavily and I was struck by his extreme youth. “I doubt that he had this in mind, though,” he finished quietly.

  “No, I think not,” Holmes replied solemnly, but with Agnew continuing to press, he did at least agree to go to speak to Peters and see what he had to say for himself. We left the corpse to the crew, and followed the young officer back inside the body of the ship.

  Chapter Two

  It was approaching eleven by the time we made our way along the deck and through a heavy door marked “CREW ONLY”. The sensation of stepping into another world was distinct. Where outside on the deck all was quiet and still, with only a very occasional passenger taking the night air or stopping for one final cigarette in the moonlight, inside was all hustle and bustle, even at this late hour. As we followed our guide through a labyrinth of almost identical, wholly functional corridors, crewmen of all sorts pushed past us, appearing from and disappearing into one hatchway or another, like rabbits traversing their warren. Beyond one door I spied chefs in loose white jackets and waiting staff in unbuttoned waistcoats, playing cards around a low table, while another room appeared to contain only a teetering tower of freshly laundered white towels. Finally, we were directed towards one particular room, outside which stood a seaman holding a heavy, wooden paddle of some kind. Stooping to enter, we found ourselves in the cramped quarters that had, until today, been shared by the victim and the man accused of his murder.