Sherlock Holmes and The Other Woman (12 page)

“He was young, in his early twenties, I'd say. He was tall and clean shaven.” The words were calmer now, more fluid. “He had a hat on, pulled down low but I could see he had light-coloured hair, or it could have been silver. He wore a longish coat in some dark colour. Black or dark brown, perhaps.”

“What did he have in his hands?”

“In his hands, sir?”

“Was he carrying anything?”

The policeman took a moment then said, “No, sir. He had the gun in his right hand, but it was just dangling from his fingers, like he'd forgotten he was carrying it. But he didn't have anything else. He pushed me down with his left hand. Strong as a bull, he was.”

“Very well. Stay here, Constable. We need to examine the scene in more detail.”

We returned to the body of the late Mordechai Schwartz. At my request, Watson went around turning on all the gaslights. I examined the entire room and traced my way back through the outer chambers, then to the hallway and, finally, the front door of the building. All the windows and locks were intact. There was no evidence the killer had forced his way in.

There was a confusion of tracks in the murder room: Large footprints that slid and skidded in the blood headed in several different directions. It was obvious what had happened: The murder had occurred in the dark. Now, alone, the killer found himself disoriented. I also reasoned that he was agitated. Perhaps the murder had not been premeditated? No. He had brought a weapon so he was prepared to use it.

The smears on the floor suggested the killer had fallen over at least twice. It was definitely he; de Vine is a much smaller man with a correspondingly smaller foot. His own tracks were easy enough even for an amateur to track.

So, the killer was disoriented. He fell. The sound of de Vine's whistle panicked him. How had he found his way to the exit? De Vine's whistle or his torch probably acted as a guide. What a fool that policeman was. Such rank incompetence. If only he'd used his wits, used some stealth, we might have trapped our killer nicely. Or was it mere foolishness?

We went back outside. I said to De Vine, “You'd recognise this man if you saw him again?”

“I think so, sir, though it was dark.”

“Had you seen him before?”

“No, Mr Holmes. I'd remember a fellow like that.”

“What about Mr Schwartz's neighbours? Who lives in the buildings on either side?”

“I don't know,” he said. With a furtive glance at Glaser he added, “I don't know these people.”

Before I could reply, a report cracked through the night.

“Stay here,” Glaser commanded as he, Watson and I fled down the road in the direction of the shot, for shot it most certainly was.

Chapter Eleven

Where Hatton Wall meets Saffron Hill there lay a body.

“It's Bing,” Glaser said when we were still forty yards away. The lamplight clearly picked out the stricken policeman's silver uniform buttons and his helmet.

We reached the body and the inspector knelt beside it. “Poor devil,” he said.

“A sudden attack,” I said. “He didn't have time to blow his whistle.”

“The bullet went right through his heart,” Watson said. “He was dead before he fell.”

“He's just a boy,” Glaser said. He raised his anguished eyes to me. “I want this man, this Avery Rickman, Mr Holmes. I will find him. You may depend upon it. I will find him.”

“You can count on my help, Inspector,” I said.

“And mine,” Watson added.

I put my arm around Glaser's shoulders and led him a few feet away from the corpse. “Take a breath. No, no, it's all in hand. There's nothing you can do for the man now.”

After a moment, he stopped shaking and took a deep breath.

“It is my experience that work is the best remedy for distress. You'd best call for some assistance, Glaser. You now have two murders to investigate and I wouldn't place much faith in de Vine. Go and telephone the Yard. Watson will stand guard here and I shall begin the search. Speak to Lestrade if he is on duty and send him my compliments. Ask him if a young constable by the name of Maurice Stevens may be available to assist. He is a good man despite his youth and comparative inexperience. I trust him.”

Glaser nodded and ran down the road.

I turned to my friend and said, “Watson, will you be all right if I leave you here alone?”

“Go,” he said. “I'll be fine, Holmes.”

“Be careful. This is a filthy area. There are dangers aplenty even without gun-wielding murderers. If you catch sight of this fellow on no account try to detain him.”

“No fear of that, Holmes.”

I ran south down Saffron Hill all the way to Charterhouse Street, then west from Holborn Circus to Brook Street, and then back north. I investigated Dorrington Street and Leather Lane, St Cross Street and came back via Hatton Garden, but the killer had vanished.

At last, I returned to where Watson remained with the body. A small crowd had gathered but they kept their distance. In the cramped and crooked buildings people leaned out from their windows, watching everything.

“Any luck?” Watson asked.

“Nothing. Has anything happened here?”

“Not a thing other than the usual busybodies gawking.” He nodded towards the macabre spectators.

I approached the crowd. “Did any of you see what happened?” I said. “Come, if this fellow will murder a policeman no one is safe. It is in your interests to help us.”

I turned at the sound of running footsteps. It was Glaser. He addressed the gawkers. “Come on,” he said. “One of you must have seen something. Lefkowitz? Blum?”

The mob melted, vanished. Only a prostitute and a retired naval officer remained.

The woman said, “I saw him, sir. A tall and slender man he was and hair like snow, though he was young enough.”

“It's Maggie Chase, isn't it? Hullo, Maggie. Did you see what happened?” Glaser said.

“Hullo, Davy,” she crooned, taking his arm. Then, remembering the horror, suddenly dropped her flirtatious attitude. “It was all so fast. I didn't see the shooting. I heard a loud bang and turned in time to see the fellow run away.”

“I saw it,” the old sailor said. “The tall man, with very pale hair like this girl says, and he was running down the street. The young policeman asked him to stop for a moment. Very polite he was, called the devil ‘sir'. But the man turned and just fired. There was no need for it. No need at all.”

“There now, Cap'n, you mustn't upset yourself.”

“Which way did they go?” I said.

The pair pointed back in the direction from which I had come.

“He stopped,” the sailor said, “in the doorway of one of those houses up there. I saw him stop and bend down.”

“What do you think he was doing?” Glaser said.

“Being violently ill, I reckon,” the man replied.

I walked slowly back along Saffron Hill examining every inch of the road. All the doors were shut; the windows had their curtains drawn. There would be no help for the police in this place.

Some thirty yards later, I stopped and studied a puddle of vomitus. It reeked of undigested alcohol. There was potato, too. So that was his dinner: a potato and a jug of whisky.

I returned to Watson and Glaser, now standing alone with the dead body. The inspector said,

“Inspector Lestrade sends his compliments, Mr Holmes. He himself is engaged upon another case but he is sending Hill and young Stevens as you requested.”

“That is very good news. What else has been happening?”

“I've sent word that there is a dangerous man at large, and have asked that people stay in their homes for now. I've also spoken to the rabbi. He make send a plea for any witnesses to come forward. I doubt there will be any, but we lose nothing by trying.”

“That was well thought of,” I said. “Have you informed Schwartz's family yet? Good. If you do not object, I should like to accompany you when you do so. Perhaps they might be able to explain what he was doing in that building tonight.”

“I'd like to come, too,” Watson said. “But we cannot leave the body.”

Even as he spoke, I could hear the rattle of the police vehicle approaching. A moment later, Tavistock Hill, Stevens, and four other constables joined us on the pavement.

“Good to see you again, gentlemen,” Hill greeted us.

There followed a wholly unnecessary period of handshaking and pleasantries. Stevens, still shiny in his brand new uniform, stood proud yet watchful at the perimeter. His eyes were scanning the ground around the body, the buildings where people sat at their windows peering into the street, and the street itself. I would like to think this acute attention is something he learned from watching me work on the Rillington Manor case, but in truth, I think the man just has an innate capacity for taking pains. He would not have let a killer get away without at least giving chase.

The two inspectors, in the meantime, had caught up on events and made a plan. They would divide the two crime scenes between them with Hill responsible for the murder of the policeman while Glaser handled Schwartz's case, though Glaser, as senior officer, would oversee both crimes. Watson and I would assist the two strands of investigation.

“He has already killed twice, that we know of,” I said. “So you must be on your guard and take no unnecessary risks. Use your whistles.

“Stevens, a word with you, if I may.”

I took the young man aside and said quietly, “I have a particular task for you, if you would be so kind.”

“Whatever you need, Mr Holmes. I'm your man.”

I explained and he nodded. “I understand.”

“Not a word to any of your colleagues, not even Inspector Glaser. You come directly to me or to Doctor Watson.”

“Yes, sir,” he said. No quibbles about the chain of command or other such nonsense, thank goodness.

We returned to Watson and Glaser. I said, “I thought since Stevens is a newly minted policeman he might be best served working with Constable de Vine.”

“I had thought to send de Vine home,” Glaser said. “You saw how shaken he was.”

“Which is why I think he could use some company,” I said.

“He'd surely see it as a condemnation if you sent him off duty, Glaser,” Watson said, following my lead.

“Perhaps,” Glaser said. “Very well.”

We stopped on our way back long enough for me to indicate the vomitus I had found.

“Whisky and potato. Hardly nutritious,” Watson observed.

“Yes,” Stevens said. “But what does it tell us?”

“Glaser?” I said.

“Well, the killer dined before meeting with Schwartz. He only ate a potato so he is too poor to afford meat. Of course, he could be Catholic; I believe they do not eat meat on Fridays.”

“He may be a Catholic and he may certainly be impoverished. However, I think there is another explanation. Watson?”

“It's the whisky that is significant,” my friend replied. “There is no blood or other indication that the fellow is a chronic drinker, though we cannot be certain. There isn't very much food here and what there is is undigested, so I'd venture to say he was nervous and steeling himself for whatever lay ahead.”

“Precisely! You see, gentlemen, Doctor Watson frequently builds up my reputation at the expense of his own. Your explanation is the most likely, I agree,” I said. “You may be right that the fellow is a Catholic, Glaser. He is tall and fair and not Jewish. A Catholic would not eat meat on a Friday, but he could have dined on fish, could he not? Moreover, while poverty might explain the lack of meat, it does not explain why the fellow consumed so much alcohol. As Watson says, there are no indications the fellow is an alcoholic. So why drink so much so early in the evening? Conclusion: he was steeling his nerves.”

Glaser sucked in his cheeks and breathed in deeply, trying to contain his ire. “Then he planned to kill Schwartz all along.”

“Almost certainly, I'm afraid. I'm sorry, Glaser. I know you were fond of him.” I indicated the stinking puddle at our feet. “He was prepared to kill Schwartz. He fortified himself with alcohol and he brought a weapon. When it came to it, he did the task efficiently enough. But Bing surprised him. That was a killing he was not prepared for and it distressed him.”

“Distressed him?” Stevens said.

“He vomited just moments later.”

“Yes,” Glaser said. “Killing Bing was unplanned. He reacted to that murder by being ill; why did he not react the same way to the first?”

“Perhaps it was cumulative,” Watson said. “The shock of not one but two murders overcame his nerves.”

“Perhaps...” I straightened my back.”Well, we need to ponder the matter. Let us return to Hatton Garden and I shall resume my examination.”

Leaving Hill and three other policemen to handle Bing's case, Glaser, Watson, Stevens, and I returned to the scene of Schwartz's murder.

Saturday 30 April 1898

Around six this morning, weary and discouraged, Watson and I convened with the two inspectors in the rabbi's home. The rabbi's daughter Esther served us coffee and pastries then left us alone to discuss our grisly business.

“You are obviously familiar with this Rickman fellow, Mr Holmes,” Hill said. “It might help if you could tell us about him.”

“I'm afraid I know very little.”

At my nod, Watson told the story of Mrs Prentiss and the Camden Town ‘ghost'. He did so discreetly and avoided mentioning Kidwell's name. Other than that, he covered all the pertinent details admirably.

“So you don't even know if Rickman is his real name?” Hill asked when Watson concluded.

“I would be astonished if it was,” I replied.

“But at least we know what he looks like,” Glaser pointed out. “Mr Holmes caught a good look at him that night he was shot, and so did young De Vine last night.”

“De Vine is lucky to be alive,” Watson said. “I'm surprised Rickman didn't just shoot him.”

“He was taken by surprise,” I said. It was a fair point, though. After a moment's contemplation I added, “It's possible that Schwartz was his first murder. He may have been in a state of shock. Still, it did not take him long to recover as the unfortunate Constable Bing discovered.”

“Did the wife of the first victim know anything that might help?” Hill asked.

“She was too full of grief to offer much,” Glaser said.”But she did say her husband had a meeting last evening with someone about the Fathers, and that is very curious.”

“Why so?” Watson asked.

“We do no work on the Sabbath. That includes even discussing any sort of business matter. That Schwartz should be willing to take such a meeting after sunset on Friday suggests he did not consider it business. That's not to say there wasn't a work-related aspect to it. Schwartz was religious but he was also pretty single-minded. He may have persuaded himself that the meeting was simply to gather information. Yet...”

“Yes?” I urged.

“I don't understand why he'd want to meet someone in his business premises. Why not bring the man to his home where it was warm and comfortable?”

“When I examined the body, I found Schwartz had a bruise on his right hip,” Watson said. “From its position and shape, I think he went into the building in the dark and bumped into something. He would not have put the light on and was trying to feel his way around. I don't know if that's significant.”

“Everything is significant until we can prove otherwise,” I said. “I think you and Glaser make some excellent points, Watson. Schwartz entered the building in the dark. He did not put on the gaslight because it was in violation of the Sabbath. Hill, your thoughts?”

“Well, I don't understand the religious aspect of things like Glaser here, but everything you've said makes sense. But why would Rickman want Schwartz dead?”

“That is, indeed, the question.”

The door opened and my wife entered. Though her features were perfectly composed I sensed she was vexed. I cannot say I blame her: I should be exceedingly annoyed to be kept away from such a deliciously interesting case merely because of my sex.

“Good morning, Beatrice,” I said. “I do not believe you've met Inspector Tavistock Hill?”

She shook his hand. “Mr Holmes has spoken of you, Inspector,” she said. “He holds you in high esteem.”

Hill beamed. “Most kind,” he muttered.

“Did you have a successful night?” she asked as she poured herself a cup of coffee.

“Not very. Two murders and the elusive Avery Rickman seems to be responsible for both.”