Sherlock Holmes Stories of Edward D. Hoch (18 page)

“I know nothing,” she insisted.

“Does the name William Knox mean anything to you?”

“No.”

Before she could move, Holmes shot out his hand and gripped her wrist, pushing back the sleeve of dress to reveal a purple bruise. “Are there more bruises besides this one?”

“What is this, Holmes?” Wilson asked. “What are you getting at?”

“Tell him, Miss Crider, or I shall.”

But she was sobbing uncontrollably now. “I didn’t…” she managed. And then, “I didn’t mean to kill him!”

“Kill him!” The color drained from Wilson’s face. “You mean she stabbed a man she didn’t even know?”

“Oh, she knew him, all right. William Knox was the father of her daughter, Jenny.”

“There is no way you could have known that,” I insisted to Holmes later, after Catherine Crider had told her story to the authorities. “There is no way you could have even guessed it.”

“You are wrong, Watson.” He filled his pipe and lit it in preparation for explaining the logic of his reasoning. “It seemed obvious from the beginning that Catherine Crider’s insistence on a pseudonym or anonymity implied she was hiding from someone—the police, her parents, a lover. In any event, it had to be someone whom she feared may harm her, or separate her from Jenny.”

“Jenny is her daughter?”

Holmes nodded. “Consider the mathematics, Watson. Jenny has just turned fifteen, and Catherine told us she had cared for her little sister since she was eleven and Jenny was one. If Jenny is fifteen, Catherine must be about twenty-five, born around 1876 or ’77. She seemed older than that when seen close up, and I remembered her telling us her father took her to a concert by Bizet when she was a child. But Bizet died in 1875, at least a year before she claimed to have been born. There would be no point in her making up such a story, so we are left with the likelihood that she is lying about her age. Instead of being about twenty-five, it seems she is closer to thirty-five. Her employment as a governess at Birlstone Manor came not when she was just out of school, but when she was a woman approaching thirty, which seems far more likely.”

“But why would she lie?”

“Exactly, Watson! Why? She is not an actress wanting to prolong her career, nor an heiress who must marry by a certain age. She is a middle-class teacher raising a younger sister. However, if the truth of their age difference became known, that younger sister could easily be seen as her daughter. Our Victorian era did not pass with the death of Her Majesty, Watson. An unmarried woman with a child to raise is still an object of scorn.”

“I understand it now, Holmes. She could not use her real name on her writings because the truth of her age might come out.”

“It had to be more than that. Why would she go to such lengths, keeping even her address a secret? It had to be a person that she feared, someone who might harm her or pose a threat to Jenny. Who else but the girl’s father? My deduction made me fearful for Miss Crider’s safety, yet I had no hard evidence until this morning. The murder victim was a musician, playing in a London orchestra. He was killed here, several miles from his home or workplace. I made the connection at once. Jenny’s musical talent came from her father, not her mother, and he had come here to confront them both.”

“But how did he locate them?” I asked.

“Catherine made a terrible mistake. She must have always known where William Knox was, because he played in an orchestra whose bookings would be listed in the daily press. Over the weekend, she decided to allow publication of The Extra Passenger under her own name and, rather than fret about Knox tracking her down, she must have telephoned him at the Gaiety Music Hall and told him of her plans and where she was. Remember, she told us last Saturday that if she decided to use her own name on the novel, there was something she would have to attend to first. She never imagined Knox would turn up after the Music Hall closed, half drunk on cheap wine and demand the child he’d never seen. I believe they fought while Jenny slept in the room above. That caused the fresh bruise I noticed on her arm. Knox hit her and she fought him off with a kitchen knife. He stumbled out of the house without Catherine realizing the seriousness of his wound. He wandered into the graveyard, where he passed out and later died from loss of blood. She was horrified this morning when the body was discovered and immediately called Rutherford Wilson for help. I believe she would have told the truth even if I hadn’t deduced it.”

“What will become of her now?” I asked.

“Wilson is arranging for a leading barrister to handle her defense. It seems likely the law will be lenient when the full facts are known, if only for Jenny’s sake.”

“Is there no one to pay you for your efforts, Holmes?”

He waved away my question with a smile. “It was more a diversion than an effort. I only wish we could have arrived at a happier conclusion, before the untimely death of Mr. William Knox.”

M
Y OLD COMPANION SHERLOCK
Holmes had been in retirement for some years when I had reason to visit him at his little Sussex villa with its breathtaking view of the English Channel. It was August of 1911 and the air was so still I could make out a familiar humming. “Are the bees enough to keep you busy?” I asked as we settled down at a little table in his garden.

“More than enough, Watson,” he assured me, pouring us a bit of wine. “And it is peaceful here. I see you have walked from the station.”

“How so, Holmes?”

“You know my methods. Your face is red from the sun, and there is dust from the road on your shoes.”

“You never change,” I marveled. “Are you alone here or do you see your neighbors?”

“As little as possible. They are some distance away, but I know they look out their windows each morning for signs of a German invasion. I fear they have been taking Erskine Childers too seriously.”

It was eight years since publication of The Riddle of the Sands, but people still read it. “Do you fear war too?”

“Not for a few years. Then we shall see what happens. But tell me what brings you here on a lovely summer’s day. It has been some time since you spent a weekend with me.”

“A telegram was sent to you at our old Baker Street lodgings, all the way from Canada. Mrs. Hudson couldn’t find your address so she brought it to me.”

“How is she these days?”

“Infirm, but in good spirits.”

“I have a housekeeper here who tends to my needs. But she is off today. If you wish to stay for dinner I can offer you only a slice of beef and bread.”

“There is no need, Holmes. I came only to deliver this telegram.”

“Which could have been delivered more easily by the postal service.”

“It seemed important,” I told him, “and I have little enough to do in my own retirement. Not even bees!”

“Well then, let us see about this urgent message.”

He opened the envelope and we read it together. “Mr. Sherlock Holmes, 221B Baker Street, London. Dear Mr. Holmes, Excuse intrusion on your time, but am in urgent need of help. My son Ralph Norton gone from McGill University. Police suspect him of murder. Please come! I beg you!” It was signed simply, Irene.

“What is this, Holmes?” I asked. “Do you know the meaning of it?”

“All too well,” he answered with a sigh.

“What Irene is this? Certainly not Irene Adler. She has been dead some twenty years.”

“She was reported to have died, but I always doubted it. Irene was born in New Jersey and after her marriage here to Godfrey Norton I suspected they might have fled to America to escape questions about the Bohemian affair. If this is truly from her, she would be 53 now, four years younger than me and not an old woman by any means. She might well have a son of university age.”

“But what can you do from here, Holmes?”

“From here, nothing.” He pondered the problem for several minutes, staring at her address at the bottom of the telegram. “I must respond to her at once,” he decided. “This telegram was sent four days ago, on the 12th.”

“What will you tell her?”

“She begs my help, Watson. How can I refuse her?”

“You mean you would travel to Canada?” I asked in astonishment.

“I would, and I shall be immensely grateful if you are able to accompany me.”

Within a week’s time we were at sea, approaching the mouth of the St. Lawrence River. I wondered how Holmes ever persuaded me to accompany him on such a lengthy journey, and yet I knew the answer. I had to be present when he met Irene Adler one more time. I had to see her for myself, after all these years.

Our ship docked at one of the quays adjacent to the center of Montreal and we took a carriage to our hotel. I was surprised at the number of motor cars in the streets, and astounded at the sumptuous mansions in the city’s center—the sort of homes that would be far removed from London back home. Our driver informed us that these were the homes of the city’s financial and industrial magnates, an area known as the Golden Square Mile.

We checked into a small hotel across the street from the site of a new Ritz-Carlton Hotel under construction. It was on Rue Sherbrooke Ouest, close to the University, and after a telephone call to her Irene said she would join us at the hotel. I could see that Holmes was a bit fidgety at the prospect of the meeting. “I trust I will be able to help the woman with her problem,” he confided. “I have never forgotten her, over all these years.”

Presently the desk clerk telephoned to say that Mrs. Irene Norton was downstairs. Holmes and I went down to find her waiting in a secluded corner of the lobby, seated alone on a sofa wearing a long skirt and flowered blouse and hat. I recognized her at once from the photograph Holmes kept of her. She was still as slim and dainty as she had been on the opera stage, with a face as lovely as ever. Only a few gray hairs hinted at the passing years. “Good day, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” she said by way of greeting, almost duplicating her words when once she had followed him disguised as a boy. “And Dr. Watson. I must say both of you have changed very little since our London days.”

“You are most kind, Madam,” Holmes said with a little bow. “I am sorry we cannot be meeting under more pleasant circumstances.”

She bid us be seated with her on the sofa. “These have been terrible weeks for me. I was at my wit’s end when I telegraphed you, not even knowing if you were still available as a private consultant.”

“I am retired,” he told her, “but always available if you need me.

She smiled slightly. “I am honored that you both should travel across an ocean for me.”

“Have you lived in Montreal long?”

She nodded. “After our wedding Godfrey felt we should leave England. Following a brief time on the Continent he established quite a successful law practice here and we had a wonderful son, Ralph.”

“I remember Godfrey as a remarkably handsome man,” Holmes said.

“Sadly, he passed away three years ago. If he was with me now perhaps I would not have summoned you across an ocean.”

“But what of your son? In the telegram you said he had disappeared following a murder.”

“That is so. I must tell you the entire story from the beginning. I believe it was his father’s death that set Ralph off. He was never the same after that. He took to carousing at night and neglecting his schoolwork.”

“What is his age?”

“He is nineteen, about to enter his second year at McGill. He met a young woman during his first year, a pretty red-haired classmate named Monica Starr. She seemed like a nice girl and I had no objection to their friendship. I thought it might get him back on track. But this summer he discovered there was a rival for her affections, a German student named Franz Faber who was entering his final year at McGill. I know the two boys had a fight, and Ralph came home a few weeks ago with a bloody nose. But it wasn’t anything more than that. Ralph couldn’t have—” Her voice broke then.

“What happened, Irene?” Holmes asked her softly.

“Two weeks ago, on a Thursday night, Franz Faber was stabbed to death outside a pub frequented by McGill students. It has caused a great scandal here. Things like this don’t happen at McGill.”

”The university was in session during August?”

“They offer some summer courses each year. Apparently Faber was taking a language course. He was a German student with only a basic knowledge of English and French. My son was seen in the pub earlier and the police came to our house to question him. He’d come home about an hour before they arrived and went to his room without speaking to me.”

“Was that unusual?”

“He’s been moody lately. I thought nothing of it, but when I went to his room to summon him for the police, he wasn’t there. Apparently he’d gone out the back door. The next morning I discovered that Monica Starr was missing too. The police are convinced he killed Faber, but I can’t believe it. He was moody, yes, just like his father, but he’d never kill anyone.”

Holmes tried to calm her. “I will do whatever I can for you, Irene. You must know that. Tell me, is there any place in the city or near here where they might have gone?”

“I’m not even convinced they’re together.”

“I think we can assume they are, whether or not he committed the crime. Was he friendly with any of his professors or instructors at McGill?”

She considered that for a moment. “There’s Professor Stephen Leacock. He’s a lecturer at McGill and he’s published some economics books along with collections of humorous stories. Ralph was quite friendly with him.”

“What about fellow students?”

“Only Monica, so far as I know.”

“I’ll speak to Leacock,” Holmes said. “What about you? Are you still singing?”

She gave him a wan smile. “Very little, occasionally in local productions.”

“That’s too bad, Irene. You have a lovely voice.”

“Find him for me, Mr. Holmes,” she said. “You’re the only one who can help me now.”

“I’ll do everything possible.”

We walked the short distance to the university, a series of stone buildings reached by a tree-lined carriageway from the street. A monument to James McGill, whose legacy helped found the institution ninety years earlier, stood in front of the central pavilion. Only a few students and faculty members were about, preparing for the upcoming autumn term. We asked directions to Professor Leacock’s office and were directed to the political economy department in an adjoining building. Holmes led the way, moving with an intensity that surprised me.