Читать книгу Sherlock Holmes: Repeat Business - Lyn McConchie - Страница 5

A FAMILY AFFAIR

I was sitting with my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, one afternoon when we heard—to our astonishment—the sounds of female altercation. Before I could reach the door, it was flung open as a surprising figure appeared on the threshold.

I say that the figure was surprising and so it was, not because the woman was unusual, but for her very ordinariness. I would have guessed her to be about forty-five years of age, dressed with the neatness and propriety of a woman of the middle-classes, but her facial aspect was that of one who is almost demented by anxiety and fear.

She passed by our good housekeeper, Mrs. Hudson, who had been endeavoring to restrain her, crossed the room in tottering steps, glanced at us and appeared at once to discern that my friend was the man she sought. Her hands went out to him imploringly.

“Help me in God’s name, Mr. Holmes! Once before you aided my husband, now he lies under the very shadow of the gallows and I could think of no one else who might save him!”

She swayed, and I leapt to assist her to my own chair. Having seated her, I poured a glass of wine and insisted on her remaining silent until she had drained the glass. Then I nodded.

“Now you have regained your composure, Madam, please, tell us the tale from the beginning.” During all the time I tended to her my friend had remained silent, but upon her gaze seeking him out, he too nodded permission for her to speak.

“I should tell you firstly who it is that I am, since it is now some years since you met my husband and we were not wed at that time, nor in fact had we even met although I have heard the tale of your deeds over and over. I am Charlotte Wilson, the wife of Mr. Jabez Wilson.”

“Ah,” said Holmes at that. “I recall the case. As should you, Watson,” he added, turning to me.

“The name is familiar—but I cannot call to mind in what connection.”

“The Red-Headed League, Watson.”

I nodded at once. “Yes, now I do remember the name. The man was a pawnbroker, but unmarried as I remember.”

Mrs. Wilson broke in at that. “Yes, indeed, Doctor, that is true. It was almost a year after his adventure that I met him in the home of a relative of mine. My first husband was believed to be dead, so I was happy to see something of Jabez and when, a year after that, he offered for my hand, I married him and we have lived very happily together for the past five years.”

“You said your husband was believed to be dead?” I questioned her. “Do you mean that he was not?”

Holmes waved a hand at the lady. “No, tell the story in order, Madam, if you please; we can ask questions once you are done.” She nodded and obeyed.

“I was married when I was barely nineteen to James Melden, a man who was in the marine trade. He had a third-share in a merchant ship and often before we married he would sail on one of her voyages. For some time after our marriage he remained at home since we were blessed with two children, a boy first and then a girl. We were happy, as I believed, and our marriage was a peaceful one until my son was taken by diphtheria when he was ten, and my husband began again to sail on some of the trading ventures made by his ship.

“My girl was three at that time, and although he was fond enough of her it was his son on whom he had doted—and it was as if my boy’s death had in some ways estranged us. I did all I could, but his manner to me became rougher and his absences became longer and more frequent until at last, when my child was eleven, my husband’s ship was reported lost at sea with all hands and I believed myself a widow.

“I had not thought to marry again until I met Jabez.” Here she blushed. “Yet so kind was he and so good a man, that I fell in love like any young girl and he with me. He liked my daughter and she, who had seen little or nothing of her own father for years, has come to look upon Jabez as if he were her own parent.

“I should say that we were in comfortable circumstances. I was the only child of parents who, while not rich, still had sufficient of this world’s goods to leave in trust for me a comfortable income. My father, not entirely trusting James, as I have come to believe, remade his will after my boy died and while I could not at all touch the principal he left, the income that I receive is some three hundred pounds a year and I also receive the rent of two shops that my father owned in a good part of London.

“I discussed my circumstances with Jabez on our marriage and he took over both shops, keeping one as a pawnbrokers with a trustworthy man in charge—since he knew that business. He also retained the other as a jewelers’ shop, which he himself managed openly. He has quietly divorced himself from pawn-broking since then and no one now knows that it is he who owns that business. With the shops being where they are, his business has flourished ever since, so that between my income and what his businesses make, we are quite well-to-do nowadays.”

My friend leaned forward. “But your own income is secured to you along with the ownership of both shops? That is to say, they cannot be taken by your husband or handed to him by you, nor can they be claimed by anyone else—a relative for instance—under law?”

“No indeed, Mr. Holmes. My father believed that women have no head for business and he tied up the principal and properties most strictly. I have the income and I was able to allow Jabez to take leasehold of the shops—with the agreement of the trust’s lawyers—but that was all I could do for him from my inheritance. Although,” she added hastily, “you must not think that Jabez asked or wished for more.”

Holmes leaned back again, taking up his pipe and looking at her, waiting until she nodded permission before lighting it and puffing out a small cloud of fragrant smoke.

“Please continue, Mrs. Wilson. You were happily married, you had sufficient money for your needs, how then have you come to the pass in which you arrived to see me?”

The poor women dropped her face into her hands, before lifting it again. “Upon my word, Mr. Holmes, I do not know. It seems to me as if some evil misfortune has befallen us so that I scarcely know which way to turn. Two weeks ago I suffered two strange accidents; the first when I was almost run down by a hansom, the second when a pistol was discharged near me from an alleyway as I returned home.

“I am sure these were accidents, and the police found nothing, but then came calamity. The first I knew of it was the arrival of the police upon my doorstep some hours ago with a warrant for my husband’s arrest. They say he murdered my first husband, but I swear, I was not even aware James yet lived.”

Holmes spoke sharply. “But they did not take you up as a bigamist?”

“No, the officer said that it was known I had honest reasons to believe that James was dead, that his colleagues believed Jabez had acted alone when he killed the man, and that they accepted it was done without my knowledge.”

I glanced at my friend, and I think the same thought was in both our minds. It was unusual for the police to be so lenient with one who might be the confederate of a murderer. That alone would bear investigation.

Mrs. Wilson was continuing. “I can tell you little more. My last sight was my husband being bustled into a cab to be taken away, and as he was thrust within he called out to me that I should come at once to you and tell you all I know, withholding nothing. That you alone could save him who is innocent.”

With that she burst into tears—and when I turned from soothing her distress, I saw that Holmes had caught up his overcoat. His gaze on me was impatient.

“Come, Watson. We may have no time to lose if we are to get to the bottom of this affair!“

“But, Mrs. Wilson?”

He turned to her. “Can you get yourself home, Madam, if my housekeeper obtains a cab for you? It is necessary that I move swiftly.”

The woman dashed the tears from her eyes and drew herself up proudly. “Save my husband, Mr. Holmes, that is all which matters to me.”

Holmes nodded, and we were gone, hailing a cab and driving at speed to the police station where Holmes at once asked for Harold McGeorge, a young and promising officer who had worked with Holmes before and trusted him.

The young man appeared swiftly and nodded to us. “I daresay you have come about the murder of James Melden; my men said he had called to his wife that she should consult you immediately.” He smiled, “I had looked for you to be here within a few hours and I am prepared to tell you everything you wish to know, Mr. Holmes.”

“Why?” I questioned, “The police do not normally confide in the public. How is it that you are eager to take us into your confidence in a case of murder?”

His look hardened. “For two reasons, Doctor. One is that I know Mr. Holmes, he would not seek to hide evidence against Jabez Wilson if the man is guilty. The other is that.…” He paused as if at a loss as to how to continue, and Holmes spoke very quietly.

“You yourself have doubts about this case; perhaps you are under some pressure to act prematurely?”

The answer was oblique. “I am told that this James Melden was the valued employee of a duke who is naturally anxious to have his man’s murderer punished.”

Holmes leaned still closer and murmured a name that evoked a slight nod. My friend nodded slowly in turn. “A murky business, but I believe I already see some light. I shall return to discuss this with you again once I have made further inquiries.”

I followed Holmes from the station, bewildered as to who was the Duke involved, and what it was that Holmes suspected.

I was not to have the answers to those questions for several days—but during that time we discovered the whole tale as the police believed it to be, and a story of betrayal it was.

James Melden had, as his unfortunate wife had told us, become wearied with his marriage once his beloved son was dead. He knew his wife had adequate means even without him, and he therefore chose to remain aboard the ship of which he was part-owner, making with her the trading voyages that were the livelihood of captain and crew and James’ two partners.

At length he disembarked on an island in the Pacific and while he was there the captain of his ship heard of a bulky but profitable cargo waiting, emptied the ship, and sailed to trade at an island group several hundreds of miles away. It was while the ship was well out to sea that a great storm arose and the ship was sunk in sight of another, so that this second ship, on making a safe harbor, reported James’ ship to be lost with all hands.

It appeared that this report as it eventually came to his ears suited James Melden, since he made no attempt either to deny it or to get in touch with his wife and inform her of his survival. Instead he took the cargo, which had been disembarked, and sold it elsewhere, keeping the money he made and thus profiting substantially from the deaths of his comrades.

How the Duke who claimed James had been his employee was involved, I did not yet understand. Nor why the police were so adamant that Jabez Wilson must have slain Charlotte’s true husband. My friend was away the next day and returned with more pieces for our puzzle.

“What of this Duke?” I asked.

“Ignore him, Watson, I know what part he plays in this and I shall deal with him in due course.”

“Then why is it the police are so certain Jabez killed James?”

“Because they are men of limited minds, and cannot see how anyone else could have done so.” I sat, making myself comfortable in my usual chair, then looked at my old friend hopefully. His face broke into that rare smile of his and he shrugged.

“Very well, Watson. I shall share with you some of the tale I have learned.” He reached for a light, and began.

“James Melden returned home with a pocket full of cash, but he was—or had become in his years away—a greedy man and wanted more. He discovered his wife to be living with a man whom she believed to be her lawful husband—but whom James knew not to be so. Mrs. Wilson mentioned to us during her visit that her daughter had come to think of Jabez Wilson as her father; she did not tell us more than that Jabez liked the child.”

“Are you saying he does not?”

“On the contrary, he adores her. In the past five years he has seen to it that she has been well educated, and the girl is now just eighteen and has recently become engaged to the son of minor and deeply impoverished nobility. Nevertheless, it is a considerable step up for the step-daughter of a pawnbroker, although I have ascertained that the boy’s parents are unaware that Jabez has the ownership of that business; they think him a successful jeweler to the middle-classes and that is trade enough for them.”

I blinked. I know the ways of London nobility, minor and impoverished though they may be. “Whatever brought them to consent?”

“Another of those small things that Mrs. Wilson forgot to explain fully. Her father secured the income of his estate to her, yes. But after her death everything passes to the daughter and it is a very considerable sum. More than you would think from the income Charlotte Wilson receives. Shortly before his own death her father had it written and witnessed that on Charlotte’s death all of the estate may be resolved into cash and becomes his grand-daughter’s absolutely.

“I have spoken with those whose business it is to buy and sell property in that area of London, and the two shops together are worth a very large sum indeed. Sufficient to make the lad’s family look more kindly upon the girl. However, should some scandal arise concerning her family then that attitude will rapidly change. There is also the fact that she is still a minor.”

“What has that to do with the case? Oh, you mean that the agreement of Jabez is required for the marriage?”

“That is certainly true,” was all Holmes said, before he became silent and I observed that he was deep in thought.

The next day we discovered more of the police case when young Harold McGeorge called. He accepted a glass of beer, then sat and talked, looking all the while concerned over what he was saying.

“The man Wilson has confessed that he knew James Melden was alive. It seems that James went to see him, privately offering to disappear again if Wilson would pay him a large sum of money in cash. He suggested that if he were not paid he would reappear to claim his wife and daughter back publicly. When Wilson still balked, Melden made it clear he was aware of his daughter’s impending marriage and also that this would be called off if the groom’s parents came to know the girl’s mother was a bigamist.”

“The blackguard!”

“Quite so,” McGeorge agreed. “That is the trouble. Any officer can see why Wilson should have killed the man. After that it seems that Melden lay low for a few days, letting Wilson consider what could become of the girl he thought of as a daughter. Once Wilson had had time to decide, Melden came again and asked for a decision. Wilson swears he had managed to gather most of the sum demanded and agreed to pay.”

“Then why would he have killed the man?”

Holmes roused himself. “My dear Watson, there are many obvious reasons. The man may have asked for a greater sum, he may have taken the money and then declared that he would still reappear, disgracing his wife and daughter. He may have spoken vilely of the women Wilson loved. You may be sure these points have occurred to the police.”

McGeorge nodded. “That is so. Wilson says that Melden came on time, took the money, and departed. Wilson remained in his shop considering whether he should reveal all to his wife. No one saw Melden leave, and Wilson says he left his shop late and went straight home. But we have two witnesses who are prepared to swear they saw Wilson leave and return to his place of business two hours earlier.

“The body of Melden was discovered in the alleyway which runs nearby, by a constable on his patrol only half an hour after the witnesses say they saw Wilson leave and return the first time. The dead man’s blood was still wet, showing his death had been very recent. It took some time to ascertain the man’s identity, but once we had the evidence, my superiors ordered that Wilson be arrested immediately.”

He face twisted in worry. “What can I do, Mr. Holmes? From all the evidence this man is guilty, yet somehow I am unconvinced. There was blood everywhere in the alley, but we have found none on any of Wilson’s clothing. My superior says only that he must have discarded his coat somewhere on the journey home. But he was wearing his usual coat when he returned, for a neighbor saw him arrive, and with the amount of blood, his boots too and even the legs of his trousers would have been stained—and they were not.

“We found the weapon, it was a knife of the common sort but well sharpened, and the blow which killed Melden was struck by a man skilled with such a weapon. I have found nothing in Wilson’s past to explain that. My superior says that any fool may be fortunate once, yet I am not convinced. And always the Duke is in the office talking, and each time my superior comes out with new reasons why Wilson must be guilty. So far I have managed to hold off from formal charges, saying we should have a watertight case since Wilson’s daughter is to marry young Ainsworth. Can you help me, Mr. Holmes?”

Holmes nodded slowly. “I believe I can. I have a few more inquiries to make, and then I may be able to place the solution in your hands. I have something I wish you to do for me first.” He looked at McGeorge, who nodded eagerly. “I wish you to find out what you can about two men. These are their names and details.” He passed over a piece of paper.

“I’ll do what I can, sir.”

“Then I’ll wish you a good day.”

I was all agog as McGeorge departed. “What were the names, Holmes?”

“A man called Archibald Carrol; the name of the other man varies, he has used more than one.”

I was puzzled. “I’ve heard nothing of any man by the name of Carrol in connection with the Wilson case, Holmes?”

“I assure you, my friend, both men have an intimate connection that shall be revealed in due course.” was all he would tell me at that time.

McGeorge called a day later and was admitted. “I have all you want sir, I think. Carrol was hung a year back for a killing while in prison, but the other was released early and is now using the other name which you gave me. I looked at his prison records and the man wasn’t due to be released for several years. I questioned that with the Governor and was told to mind my own business. I think someone of influence may have been involved.”

Amusement flickered briefly in my friend’s eyes. “You are probably right, McGeorge. But I’d recommend right now that you do as was suggested to you, and ask no more questions. I—and others—have an appointment to see your Commissioner tomorrow. You are to be there with us at two in the afternoon.”

I could see McGeorge was mystified, but he trusted Holmes. “I’ll be there, sir.”

“Good man.”

I spent the remainder of the evening thinking over events while Holmes read in silence. I could not see how anything we had done so far would free poor Wilson, but I too had confidence in Holmes. Just before we retired one of Holmes’ lads arrived. They spoke briefly before Holmes took possession of a bundle tied up clumsily but securely in brown paper and well-knotted string.

Holmes handed that to me the next day as we set out. “Give this to me when I request, my dear Watson. I think it may be safer with you.” I noticed that the bundle had been retied so as to appear smaller and now reposed within a bag from a popular shop.

In his own hands Holmes carried a bundle identical in appearance to the one Joe had handed over the previous night. I smiled, understanding the ruse. It was as well, since as we exited the hansom cab for our appointment a man dashed up, thrust my friend against the building, seized the parcel, and made off with it. I grinned at Holmes in satisfaction and received his nod of approval in return.

At precisely two o’clock we were shown into the rooms of the Commissioner of the London police. He was not alone; a man stood with him, and I recognized, if not who the Commissioner’s companion was, at least what he was; for only a nobleman would have such a bearing. The Commissioner gazed keenly at Holmes, looking disapprovingly at my bundle, then turned as McGeorge was shown in.

Holmes spoke first. “I have asked Officer McGeorge to be present, since what I am about to reveal concerns a case in which he has been deeply involved.”

“Very well, Mr. Holmes. But please be brief, I am a busy man with many calls upon my time.”

“As am I, Commissioner. But I will make this a short tale so far as I can. It concerns a man who, some years ago, was inadvertently caught up in an attempt to rob the bank a few doors from his shop. Mr. Jabez Wilson was made the victim of a scheme to have him out of the way, but being an honest and dogged man, he came to me to discover how, and why, he had been used in such a way.

“I was able to discover the plot, and the police imprisoned those involved, a man named Archibald Carrol, and another calling himself John Clay. Carrol subsequently killed a man in a prison brawl and was hanged, but Clay was later released and took up his original name of Jonathon Vincent.”

I saw the nobleman move slightly and Holmes turned to him. “An interesting name, is it not?” He received no reply and, after a few seconds, he continued.

“Meanwhile, Jabez Wilson met a widow with a young daughter and married her. The marriage was very happy until James Melden, her supposedly dead husband, returned. The man was a liar, a thief, and a scoundrel—and a would-be murderer. Mrs. Wilson had two unusual events occur to her shortly before the man’s death, once when a hansom attempted to run her down, the other when a pistol was discharged at her. Neither the driver of the cab nor the shooter was ever found by the police, although McGeorge assures me that you looked.

“I have read the father’s will and the conditions concerning his estate, and I believe it is within those conditions that the motive is hid. If Charlotte Wilson dies, the estate becomes the absolute property of her daughter—who is yet a minor. If Melden were then to reappear, the girl would be in his power and the money his. How long, think you, would the girl live after that?

“Fortunately, both attempts against Mrs. Wilson failed, and it was then that I believe her rascally husband determined to obtain money in an easier fashion, at least to begin with. He planned to blackmail Jabez Wilson, using threats of public humiliation against both women. To prevent this, Jabez scraped up all the money he could find to pay Melden. It was a foolish thing to do; no blackmailer is ever satisfied, but Jabez hoped.

“What he did not realize was that a portion of this episode was insinuated into his enemy’s mind by John Clay, known by now as Jonathon Vincent. The two men had met on the docks while pursuing their own crimes and Vincent had the story from Melden, and at once he saw how the man could be used.

“Vincent was the son of a noble family, his career as a criminal known to very few—but known to still fewer was the identity of his companion in crime. Archibald Carrol was Vincent’s illegitimate brother and his long-time friend. When Archibald was hanged, Vincent blamed Jabez Wilson, but for whom neither man would have been caught, and he set out to see the man he blamed for his brother’s death ruined, broken, and hanged to repay the debt.

“Jabez Wilson was seen by witnesses to leave his shop around late evening and return. It was not Jabez who left, but another man, one who always excelled at theatrics and who chose to leave in the uncertain light of dusk and to return after dark, pausing to stand on his doorstep where the light from a nearby street-lamp fell upon him until he was noticed by your witnesses. Is that not so, Your Grace?” His gaze transfixed the Duke who stood stiffly staring, before he nodded reluctantly—but as one who is duty-bound.

“Melden came and left again when Jabez said he did. Vincent met his dupe later in the alleyway, murdered and robbed him, achieving in one blow the stopping of a mouth, a considerable sum of money for his own use, and, he hoped, the ruin of a man he hated. You will ask if there is proof of this? There is. I have the coat Vincent wore for the killing, and it is clear Jabez Wilson could neither wear nor own such a garment. Not only is it a full size too small for him, it is from a tailor whose name is a household word. They can tell you for whom the coat was made—as they told me.

“I have also spoken to the witnesses. They never saw Jabez Wilson move. I venture to say that, were they shown the man walking, they would at once insist that was not the man they saw leave and re-enter Wilson’s shop. The appearance of a man may be easily counterfeited in poor light, the way in which he moves is not so easily faked.”

“The coat? You have it here?” asked the Commissioner.

Holmes nodded to me and I produced the bundle. He laid out the garment, pointing to the ominous stains and the size marked within. “I think, if you investigate all I have said, you will find further proof—if it should be necessary.” He met the Duke’s gaze with his own stare and waited.

“It is not necessary.”

The Commissioner turned. “Your Grace, are you saying that you know this tale already? That you knew your son for a murderer and this other man as his innocent victim?”

“I did not know before last night. I feared. Jonathon has been wild from a boy, but I swear I did not know how far he had gone until a letter reached me some time ago saying he was imprisoned under a false name, and begging me to have him freed. He was my son. I did what I could.”

“And the man Carrol?”

The Duke flushed slightly. “I was fond of his mother who had been a servant in my father’s house. When I inherited my title and estate I set her up in a cottage in the village and allowed my sons to become friends. Archibald vanished when he was still in his teens. I know now that he was involved in smuggling and was often in France. I knew nothing of it at the time, nor that he and Vincent were yet close friends.”

Holmes looked at him. “One son is dead, Your Grace. What now of the other?”

“He has left the country and will not return.” The Duke produced a sealed envelope. “Here is the confession he wrote before he took ship. He admits too that Melden planned murder to obtain his wife’s estate. With this confession my son’s victim may be freed, and I will see the man receives generous compensation for his suffering.”

I was still muttering angrily when we departed. It was clear the whole business would be hushed up and I heartily disapproved. Holmes was more philosophical.

“Don’t distress yourself, my dear Watson. The death of Melden prevented his intended murder of his wife and daughter. As for Jonathon Vincent, he lives a life of violence. As the Bible says, those who live by the sword shall perish by the sword.”

In which Holmes spoke only the truth. Two years after Miss Sophia Wilson married the Honorable Frederick Ainsworth, news came that Jonathon Vincent had been killed in France. And yet, maybe in the end noble blood had told after all. He had died rescuing a little girl who had fallen in the street before a fast-driven carriage. He had time to fling her clear before he died under its wheels.