Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Was Not Read online

  “And on the second try, jackpot,” I said.

  The sun was well over the horizon and the day was beginning to bake. But nobody was leaving. Everyone wanted to see how this game played out, I suspect. They didn’t have long to wait.

  “We must now answer a few questions and then, I hope, our task will find an end. First, what manner of firearm is capable of being lethal over the distance between where I stand and the crossroads?”

  “That Spencer the sheriff’s got pointed at me would do,” I said.

  “And second,” Holmes continued, “who might be standing here, in front of the sheriff’s office, at three of a stormy morning?”

  Everybody was looking at the sheriff, though I confess that I was paying more attention to the rifle digging into my belly than to the man.

  “I din’t have no reason, to kill Willy,” the sheriff said in a voice that was somewhere between a yell and a growl. He was plenty agitated and I was wishing he could find somewhere else to aim his gun.

  “We might ask how Doctor Holliday regained possession of the pistol when he gave it to you yesterday and you have it in your possession now,” Holmes said.

  The sheriff’s face was flushed and he was shifting his weight from one leg to the other. “I ain’t had no reason to kill Willy,” he repeated.

  “Interesting, that you call him by his first name,” Holmes murmured. “Not conclusive, but interesting.”

  “I got an idea as to motive,” I said. “I’ve not pieced it all together yet, but let me speculate a bit. Sheriff, you told me about a robbery in Feeley Tuesday night.”

  “I heerd ’bout that,” a farmer said.

  “My cousin says they was prob’ly two robbers,” a shopkeeper said.

  “The outlaws might have been stranded there, on account of the rain, particularly if they were headed this way. They might not hit Keppel’s Crossing ’til…I don’t know. Yesterday afternoon? Might have split up to avoid attention. Or maybe one of ’em lamed a horse. Or got lost. Lotta reasons they might not travel together. Anyway, maybe one of ’em got greedy and decided to cut his partner out of the profits. If he just flat out killed ’im, maybe there was a reason folks would be suspicious. Maybe somebody seen ’em leave town together, maybe one had a change of heart and was going to inform on the other. Something like that, anyway. But if somebody else could take the blame…Now, along comes me, Holliday, a ne’er-do-well with a bad reputation. I’d bet that yesterday, when you and I talked, the loot from Feeley was in the back of your wagon, and that’s when you got the notion to use me. You probably knew that the Clantons have no love for me and I’m guessing you talked Clanton into going after me with the shotgun. Maybe figured that if he killed me, you could go after him for murder and maybe have an excuse to shoot him for resisting arrest. If somehow I get hold of a gun and kill him, your problems are solved. Way it turned out, you saw a chance to frame me and that was just fine by you.”

  “Bravo,” Holmes yelled, slapping his palms together.

  “You could make me a liar by showing us what your freight and—”

  The sheriff had heard enough. He twisted himself to the left and started to run. But I recalled all the prodding with the Spencer he’d given me, none of it necessary, and I wasn’t of a mind to let him get away. So I shoved him and he fell forward, the rifle flying out of his grip. Then the townsfolk were clustered around us and Holmes was hauling me to my feet.

  “You see why we needed spectators,” he said. “We couldn’t go to the authorities with our suspicions—”

  I finished it for him: “—’cause the only authority hereabouts is the killer.”

  “He would have attempted to make us his second and third victims.”

  I heard someone say “Lemme see if I unnerstand,” and the raggedy man pushed through the crowd, the sheriff’s rifle in his hands. “The shurf killed my Sally?”

  “That appears to be the case,” Holmes said and quicker than I would have thought possible, the raggedy man chambered a shell and fired and the sheriff acquired a red hole in the middle of his forehead and fell dead.

  The raggedy man threw down the rifle and limped away.

  Nobody else moved for a long time. Then the townsfolk began to drift away, not saying a word, until Sherlock Holmes and me and two bodies were all that was left in the street.

  “Should we do something about burying them?” Holmes murmured.

  “None of our business,” I replied and went my way. I never saw Holmes again and once in a while I wonder what ever happ­ened to him.

  The Sign of Two: Sherlock Holmes and Dr Jekyll

  Philip Cornell

  From the journal of Sherlock Holmes as transcribed

  and edited by his literary agent

  Having had the opportunity whilst still undertaking my Univer­sity studies to exercise my aptitude for meticulous obser­vation and deductive reasoning to unravel several problems brought to my notice by my fellows, I resolved upon completing my eclectic course of study to make my name as a Consulting Detective. I was living at the time in rooms near the British Museum but it occurred to me that if I could find someone with whom to share the rent I could afford more spacious accommodation. Consequently I made some inquiries and learned of a suite of rooms in Baker Street not far from the underground station. A meeting with the landlady, a Mrs Hudson, proved the rooms to be eminently suitable and, although several people had expressed interest, nobody had yet taken them. At that very moment the doorbell rang and a broad-faced, clean shaven, fair skinned gentleman of some fifty summers was ushered in by the pageboy.

  “Why, Doctor Jekyll!” exclaimed the landlady “How nice to see you again.”

  “It’s ‘Jeekyll’, remember, Madam,” replied the man amiably in an Edinburgh accent, “with a long e?”

  “Yes, my apologies, Doctor,” said the landlady “Have you come to inspect the rooms again? This is Mr…Holmes…who is also interested.”

  “How do you do?” said I. “You have been in Edinburgh I perc­eive.”

  “You can tell by my accent? Most English folk don’t have such a finely tuned ear when it comes to the Scots brogue.”

  “It was partly that, but I observe that your tweed jacket is woven of that particular fibre that is unique to Edinburgh and its surrounds. It is a year old at most so I concluded that until recently you dwelled in that city.”

  “Why, that is extraordinary.”

  “Superficial.”

  I ventured to ask whether he practised in London.

  “No,” he replied, “that is, not yet. I have been conducting private research at my own expense, but needs must…”

  “Might you be amenable to splitting the rent between us?”

  “Possibly,” responded Dr Jekyll, a little tentatively. “The size and location of these rooms would suit my needs well.”

  “Though not myself a physician, I studied several medical subjects while at the university. I too am interested in this suite but could not afford them alone.”

  Jekyll studied me pensively for a moment then said, “Perchance we could come to some arrangement to our mutual benefit. I have, at the moment, other demands on my purse.”

  He enunciated it “purrse” with the distinct burr I had noticed earlier though in other respects his brogue was not a pronounced one.

  “That would be splendid,” said Mrs Hudson. “You gentlemen strike me as the quiet, studious type and that would suit me admirably.”

  Without further ado we shook hands and arranged with the landlady to move our belongings in during the coming week. Jekyll and I descended to the street.

  “Would you care for a libation?” I asked. “There is a public house at the corner.”

  “I…don’t drink,” said Dr Jekyll, “but a glass of tonic water would be most agreeable.”

  We adjourned to a corner tab
le where we could talk un­dist­urbed.

  “I hope you do not object to violin playing,” said I. “It is best for two fellows to know the worst about one another before sharing diggings. You don’t mind the smell of strong tobacco, I trust, for I am an inveterate pipe smoker?”

  “I am not myself a smoker but I don’t dislike the odour. I find it quite pleasant.”

  “I generally keep chemicals about and conduct experiments.”

  “I conduct experiments myself so that would not cause me any problems. Quite the opposite.”

  “I get down in the dumps at times and don’t speak for days at a time.”

  “I quite understand. I, too, have times when I am not quite myself.”

  “And what have you to confess, Dr Jekyll?”

  “Well, let me think,” said the doctor. “As I mentioned, I do not take alcohol nor do I smoke, but don’t think me priggish. I come and go at odd hours at times. I had a period of ill health before coming to London and I believe I am past that now but I object to rows. I have another set of…vices…when I am well. But rest assured I do not consider the sound of the violin to be a row, nor cause for one, if well played.”

  “You must be the judge of that,” I laughed. “Let us toast a satis­fying future.”

  We clinked our glasses and drank to 221B Baker Street and agreed to book a removalist van to transport our belongings at the earliest opportunity, picking up my goods from Montague Street and then collecting Jekyll’s chattels from his hotel.

  We carried out the move of our respective belongings, and as we sorted our possessions into our respective rooms Jekyll asked me what occupation I followed.

  “I am starting out in a trade of my own,” I replied. “Just as a consulting physician is approached for his expertise by other medicos, I hope to be a consultant in the field of detection.”

  “Detection?” asked Jekyll, looking up from his unpacking.

  “There are many official detectives in London,” I explained, “and many private investigators. When these fellows are at a loss they can consult me.”

  “That sounds potentially a most interesting line of work,” commented Jekyll. “Do you feel you can make a success of it?”

  “Time will tell,” I replied though inwardly I felt confident that I could indeed achieve some renown.

  The next few weeks did not, however, bear out my optimism. Jekyll spent his days at the chemistry laboratory at London Hospital. I had offered him the use of the ‘chemistry corner’ I had set up in Baker Street but he politely declined, pointing out that a paper he had published had sufficiently impressed the Hospital board that they had allowed him to use their facilities. A succession of small matters, insignificant in themselves, gradually led me to believe that Dr Jekyll was being less than frank with me. Since we had not long known each other that was hardly surprising. I am not a terribly outgoing individual myself yet I instinctively felt that I should not advertise the extent of my deductive abilities until such time as my doubts took stronger form.

  I was musing on these matters one day while filing my find­ings in my recent investigation into the murder of the cabman, Albert Gray. The case had enjoyed some notoriety in the press and gripped the city and when the official force made little headway beyond rounding up the usual suspects I had been consulted; leading to the arrest of Donald Fettes and Wolfe MacFarlane. What had initially seemed a rather commonplace murder proved to have a number of points of interest that set it apart. I heard footsteps mounting the steps from the street and Dr Jekyll returned from the hospital. He looked rather worn and tired, and a little dishevelled. I wondered whether the ill health he had mentioned at our first meeting was troubling him once more.

  We were exchanging pleasantries when Jekyll’s attention was arrested by the papers on my desk. He paused and looked up, seem­ing oddly disconcerted, and seeing my raised eyebrows he muttered something about having been acquainted with ‘Toddy’ MacFarlane.

  His use of MacFarlane’s nickname suggested something more than a casual acquaintance. I did not press the point but taking up a volume of legal history I removed a bookmark and endeavoured to give the impression I was merely resuming some earlier reading, but Jekyll’s behaviour confirmed my resolve not to draw undue attention to my powers. We ate the dinner our landlady brought up from the kitchen in silence after which Jekyll excused himself and I adjourned to my bedroom and lit my pipe.

  The following morning the boy in buttons knocked on the door to announce a Mr Newcomen to see me. I motioned to him to take the basket chair.

  “What can I do for Scotland Yard?” I asked.

  “You recognize my name?”

  “No, but I see the official notebook in your waistcoat pocket and your police issue boots. These proclaim that you are a plain clothes police officer and the spatters of mud on those boots and on your trouser cuffs is that reddish soil surrounding the private rear entrance to Scotland Yard. The newspaper folded in your overcoat pocket is this morning’s Daily Mail reporting the murder yesterday of Sir Danvers Carew. You have underlined certain passages and made marginal notations. Ergo, it is about this matter that you wish to consult me.”

  “I see the reports have not exaggerated your abilities,” said my guest. “One of my colleagues at The Yard, Mr Lestrade, thought you might be able to offer some advice. Your comments reveal you have read of the murder of Sir Danvers.”

  “All the papers were full of it. When a man expected by many to be a future Prime Minister is bludgeoned to death…”

  “Quite. Mr Lestrade tells me you have a knack when it comes to weapons. Identifying them, I mean. Our medical examiner confirms that Sir Danvers had his skull fractured repeatedly by some heavy club. If you’d be so good as to accompany me to examine the body I have a four wheeler waiting.”

  “My fellow tenant is a medical man attached to The London Hospital. Perhaps he could accompany us? His expertise might prove helpful.”

  I knocked on Jekyll’s door to briefly explain our mission. He leapt at the chance and we joined the Inspector outside.

  The detective shook Jekyll’s hand and began to explain the reason for our expedition.

  “We have a witness to the murder. A servant girl. She describes the killer as a small man. Almost dwarfish. And of particularly repellent appearance.”

  “Would you have any objection to me interviewing her?” I said.

  “She is has been sedated. The experience upset her greatly. But I’m sure it could be arranged for tomorrow.”

  Once we arrived the Inspector escorted us to the morgue where Sir Danvers lay on the examination table. The wounds to his cranium were extensive. I took out my magnifying lens.

  “The weapon would appear to have been a heavy, bulbous-headed walking stick. Probably of the type known as a ‘Penang Lawyer’. More interesting are these splinters caught in the crook of his elbow which suggest that the blows were so violent that the stick actually broke. I would also suggest that when you undress the body—and I appreciate that you left it fully clad to permit me to examine it just as it was found—that you will find the right collar-bone broken, as well as broken bones in both hands beneath his gloves.”

  “Yes. Doubtless incurred as he tried to shield his head from the blows,” said Jekyll.

  The mortuary attendants proceeded to undress the M.P.’s body and we found in addition to the other wounds that there were two fractures to his spine. For my part I continued my examination but my lens did not reveal anything pertinent to identifying the murderer. While Jekyll took an interest in the matters he had little to add to the proceedings beyond confirming the cause of death as multiple fractures to the parietal bone.

  We concluded the interview and set out for our lodgings, but something the Inspector had said awakened a half-forgotten memory in me that I could not bring into clear focus as we travelled. Arriving back in Baker Street Jekyll
excused himself saying he had to be off to the hospital to further his experiments. There was little else I could do pertaining to the Carew murder until I had a chance to speak to the servant girl, and this was dependent upon requests I sent being responded to.

  Jekyll did not return until evening and we sat in silence over our meal; I because I was deep in thought about the Carew killing and wracking my brain to summon whatever latent memory Newcomen had jogged. Jekyll just appeared rather distrait after our trip to the morgue.

  The following morning I left early to pursue some research at the British Museum, not returning until mid afternoon. I then settled myself into the wicker chair and took out the packet of papers relating to the Gray murder. I suddenly froze because it was clear to me that Jekyll had been examining them again in my absence. So, I had been right about Jekyll having secrets. This was patently something more than morbid curiosity. As though to punctuate the realization the front doorbell sounded.

  “I’ll get it, Mrs Hudson,” I called. It was a middle-aged, sombre-looking man. I observed that his top hat, while elegantly polished, was slightly misshapen. I recognized that this could only be the result of a medical man keeping his stethoscope therein.

  “Come in, Doctor…”

  “Lanyon, Hastie Lanyon,” said he to my unspoken query. “I am an old friend of Harry Jekyll. Is he at home? A mutual friend, Gabriel Utterson, told me I might find him here.”

  “Alas, I must disappoint you. I don’t expect him home until about five this afternoon. Could you call again for him then?” Lanyon agreed, seemingly quite happily, and departed.

  I could of course have directed Dr Lanyon to the London Hospital laboratory but my interest was piqued and I felt I could learn more if I could observe the two of them together. In the meantime it seemed to me no bad thing if I were to find out a little more about what Jekyll was up to in that laboratory. I have some proficiency in the art of disguise, having taught myself the use of greasepaint whilst at the University where I undertook classes in drama for that very purpose.