Sherlock Holmes: Repeat Business. Lyn McConchie
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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