Sherlock Holmes: Repeat Business. Lyn McConchie
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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.
A QUESTION OF PRESENCE
I heard about Holmes’ latest case almost two days after it began. I had been away in Kent seeing an elderly relative of my wife and I dropped in to spend time with Holmes on my return. I saw at once that he was as animated as he always is when an interesting case comes his way.
“What is it this time, Holmes?”
“Something that may be rather nasty, Watson. Do you remember the case of Miss Mary Sutherland? She came to ask me to find her fiancé, Mr. Hosmer Angel.”
I remembered. It was one of the few times I had seen my old friend so angry. I smiled. “I remember that you wished to horsewhip her step-father for his cruel deception.”
“So I did, and it was more the pity I did not.”
I laughed aloud at that. “I think you would have had to engage in a foot race through the city to do so, my dear Holmes. The man saw the intent in your eyes and fled; indeed, seldom have I seen a man move so quickly as Windibank once he saw that you knew all.”
Holmes’ attitude seemed to sober. “Yes, but I fear he may not have remained impressed for long. Two mornings ago I had a visitor, and his tale is one which seems to me to be an ominous one.”
I poured myself out a beer, drank half the glass, and sat in my usual chair to listen to the tale my friend related.
It had been a bright fine morning, and Holmes had risen early to work on a new monograph concerning the deductions that could be made from various sorts of paper. He was hard at work when there came a brief rapping on his door. He opened that to find a young man standing there, waiting to be admitted.
“I saw at once,” Holmes said. “That he was from the colonies. His tan had not yet faded and since here it is barely spring, it was obvious that he had come from a country where the season was just fading into autumn. He was a fine upstanding young man in his late twenties, as I should judge it, and there was about him an aura of health and hard physical work. He reached out and shook my hand eagerly and, from aspects of his hands and wrists, I deduced him to be a sheep farmer—and as soon as he spoke I recognized the accent also. He was a New Zealander, a man of the land, owning his own farm, and I said as much.”
“Why, sir, how can you know that?”
“You are clearly a man used to hard physical work, but that could be many occupations. However, despite calluses, your hands are far softer than one might expect; such a thing comes from the regular handling of sheep, the lanolin in their raw fleeces keeping soft the hands, which might otherwise be rougher-skinned. You could be merely a shearer, or a farm laborer, but for your clothing. It is not in the first style here in England, but it was clearly made for you, and from cloth of excellent quality by an experienced tailor.”
“You are…you must be…Mr. Sherlock Holmes then. I have heard of your great deductive powers, sir, and it is for that reason I have come to consult you most urgently.”
“I am he; come in and be seated. Tell me the problem and I shall see what may be done.”
The young man accepted the offer, sat, and considered briefly before commencing his story.
“I