The Penny Murders
“I see you have discovered something of interest in the morning newspaper, Watson,” said Sherlock Holmes as he surveyed me through the smoke of his early morning pipe.
I looked up from scrutinizing the pages of The Times. “How can you tell?”
“Simplicity itself, my dear fellow,” came his rejoinder. “Whenever you come across an article worthy of note, you invariably shift in your seat and furrow your brow. Your entire expression grows decidedly studious.”
I raised my eyebrows in surprise.
“What is it this time? Another bizarre death, like the one reported two days ago? A pig farmer in the Fens, I seem to remember, who was trampled to death by his own herd.”
“Your memory serves you well.”
He laughed.
“But you are quite right,” I told him. “Today’s article tells of a man, in rural Leicestershire, who has been killed and partially eaten by a Bengal tiger.”
“In Leicestershire? Now that is indeed remarkable.”
“It seems he was employed as a groundsman at the country house of a prominent peer of the realm. The article explains that his Lordship maintains a small menagerie in the grounds, and that this man somehow fell victim to the animal when nobody else was around. A singular coincidence, do you not think?”
“Two incidents too similar to dismiss as coincidence. I sense something darker in this matter.”
It was a fine late spring morning in 1882, but I could already sense the shades of human tragedy invading the day. “Your imagination is proving as agile as your memory today, Holmes,” said I. “But what possible connection could there be between these two events?”
“It is too early to tell, but if there is one, then we shall undoubtedly hear from Scotland Yard when they finally admit themselves at a loss. Then we shall see.”
A sparkle in my friend’s eye displayed an appetite for action. I too can read expressions.
Holmes stood up abruptly and glanced toward the window. “Look sharp there, Watson. We have a visitor.”
I put down my newspaper and turned my attention to events unfolding downstairs. I heard the doorbell ring, and then two female voices, one of which I instantly recognized as our landlady, Mrs. Hudson, but the other, sounding urgent and pressing, was unknown to me.
By the time the knock came upon our sitting room door, Holmes had changed out of his dressing gown and was standing before the unlit fireplace, dressed and ready to receive our visitor.
The door opened, and Mrs. Hudson announced, “Mrs. Elsie Horchester to see you, Mr. Holmes.”
A woman in her mid-thirties hurried in. She stood approximately five-feet three-inches in height, wore a dark blue bonnet pulled down over graying-brown hair, and gazed at the world from brown eyes animated with urgency. Without a word of explanation, Mrs. Horchester hurried across the room to the window, from which position she looked down onto the busy thoroughfare of Baker Street.
Whilst I watched on in alarm at such an abrupt entrance, Holmes surveyed the woman with serene and dispassionate curiosity.
“They’re still out there,” exclaimed Mrs. Horchester.
“Who are still out there?” demanded Holmes.
“Why, those three men, of course. Can’t you see them?”
We both joined her at the window, standing back slightly in order to make our surveillance of the street less obvious from below. On the opposite side of the road stood three men. They appeared bulky and robust, dressed in dark clothing, and all were watching our window with singular attention.
“A man of the sea, together with two London thugs,” observed Holmes calmly.
Our visitor turned from the window. “How can you tell?”
“In the one case, mere observation, my dear lady,” replied my friend. “He stands as though swaying with the rolling of the waves, whilst the others I recognize from previous encounters with London’s criminal underclass. Those two ruffians go by the names of Withyburn and Smith.”
“They sound like a firm of solicitors,” I commented.
“Quite the opposite, I can assure you,” replied Holmes dryly.
“I have no knowledge of their names,” said Elsie Horchester, “but I think you must be close to the truth, Mr. Holmes. You are Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I assume.”
Holmes laughed. “Kindly take a seat, Mrs. Horchester, and tell us the nature of the predicament that has brought you here on behalf of your husband.”
The woman sat down, and looked up at him in amazement. “You know about my husband?”
Holmes took the chair facing her. “No, but the ring on your hand proclaims that you are married,” observed Holmes, “and the urgency of your visit is only such as a troubled wife might make concerning her spouse.”
Clasping her hands together, as though in urgent supplication, she began. “As you already know, my name is Elsie Horchester. And you are right, Mr. Holmes. My husband, George, does appear to be in some kind of trouble.”
“And what does this misfortune have to do with those men out there?’
“My husband believes they are intent on killing him.”
“For what reason?”
Elsie Horchester shook her head doubtfully and let out a deep sigh. “The full nature of that predicament has not yet been made clear to me, Mr. Holmes, but it has to do with the tragedy of the Henrietta Baldersby.”
“A ship?”
“A fishing boat. Her home port was a famous fishing town on the east coast of England. The incident took place ten years ago, and was reported in all the newspapers at the time.”
Holmes stood up and searched through his extensive and mysterious filing system. After several minutes, he returned, holding up a dog-eared and badly foxed newspaper cutting. “Here we have the contemporary report from The Times,” he declared. “It tells of a certain fishing vessel breaking up in heavy weather and stranding the crew on an island in the North Atlantic.”
“That is quite right, Mr. Holmes,” said Mrs. Horchester.
“And you think this present business has something to do with that tragic incident?”
“It was certainly the reason why my husband came to London, but that was before we met and were married, so I am ignorant of the details.”
Holmes steepled his fingers thoughtfully. “Am I to understand that your husband has sent you here to request me to visit him?”
Mrs. Horchester’s look of embarrassment was as good as a nod. “But what about those men? They followed me all yesterday, though I managed to lose them in the end. They followed me again this morning, and they are out there now. I believe they are intent on following me home, in order to discover the whereabouts of my husband. And George is fearful for his life.”
“Then we must evade them once again.” Holmes slapped his knees decisively, and stood up. “I am intrigued by this story. Come, we must leave at once.”
Immediately we were outside in the street, Holmes flagged down a cab, and we all climbed aboard, with Mrs. Horchester between us, concealed beneath the folds of her coat. But our subterfuge failed to outsmart the watchers, for as soon as we were rattling toward the far end of Baker Street, they bundled into their own vehicle, and were soon in hot pursuit.
Animated by the chase, Holmes called to the cabbie, “Lose them, and I’ll give you another sovereign.”
We all held on as best we could, as our cab rolled from one side to the other along the busy streets of central London. By the time we reached the street-end closest to our destination, the other vehicle was nowhere to be seen.
Holmes paid the cabbie and, staying alert to any sign of our pursuers, we followed Mrs. Horchester down the narrow alleyway adjacent to where we had alighted.
She stopped at a darkly-stained door, pushed it open, and led the way inside, slamming it firmly shut against the world.
The gloomy building held the smell of mildew and decay, and a thin ray of daylight, filtered in through an upstairs window, lit up motes of dust floating in the chill atmosphere of the hallway.
We followed Elsie Horchester into the parlour, where we discovered a man of approximately forty years of age, lounging in a badly upholstered armchair at the far end of the room. He looked up as we entered, an expression of suspicion showing in his dark eyes.
Holmes removed his hat but retained his coat. “Good morning, Mr. Horchester,” said he, addressing the seated figure. “We have come at your wife’s invitation. And at your own behest, I believe.”
The seated man leaned forward in his chair. “Ah, yes. You must be Mr. Sherlock Holmes. People tell me you are a man who can be trusted.”
“Trusted to uncover the truth, Mr. Horchester,” he replied.
Then, as Horchester turned his gaze upon myself, Holmes added, “And this is my colleague, Dr. John Watson. He has my full confidence, and you can rely upon his absolute discretion.”
“Very well, Mr. Holmes. Kindly take a seat.” George Horchester pointed to two upright chairs standing in the middle of the room.
“Mr. Horchester,” said Holmes, “your wife has told us a little of your present situation, and we have come here post-haste. I would be obliged, therefore, if you would please now come to the exact purpose of this meeting.”
George Horchester sat back in his seat. “Then allow me to unfold to you my tale, Mr. Holmes – a story which takes us back ten years.”
“You and your crew were castaways on an uninhabited island, I believe,” said Holmes.
“Indeed. The place was known to the Viking seafarers as Dragon Island. Or so our Icelandic rescuers later informed us.”
“Very interesting. Pray continue. Watson, take notes.”
“I was skipper of the sailing trawler, Henrietta Baldersby, one of a fleet owned by our father, but managed and partly manned by myself and one of my two brothers, William. At this particular time, we were fishing in Icelandic waters. The weather was bitterly cold, and the North Atlantic was proving a particularly hazardous environment that season. Other boats had been lost, and our vessel suffered badly from the mounting waves, losing rigging and spars. Then, through the gloom, between the menacing sky and the mountainous sea, we saw a dark shape emerge. An island. A black rock, rising from the ocean waves, akin to a whale emerging from the depths. Massive in height, and rugged in appearance, with waves breaking white over sharp rocks where the island met the ocean. We fought with the helm, but the rudder was too ineffectual against the power of the water to direct us away from that approaching menace.”
George Horchester looked around at us with wild eyes. “Mr. Holmes, we struck those rocks with such force that we were all cast overboard into the boiling ocean. The last I saw of my vessel, she was being smashed to kindling by rock and waves. We all gave ourselves up for dead.”
“But you managed to reach the island.”
“And a most accursed place it turned out to be, Mr. Holmes. At first, I was glad to discover gravel beneath my body, and to touch the security of solid land. But every stitch of clothing was soaking wet, and the cold Atlantic wind was set to chill each of us to the bone, and leach both heat and life from our miserable bodies. The high cliffs and jagged rocks kept us restricted to one small section of the island. From the gravel beach, we climbed to a ledge some five feet above, and there we discovered the entrance to a cave. It wasn’t much, but at least it provided us with shelter, and a chance to take stock of our unenviable situation. We discovered that we had next to nothing in the way of resources. I had, however, managed to rescue the ship’s papers, together with useful items including a clasp knife and a box of matches.”
Horchester paused, staring fixedly into space, as though, for a moment, he had returned to that island.
“Pray continue,” Holmes encouraged him. “How many of you had managed to reach shore?”
The man who had been unfolding this tale looked at us with haunted eyes. “We had lost two in the sinking, never to be seen again, and we remained a crew of four. Harry Winter, Jack Shelton, my brother Bill, and myself. As skipper, I was the one in charge, and it was my responsibility to do whatever had to be done in order to save the rest of my crew. We needed to light a fire, so I set the others to gathering together as much driftwood as they could find. The majority of it was wet, and we had to allow it to dry. So the wood came with us into the cave, as we sought what little shelter it might provide.”
“You were fortunate to find such shelter,” I told him.
“Indeed, Dr. Watson, we were extremely lucky. As I told you, it was an island known to the Viking seafarers a thousand years before we landed there.”
“Dragon Island,” recalled Holmes, with a knowing nod.
“And well named,” said George Horchester. “The interior of the cave was dark, but when some of the wood had dried, I lit a brushwood torch and discovered that somebody had indeed been there before us. Along the wall, incised deeply into the rock, we found the depiction of a dragon. Its mouth began as wide as the entrance, and the carving ended with the tail at the far end of the cave, as though deliberately indicating where a small spring of fresh water trickled from the rock. We had water, we had shelter, we had the beginnings of a fire, but we needed nourishment. We were fishermen by trade, but we had neither nets nor line with which to feed ourselves. It was outside the breeding season for seabirds, so we took what little we could access, together with limpets we wrenched from the rocks, and concocted a few meagre meals.”
Holmes nodded slowly. “Did you find any further signs of human habitation?”
“Indeed we did. Toward the far end of the cave, we discovered, huddled together in the darkness, the skeletons of three people. There was no way of telling how long they had been there, or by their shreds of clothing whether they were men or women, but they must have been there for some considerable time. The discovery came as a profound shock to us all, as it suggested that we might never be rescued from that ill-fated island.”
“Loss of hope can have a terrible effect upon people,” observed Holmes.
“That is the only explanation for what occurred next.”
“Pray continue.”
George Horchester’s face turned a deathly pale. “We were dying, gentlemen. And even though we managed to light a fire, its heat brought us little in the way of comfort. For several days, we sat and merely existed. We very soon became nothing more than skeletons, every bit as pathetic as those we had discovered inside the cave. We now considered ourselves unlucky to have survived. The other three men looked to me for leadership, and for some way of escaping or even surviving this unenviable predicament.”
Our story-teller stood up, turned to face the corner of the room, and continued his tale. “I put into words the thought that had been haunting each one of us. We would need to kill and eat one of our number. Perhaps more than one. Until a single man remained, to die there alone. None of us wished to be that final survivor. But neither did anyone want to take the lives of his companions.”
“Great Heavens!” I exclaimed. “Whatever did you do?”
He turned, glared down at us, and shouted, “I was the skipper! I was the one to do the filthy deed. My responsibility. My job. My burden to carry for the rest of my days.”
Hardly knowing what words to use, I asked, “How did you decide which one of the crew should be the first victim?”
George Horchester sat down heavily, and once again looked blankly into space. “We tossed a coin,” he told us in a small voice.
“A coin!” I exclaimed. “That sounds damnably cold and heartless.”
He glared defiantly at me. “How else should we have done it?” he demanded. “Drawing lots? That too is a horrible way for a man to learn his fate. No, I had to be seen to be scrupulously fair, otherwise they would never have accepted the outcome. There was no choice. It had to be done that way.”
“Quite,” said Holmes, leaning forward in his seat. “Then, pray tell us exactly what occurred.”
“I had a penny. It was enough. The fact that it carried a picture of the Queen perhaps gave it added legitimacy at that moment. I don’t know. But they agreed that I, as captain, should conduct the selection process.” The man sitting in front of us looked around, as though requesting our acquiescence in what was to follow. In this he failed. “I decided that I would toss the same coin in the same manner for each man in turn. It seemed the fairest method. Each time the coin fell ‘heads’ upwards, the man would be saved. But the very first time the coin fell ‘tails’ upwards, that man would be our victim.”
“Not a pleasant situation,” muttered Sherlock Holmes.
“Not for any of us, Mr. Holmes,” replied Horchester. “Despite our personal differences, I decided to give my brother the best chance of all of us to survive, so I commenced with Harry Winter, a particularly valuable member of our crew. His eyes held a deep fear as he watched me. I tossed the penny into the air, and we all watched it fall to the ground. The image of Queen Victoria saved Harry, at least on that occasion. He was a lucky man. Jack Shelton was the next to face the ordeal. I tossed the coin, and saw it fall to the ground. Once again, ‘heads’ showed. Then I tossed for myself. Again, the coin fell so that I was spared.”
“That was unusual,” I commented. “Three out of three tosses falling the same way.”
“Not necessarily, Watson,” said Holmes. “If all other things are equal, then each toss has an identical chance of landing either way up.” Holmes gave Horchester a questioning look.
“I had done my very best to spare my brother, Bill,” said Horchester, “but it was now his turn to face the toss of the coin. And it fell showing ‘tails’. Chance had selected my brother to die, so that the rest of us might live. I would willingly have been the one, but fortune had dictated otherwise.”
“Horrible!” I exclaimed.
“Indeed,” added Holmes. “Pray continue.”
George Horchester sat back, and looked around. “There is little more to tell, Mr. Holmes. As skipper, it was my job to kill him, so that we could all eat and live. I do not wish to relive the details of that dreadful day, save to say that I killed my own brother. When we had eaten enough to make us all sick, we buried his remains on the beach below the cave. Several days later, as we were beginning to consider who might be the next to die, an Icelandic fishing boat saw our fire and came to our rescue.”
“It must have been awkward when you returned home.”
“Indeed, it was, Mr. Holmes. I stood trial for murder, and was initially sentenced to death. But the power of the Press was on my side. Through the strength of public opinion, I was fortunate to serve only three years in prison, before being quietly released. My family, on the other hand, were less forgiving. The news of what had happened to my brother went down badly with them, and undoubtedly contributed to the death of my mother only a few months after my return. My other brother, my sister, and my father all blamed me for her death – perhaps with some justification. They ostracized me and, when I left prison, I was forced to leave home and build a new life in London.”
“And what happened to the other members of the crew?”
“They were both forced to leave home as well. One found employment at a country house in the Midlands. The other went to work on a farm, feeding pigs – just like the Prodigal Son. I found work in London, as a jobbing longshoreman, picking up whatever work I could find along the river. I became like Cain: Cast out from home, with a mark upon my character, doomed to wander the earth as a man who had killed and eaten his own brother. Then I met Elsie, who agreed, in spite of knowing something of my past, to become my wife.”
“How long ago was that?” asked Holmes.
“We have been together for five years. I imagined that, by now, the horrors of those days might have blown over, and that the painful memory of my sins might have diminished with time. Instead, it seems they are now catching up with me. They have already caught up with the other two.”
“Those two recent deaths reported in the newspapers were your other men, were they not?” said Holmes.
“Indeed, they were. Even though it seems they both met with accidents, I am certain that they were both murdered. And that I shall be the next to die. You must help me, Mr. Holmes.”
On our return to 221b Baker Street, Holmes and I discovered that we had another visitor. The moment we walked through our sitting room door, we were greeted by the sight of Inspector Lestrade, standing before the hearth, fingering his hat in an agitated manner.
“Ah, Mr. Holmes,” he exclaimed. “I am very glad to see you.”
“Why, Lestrade,” replied Holmes genially. “To what do we owe the pleasure of this visit?”
We all sat down, with Holmes leaning back in his chair, and the inspector inclining forward, with an earnest expression upon his face. “Mr. Holmes, we need your assistance.”
“Those two unusual deaths reported in the newspapers, I have no doubt,” replied Holmes. “Jack Shelton, eaten by his pigs, and Harry Winter, eaten by a Bengal tiger.”
“Indeed. Both extremely nasty. Both men were crushed and disfigured by the animals that attacked them.”
“A coincidence?”
“I think it must be more than that, Mr. Holmes.”
Holmes nodded. “Then there has to be something you are not telling me, Lestrade.”
“You are quite right, Mr. Holmes. One detail which seems to clinch the matter, and which has not yet been released to the Press, is that each corpse was discovered with a coin pushed into its mouth.”
“A coin?”
“A penny.”
“So, two deaths, which might otherwise have been dismissed as unrelated accidents, are deliberately manipulated to raise the suspicion of the police,” mused Holmes. “And to be publicized as such by the presence of those coins. And you naturally suspect murder.”
“The evidence points that way. We need your assistance to help us sort out what is going on here. Are we definitely dealing with murder? And if so, what is the meaning of the coins? Are we dealing with a killer who wants to be caught? Or somebody with a decidedly perverted sense of humor?”
“And your next step, Lestrade?”
“I should like you to come with me to examine the bodies, Mr. Holmes, and see what you can make of the matter.”
“Then we need to begin by visiting the scene of each of these tragedies.”
“I have already arranged for the sites to be secured, but it might be more convenient to visit the estate first. The site of the latest death.”
Holmes turned to me. “Come, Watson. Pack yourself an overnight bag, and we shall be off.”
A train journey, followed by an uncomfortable five-mile jog in a rickety four-wheeler, brought us to the Leicestershire country house mentioned in the newspaper report.
The estate manager, dressed in tweeds and carrying a shotgun, greeted us at the main entrance to the grounds.
“This is indeed a distressing incident, gentlemen,” said the manager. “I hope we can have this matter dealt with as quickly as possible. His Lordship is extremely upset at having the police swarming across his land, and asks that we should have the matter sorted out before his guests descend upon the place for a banquet this Saturday night.”
“In that case,” said Holmes coldly, “kindly escort us to the site of the death, and explain to us exactly what occurred there.”
The manager showed us the place where the body had been discovered. A fence of iron bars bounded an area of grass, with a tiger glaring out through the bars of a brick-built animal house. The smell took me back to my days in India.
“The matter is simply told,” said the manager. “Somehow, Harry Winter gained unauthorized access to the tiger pen. The animal attacked him, mauled him, and partially consumed his flesh.”
“Has the site of the attack been left as it was?”
“No. The police surgeon who certified the death at first said it was nothing more than a tragic accident.”
“What made him change his mind?”
“The discovery of the coin concealed in the man’s mouth.”
Whilst the manager kept his eye on the tiger, and his shotgun at the ready, Holmes stepped into the enclosure, and examined the area carefully. All the while, he was grumbling that the tiger had trampled the scene as clear of useful evidence as any number of policemen.
He finally joined us outside and shook his head. “I have seen all I wish to see here,” he declared. “Now I should like to examine the body.”
The corpse had been removed to the local police station, and the police surgeon was already waiting in a back room for us to arrive.
“We are being pressed to release him for burial,” said the surgeon, as he pulled back the sheet to reveal the body. “But this has now become a coroner’s matter.”
“What exactly killed him?” asked Holmes.
The surgeon stared at Holmes with incredulity. “Man, can you not see? It’s obvious to even a blind man what killed him. His flesh has been torn and partly eaten, and many of his bones have been broken. His life has been literally crushed from his body.”
“And a coin was found in his mouth.”
“True. But that was not what killed him.”
Holmes looked to me, and I stepped closer in order to make my own examination of the corpse. “He is badly bruised, and a number of the bones have been broken,” I reported. “The animal’s claws and teeth have caused extensive injuries, but strangely with little consequent loss of blood. Mr. Winter’s body is in a poor way, Holmes. He could never have survived such a mauling.”
Holmes looked from me to the surgeon. “Gentlemen, I would be obliged if you would now kindly turn him over.”
The surgeon looked to me. I shrugged, and together we turned the dead man’s body onto its front.
“I fail to see anything new,” I announced. “Apart from the dislocation of the fourth and fifth cervical vertebrae.”
Holmes leaned closer, and lifted the hair at the nape of the man’s neck. “Now, do you see it?”
“Ah, yes. A fragment of metal embedded in the base of the skull.”
The surgeon leaned closer. “Good gracious! I completely missed that.” He collected a pair of surgical forceps from the instruments on the side-table and, with some difficulty, grasped hold of the protruding metal. As he pulled, we saw a length of steel slowly emerge from the base of the man’s skull.
“What is it, Holmes?” I cried. “It reminds me of a carpenter’s nail, but it measures no less than ten inches in length.”
“A nail of that length is not unknown among shipbuilders,” said Holmes. “But I suspect this is not one of those.”
“And what on earth is it doing inside this man’s skull?”
“This object is undoubtedly the cause of his death,” declared Holmes. “Thrust up into the brain from the base of the skull. But before I pass further judgement, I shall need to consult someone with expert knowledge of maritime matters.”
“If this is what caused his death,” I added, “then we must conclude that he was killed before the tiger launched its attack upon him. But why?”
Lestrade broke into the conversation. “In order to cover up the crime, of course, Dr. Watson. Somebody wanted us to believe that the tiger was the cause of his death.”
“In that case,” interposed Holmes, “why was the killing publicized by the coin inserted into the man’s mouth? No, gentlemen, this was a carefully staged murder. And the man who committed it is telling us something.”
“Granted, Mr. Holmes,” said Lestrade. “But what exactly is his message?”
“That is what I intend to discover,” concluded Holmes. He turned toward the surgeon. “Thank you for your cooperation in this matter, Doctor.” Then, stepping toward the door, he added, “And now we must continue to the site of the second death.”
On the map, the pig farm was not far away, but the journey led us along rough and unkempt country lanes and took a further couple of hours. All the way, Holmes sat with his hands resting on the head of his cane, and his thoughts lost in a world that I could hardly imagine.
The pig farm, where the body of Jack Shelton had been discovered, lay at the end of a long and rough farm trackway. The sound of unusual squeals and grunts, coming from somewhere beyond the farm-yard, greeted us as we reached the buildings.
After stepping down from the carriage, I followed Holmes and Lestrade toward the farmhouse. There we were greeted by a woman who appeared to be deeply distraught – and naturally enough, I thought.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Shelton,” said Lestrade, with genuine sympathy in his voice. “I have brought a couple of gentlemen with me this time, to examine the scene of this most tragic incident.”
Mr. Shelton’s widow nodded and then led us across the farmyard and between the farm buildings to a paddock of churned-up mud. This was obviously the site of the tragedy, and was identified as such by the presence of a uniformed police constable standing guard at the gate. But the paddock itself was empty.
“We had the animals moved,” explained Lestrade, “in order to allow us to retrieve the body. The pigs are now in an enclosure on the other side of the barn.”
The constable stepped aside, allowing us to enter the area. The lingering smell of the pigs might have proved too much for some people, but I was determined not to appear weak. Mrs. Shelton seemed not to notice. Only Lestrade’s face turned a shade lighter in color.
“Please explain what happened,” said Holmes.
“Late yesterday evening,” said the widow, “I heard a terrific commotion coming from this paddock. With my husband out here, I assumed it was feeding time, and thought nothing of it. But after it had lasted for some time, I came outside to investigate. At first, I could see nothing untoward. Then I saw the figure of my husband, lying in the middle of the paddock. The animals must have trampled him to death. They had even started eating him.” The poor woman shivered at the thought.
“The situation is clearly very different now,” said Holmes.
“We could hardly leave the animals in there,” said the constable, defensively.
“Quite.” Holmes examined the paddock, and then the area around the outside. “Too much has been disturbed here to allow me to make out much of value.” He turned to Lestrade. “Except that one set of footprints appears to have been made by a man wearing sea boots.”
“Sea boots?”
We all looked toward Mrs. Shelton for elucidation, but she shook her head.
“Interesting,” said Holmes, without explaining the significance of the boots to the inspector. “We must now examine the body.”
The mortuary at the police station proved to be little different from the one we had visited earlier in the day – a bare room with tiled walls and floor. The police surgeon had already laid the body out in advance of our arrival. On a side-table, close at hand, lay the surgical apparatus that had been used to carry out the post mortem examination. Alongside those, in a white enamel bowl, lay two distinctive objects. One was a penny. The other, a nail-like object, the twin of the one I had seen removed from the head of Harry Winter.
The surgeon, Dr. Blackstone, gave us his opinion. “Gentlemen, as you can see, the deceased suffered extensive physical injuries, which are consistent with his being trampled to death by a herd of swine. Their hoof marks are clearly visible on the skin. In addition, the animals had begun to eat away at the flesh, particularly at the extremities: The fingers, the nose, and the ears.”
“Ghastly,” I exclaimed.
Dr. Blackstone nodded, and pointed to the penny. “The corpse had this coin pressed into its mouth, almost certainly placed there post mortem. However, death was caused not by the animals, but by the insertion of that long object. I found it pushed up through the base of the skull, severing the spinal cord, and penetrating the brain to a depth of some ten inches. Although people have occasionally survived similar head injuries in the past, with the spine being severed, death in this case must have been almost instantaneous.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” said Lestrade.
“Indeed, a thorough and professional examination,” added Holmes. He turned to Lestrade. “Now you have evidence of your connection, Lestrade. Both men were killed before their bodies were crushed. Each man was killed by having one of these nail-like objects driven deep into his brain. Both had their spinal cords severed. Each man had a coin of the realm pressed into his mouth. And it seems nobody saw anything, or can give a description of the murderer.”
“That is indeed how it appears, Mr. Holmes,” said Lestrade. “But where can we proceed from here? How can we find out who killed those men? And why?”
“The fact that both men were partly eaten by the animals that attacked them is suggestive. But I think the real breakthrough in this case will come when we identify the origin and true purpose of those nail-like objects that were used to commit the murders. Allow me to keep one of those instruments, Inspector, and I shall make every effort to answer your question.”
“Very well, Mr. Holmes.” said Lestrade. “The hour is late, and I have to contact the coroner before returning to London. Is there anything else that you need?”
“Only the name of a local inn, located close to a telegraph office,” said Holmes. “We shall need an early start in the morning.”
After smoking pensively late into the night, Sherlock Holmes was up with the sun, and roused me from sleep with news that he had received an answer to his telegram of the previous evening.
“The police have furnished me with a description of the third Horchester brother – the one called Albert. It confirms the identity of the third man we saw outside our window in Baker Street.”
“How does that help us?”
“With his identity certain, everything now comes together.”
“Well, I cannot can see it.”
“Get dressed and find us a Bradshaw. The game is afoot, Watson, and time is extremely short.”
We took the train and reached the hometown of the Horchester family by early afternoon. I stepped down from the railway carriage onto the main platform and accompanied Holmes out into the town. We found the place bustling. Fishing boats were coming and going from the harbor, and the smell of fish pervaded the air.
Holmes stopped a man in the street and asked if he had heard of Mr. Horchester.
“Heard of him? Of course I’ve heard of him,” the man replied. “Everyone in the town knows the Horchester family. They own a large number of the fishing vessels that sail from this port. I reckon half the town depends on that family for their livelihoods. Jimmy’s getting on a bit nowadays and, with the boys all out of town, people are wondering about the future of the firm and the security of their jobs.”
“Then you will be able to direct me to where I can find Mr. Horchester senior.”
Only a few minutes later, we were standing before a splendid front door, in a street of high-class residences. Holmes rapped the large brass knocker which adorned the middle of the door.
Presently, it opened to reveal a housemaid standing on the threshold.
“Good afternoon,” said Holmes, handing over his visiting card. “I am here to speak to Mr. Horchester.”
“You mean Miss Horchester.”
“Perhaps I do,” said Holmes. “Is she home?”
The maid invited us inside, and asked us to wait in the front reception room. A moment later, a woman in her middle years came in. She stood prim, and held her head with an assertion of pride.
Holmes removed his hat. “Miss Horchester, I presume.”
The woman merely nodded.
“Good afternoon. My name is Sherlock Holmes, and this is my friend and associate, Dr. John Watson.”
“And how may I help you, Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”
“We are currently assisting Scotland Yard with their investigation into a couple of recent deaths, and I was hoping Mr. Horchester senior might be able to help us with our inquiries.”
The lady looked doubtful.
“He does live here, does he not?” asked Holmes.
“Indeed, he does.”
“Then, may we please speak with him?”
“I don’t see how you expect him to help you, Mr. Holmes. He is elderly and very frail.”
“Even so. This is a matter of the greatest urgency.”
The woman paused, as though deep in thought. Then she nodded slowly. “Very well, but we need to talk before you meet my father.”
“So, you are the sister of George Horchester?” asked Holmes.
“Oh, you’ve been talking to George, have you?” she asked with a sneer in her voice.
“We fear that his life might be in danger.”
“Huh! I’d be surprised if it wasn’t. Did he tell you what happened all those years ago? Did he tell you what he did? He killed and ate my brother.”
“But that was many years ago now.”
“Not so many that I’m likely to forget. Please sit down, gentlemen.”
We sat down, and Miss Horchester continued. “Mr. Holmes, you need to understand one or two things which have not yet been made clear to you. My name is Elizabeth Horchester. Since the day that our mother died, struck down by the news of her son’s murder on that dreadful island, I have been holding together what remains of our family. My parents had one daughter and three sons: Myself, George, William, and Albert. Being the eldest of the four children, and with none of us having married, I was the only woman left in the family, so it was up to me to take control of the situation as best I could.”
“I have heard of George and William,” said Holmes, “but please tell me about Albert.”
“Albert is the youngest. He took over all the hard work when we lost William, and after George was sent to prison. For many years now, Albert has shown himself to be the most valuable and reliable member of the family. Until recently.”
“What happened to change him?”
“Albert took it into his head to visit Dragon Island, the place where our brother was killed. He didn’t tell me what he found there, but whatever it was, it turned him into an angry and resentful man. He focused his bitterness onto those who had survived that ordeal all those years ago – the men who had killed and consumed our brother.”
“Might he perhaps have discovered William’s body?”
“I think he must have done, Mr. Holmes. There can be no other explanation for his change in personality.”
“I have gained the impression,” said Holmes, “that there had been some tension between the two older boys, George and William.”
“Tension?” Elizabeth Horchester paused, as though choosing the right words to use. “Yes, you are right, Mr. Holmes. You see, they were both in love with the same girl. Evie Carstone, as she was in those days. But George and William were both wild for her. It caused bad feeling. Rivalry. Bitterness.”
“Bad enough to kill?”
“You mean, on the island?”
“As one example.”
“No, Mr. Holmes. Whatever happened there, it was the toss of a coin that took one of my brothers, and alienated the other from his family.”
“And what became of this Evie Carstone?”
“When news of the events on that island were made public, she left town. The last I heard, she was happily married to a shopkeeper in Birmingham.”
“Is there anything else you can tell me about your brother George?”
“George possessed a great many talents, Mr. Holmes. He was an illusionist, and was in great demand to entertain the children. He could tell stories, perform conjuring tricks, and loved to make the children laugh. He has been greatly missed, at least by them.”
“Thank you, Miss Horchester,” said Holmes. “That was most helpful. Now I need to meet your father.”
“As you wish, Mr. Holmes,” replied Elizabeth. “But try not to upset him too much.”
We found Mr. James Horchester sitting in a wing-backed chair, gazing out of a bay window toward the harbor. He turned to face us when he heard us enter. He was thin and wiry, with a mop of white hair above a face alive with character.
“Father,” said Elizabeth Horchester, “you have two visitors who would like to ask you a few questions.”
“And about time too,” grouched the elderly man. “Come along in, gentlemen. I don’t like people hovering in the doorway. Find a seat, and tell me the nature of your business with me today. As if I cannot make an educated guess.”
After Miss Horchester left us, my companion began. “My name is Sherlock Holmes, and this is Dr. John Watson. We are helping Scotland Yard in their investigations into a couple of recent deaths.”
“And you thought these new deaths might be connected with that incident many years ago, the one that took away one of my sons, and ruined the lives of the rest of us.”
“That is what we are investigating, Mr. Horchester.”
“Then perhaps you are on the right track, Mr. Holmes. At the time of the tragedy, my other son, Albert, took the matter extremely badly. As did we all. Which is why George wisely decided not to return to his family home and business. Albert took on more and more responsibility for running the fishing fleet, and helped manage the company that I own. Then, recently, matters came to a head once more.”
“What was the cause of that?”
“I decided to alter my will.” The old man glared out from his piercing gray eyes, as he looked around the room. “I am growing old, Mr. Holmes, and I must make provision for the future. I decided to bring George back into the family firm, so I made legal provision in my will for the fishing business to be shared equally between my three surviving children – my two sons, and my daughter. Well, I have to tell you, Mr. Holmes, Albert took the news extremely badly. The bitterness he had bottled up inside him all spilled out. He told me he had recently discovered something significant about the death of William, and he said he was going to take revenge on each one of the survivors. Every one of those men who had killed and consumed his brother. I am horribly afraid, Mr. Holmes, that somehow those two recent deaths that I read about in the newspapers were the work of my boy, now in the grip of some insane spirit of revenge.”
Holmes reached into his coat and drew out the steel object that had been used to kill one of the victims. He handed it to the old man. “Mr. Horchester,” he said gravely. “Can you please identify this object for me?”
Mr. Horchester took the proffered nail-like object, and nodded. “It’s a type of marlin spike, Mr. Holmes. It’s commonly used by sailors, for a variety of purposes. To open knots, separate fibres, and repair rigging.”
“So I thought. That confirms my suspicion.”
“Wherever did you find it?”
“It came from the dead body of the man who had been trampled by his pigs. This is the object that killed him.”
“And the man eaten by the tiger?”
“Killed in a similar manner.”
The old man sighed. “That settles the matter. This is undoubtedly the work of my son. All three of my boys knew how to use these things. They were all marlin spike seamen.”
Holmes retrieved the spike and stood up once more. “Thank you, Mr. Horchester,” he said, decisively. “I shall leave you in peace now.”
The old man hadn’t yet finished. “Mr. Holmes, I have lost one son to the sea, and another will undoubtedly meet the hangman’s noose. You must prevent any harm from coming to my other son, George. He may have done a horrible thing in the past, but a reasonable man can hardly refuse him forgiveness. And he is my son. Promise me that you will bring him safely back to me.”
“I promise that I shall do everything in my power, Mr. Horchester,” said Holmes, “but I fear that time is short, and we must leave immediately if there is to be any chance of rescuing your son.”
Before we left the fishing port, Holmes sent a telegram to Lestrade, requesting that he find and hold the two men, Withyburn and Smith, who, with Albert Horcester, had initially followed Mrs. Horchester to Baker Street, suggesting he might discover them in the vicinity of George Horchester’s residence.
On arriving in London, we drove directly to Scotland Yard, where Lestrade greeted us on our arrival.
“We have those two men, Mr. Holmes. Withyburn and Smith. Two of the most notorious thugs in London.”
“Have they told you anything to help with the current murder inquiry?”
“Nothing at all, Mr. Holmes. I was hoping you might assist us with the interrogation.”
“Very well. Lead the way.”
We found the two thugs slouching in an interview room, with faces of stone turned defiantly upon the world. As we entered, I saw their eyes immediately show that they recognized Holmes. They had encountered him before.
“Now, gentlemen,” Holmes began, as he sat down facing them across a table. “The police are investigating two murders. And they suspect you two of being involved.”
Withyburn glared back at him. “We didn’t kill nobody, Mr. Holmes. And that’s a fact.”
“And we’ve got nothing to say,” added Smith.
“Then allow me to tell you want happened,” said Holmes, sitting back in the chair. “A certain fisherman called Albert Horchester hired you to help him commit three murders.”
“He might have done,” growled Smith, “but we’re admitting to nothing.”
Lestrade leaned forward, and laid a drawing on the table before the two men – an artist’s depiction of Albert Horchester. “Is this the man who hired you?”
Withyburn clearly recognized the man and seemed to realize that he was caught. “That’s the cove. He told us what to do, and we did it for him. He promised us each a hundred quid when all three men were dead.”
“But we didn’t kill them,” added Smith.
“Maybe not,” said Holmes, “but you physically held down the farmer, Jack Shelton, whilst Horchester thrust a spike up into the back of his head. I have seen the bruises on his arms. Then you threw his body into the paddock, to be consumed by the pigs. You did a similar thing with the groundsman, Harry Winter. Again, I have seen his bruises. However, things failed to go so smoothly on that occasion. Winter failed to die as easily as you imagined, so you broke his neck before feeding him to the tiger.”
“That was Horchester,” said Withyburn.
“But you two did all the preparation, so that makes you guilty of assisting with those murders.”
The two men glowered back at Holmes.
“Now we come to the third man,” said Holmes. “Horchester’s brother, George.”
The two men looked back at him. One shrugged. The other nodded.
“Where is this third killing to take place?”
“Go down by the docks,” said Smith, “and you’ll find a warehouse owned by an old man called Schultz.”
Lestrade rubbed his chin. “I’ve heard of it.”
“But did you know that the place conceals a rat-baiting pit?”
“If it’s hidden, how do we find the pit?”
“Go through to the back, pull up a trapdoor, and you’ll find a flight of steps leading down. That’s where you’ll find them two brothers. And one of them’s due to end up dead. Eaten.”
“How do you know?”
“Because, Inspector Lestrade, we supplied the rats. Thirty or forty of the filthy vermin.”
“When is this to take place?” demanded Holmes.
“Any moment now.”
Leaving the two thugs in custody, Holmes and I, together with Lestrade and a couple of constables, took carriage toward the docks. The men had been right about the warehouse, and soon we were climbing down into a void beneath the building. There we were met by the lingering smell of dogs and stale human sweat, together with the enduring stench of rats. We found ourselves in a room with gas-lamps illuminating a rectangular pit almost twelve feet across. An unearthly squealing arose from the pit, and the squirming multitude of rodents it contained – the rat-pit. Here was the site of a cruel but popular blood-sport, which pitted dogs against rats, with bets placed on how many each could kill within a given time period.
A figure stepped into the light – the man we had seen in Baker Street with Withyburn and Smith, holding in one hand a marlin spike glinting in the gaslight, and in the other the woebegone figure of George Horchester, his hands tied behind his back.
“You must be Albert Horchester,” observed Holmes.
“Quite right, Mr. Holmes. But you’re too early for the main event of the evening, so we must make do instead with the death of just one rat.” He gave his brother a violent shake.
“I think not!” shouted Lestrade, indicating his two constables. “Albert Horchester, drop that spike, and accept the fact that you are now under arrest for murder.”
Instead, Albert pushed his knee into his brother’s back, and thrust him over the edge of the rat-pit. With a shriek, George tumbled face-downward among the rats.
Whilst the constables took Albert in hand, I grasped hold of my Malacca and jumped down into the pit, where I pulled George to his feet, and beat off the rats which had already sunk their teeth into his flesh.
“Watson!” I looked up to see Holmes’s hand outstretched toward me. A moment later, I had joined him on the rim of the pit, where Lestrade had also lifted George to safety.
Only now did we have a chance to inspect our murder suspect. It was evident that Albert and George Horchester were indeed brothers. There could be no doubt about their relationship – except that Albert’s face was distorted by bitterness. He sneered at Holmes. “You have been very clever, Mr. Holmes,” he said. “I would happily have swung for my brother, as well as for those other two. But somehow I was afraid that you would come along at the very last moment and rescue him.”
Albert Horchester was hanged for the murders of Harry Winter and Jack Shelton, and for the attempted murder of his brother, George. The matter was widely reported in the press, and Inspector Lestrade basked in the fame of having solved the crimes so rapidly. The incident initially passed without comment from Sherlock Holmes.
A few days later, Holmes invited me to join him on a visit to the abode of the Horchester family, to which George had removed with his wife and household.
George welcomed us enthusiastically and invited us to sit down in his newly decorated parlour. “I must thank you, Mr. Holmes, for saving my life, and for bringing justice to my family.”
“Justice?” demanded Holmes, with a sour note. “Is that what you think I have brought?”
“Why, certainly.”
Holmes sat back, and fixed his gaze upon the newly-reinstated fisherman. “Indulge me for a moment, Mr. Horchester, by listening whilst I tell you a story. There once was a fishing boat which struck a rock and sank. Four members of the crew survived and managed to reach an island. As time passed, the crew began to starve. Eventually, it was decided that one of the men should die, in order to provide nourishment, and indeed life itself for the other three.”
George Horchester’s gaze remained riveted upon Holmes.
“The skipper took it upon himself to decide which one of the men should die,” continued Holmes. “He decided to appear openly fair to all of the crew, and to leave the decision to the toss of a coin. The first to flip ‘tails’ would die. The skipper tossed the coin for the first man. It came down ‘Heads’, as indeed it did for the next man, and for the skipper himself. This was hardly surprising, since the skipper was using a two-headed coin.”
Beads of sweat appeared on the face of George Horchester.
“When it came to the fourth man,” continued Holmes, “the coin came down ‘Tails’. Which is again hardly surprising, since the skipper, who was known for being adept at sleight of hand and illusionary tricks, had switched the two-headed penny for a coin with two ‘Tails’.”
“Of course,” I gasped as the truth hit me.
“This is all pure speculation,” growled George Horchester.
“Indeed it is,” replied Holmes. “I told you, this is merely a story, and I have no way of proving that this is what really happened. But, allow me to continue. The man chosen to die was the skipper’s own brother, and he wanted to be as merciful as possible in taking the young man’s life. Consequently, instead of using his blunted knife, the skipper used a method which he considered more humane: A marlin spike. This he drove deep into the back of his brother’s skull, bringing about what he hoped would be instant and painless death.”
“Which we hope it was,” said I.
I could see pain now haunting George Horchester’s eyes. “This is all very interesting, Mr. Holmes,” he said. “But you almost make it sound like murder. If so, then what possible motive might there have been for anybody committing such a terrible crime?”
“Jealousy,” said Holmes. “The skipper in the story knew that one man on that island had to die, and who better than his rival in love, even if it was his own brother?”
George Horchester sat grim faced and silent.
“If I am correct in my interpretation of the facts,” continued Holmes, “then the skipper was indeed guilty of the deliberate, premeditated murder of his brother. Years later, when the dead man’s other brother discovered the body, and saw the cause of his brother’s death, he flew into a vengeful rage. This was made all the more bitter when he discovered that the man responsible for the other brother’s death would inherit an equal share of the family business and fortune on their father’s death. Now, to pile one crime on top of another, when this younger brother confessed to a charge of murder, rather than admitting to what he had done, and providing mitigating circumstances which might have saved the man from execution, our fisherman remained silent. Now, to my mind, that is as good as murder.”
“You have no evidence to identify this hypothetical cold-hearted villain with myself, do you, Mr. Holmes?”
“None at all,” replied my companion. “It is all circumstantial. And as your brother has already pleaded guilty to the charge of murder, we shall never know what a trial judge might have made of my little story.”
“Don’t forget, Mr. Holmes, I have already been tried for the murder of William, and have served my sentence. If you could prove any of this new theory of yours to be true, and if you could convince the police of its importance, then you still could never have me tried for the same crime a second time. That would place me in double-jeopardy, and would be in violation of an Englishman’s rights under Magna Carta.”
“You seem to know your rights, Mr. Horchester.”
“Ten years ago, I discovered that a man accused of murder had to be certain of where he stands in law, Mr. Holmes.”
“Quite so. And that is the point of my tale. You could have saved Albert. But since he had discovered your secret, he had to die. Now, if the police were to hear of my story, and were to search the house of the man in question, they might come across those two incriminating coins. That would transform my tale from a hypothetical theory into an accusation with just ground for investigation. You may not be tried for the same crime twice, but if my suspicions were made public, then I can promise you, Mr. Horchester, that your life would quickly be ruined for a second time, but with no hope of ever returning to civil society. However, I promised your father that I would do my best to bring you home alive. That I have done, even if I find your actions on Dragon Island and since to be repulsive and uncivilized in the extreme. But be assured, one day the facts will be made public. One day, the story will be told.”
It was on the day following this encounter with George Horchester that Holmes received a parcel. It was small but carefully wrapped. On opening it, he paused, and allowed an expression of satisfaction to cross his face.
“Well now, Watson. What make you of this?” He passed me two coins, which I examined with care. Both were copper coins of the realm. Pennies. Each measured one-and-a-quarter inches in diameter, but neither was like any that I had ever encountered before. One carried the design of the Queen’s head on both sides. It was evident that two coins had been filed down flat, and sealed together by the application of intense heat. The second coin was different, in that it carried the figure of Britannia on both sides. The one had two “Heads”, whilst the other carried two “Tails”, just as Holmes had suggested.
I expressed my amazement, and passed the coins back to Holmes.
“I am assembling my own Black Museum, Watson,” he told me. “And I shall add to it these two coins – the instruments of a man’s deliberate killing of his brother.”
“Whilst I gather together my notes.”
“Have a care,” cautioned my companion. “In view of the hurt it might cause, it might be wise to delay publication. As I suggested to George Horchester, the time for such revelations has not yet come.”
“Very well. I have a box where it can be stored for the time being.”
Holmes sat back, smoking his pipe. “The title is of course entirely up to yourself, Watson, but I might suggest, ‘The Penny Murders’.”
I mulled over my friend’s wise and considered suggestion, nodded, and bent to amend my notes.
