Dr. Watson is called upon to attend the execution of a man convicted of murder. Eighteen months after the ordeal, the murder victim is found on a London dock, actually murdered. If this becomes known, the public's faith in the police, the justice system, and the government itself could be in peril.
Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson must join forces with Scotland Yard to secretly uncover the deadly scheme that led to a miscarriage of justice, even as they themselves become targets of murder. As they are led through a series of seemingly unrelated events and murders, they must discover the minds behind this complex plot and somehow bring them to justice.
Can Holmes and Watson, along with Inspector Gregson, unravel the clues as they are discovered? Will they survive long enough to close the case? Join Holmes and Watson as they follow a confounded trail that leads to the door of desperate men hiding in plain sight.
Dr. Watson is called upon to attend the execution of a man convicted of murder. Eighteen months after the ordeal, the murder victim is found on a London dock, actually murdered. If this becomes known, the public's faith in the police, the justice system, and the government itself could be in peril.
Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson must join forces with Scotland Yard to secretly uncover the deadly scheme that led to a miscarriage of justice, even as they themselves become targets of murder. As they are led through a series of seemingly unrelated events and murders, they must discover the minds behind this complex plot and somehow bring them to justice.
Can Holmes and Watson, along with Inspector Gregson, unravel the clues as they are discovered? Will they survive long enough to close the case? Join Holmes and Watson as they follow a confounded trail that leads to the door of desperate men hiding in plain sight.
Of the many adventures I shared with my good friend Sherlock Holmes, none has made as significant an impression on my consciousness or psyche as this case. As one ages, one develops the sense that one can distinguish right from wrong, just from unjust. It can be a shattering and humbling experience to suddenly find that you may have been too cavalier in your beliefs and perhaps too trusting in how the law is applied.
My involvement in this extraordinary case (a case which, unbeknownst to us, would span more than eighteen months) began late Wednesday afternoon, the 31st of October, 1894. It was the day prior to All Saintâs Day and Holmes and I were in our rooms at 221B Baker Street. The day had been brisk and the small fire crackling in the fireplace kept the cool afternoon temperatures at bay.
Holmes was playing his violin, whilst I was seated in my chair, an open newspaper on my lap, staring out the window deep in my own thoughts. When Holmes ceased his playing, I hadnât noticed, so distant were my ruminations.
âMy dear Watson,â Holmes began, âwhy do you volunteer for such duties if it makes you so melancholy?â
I hadnât mentioned anything to Holmes concerning my troubles, and I wasnât in the mood to enter into a discussion about his powers of observation. Yet he had pinpointed my mood exactly.
âHow do you know what has set me in this âmelancholyâ mood?â I sighed.
âWhen I see an opened telegram from Newgate Prison on the table, my usually energetic friend sitting quietly staring out the window, and todayâs newspaper on his lap open to an article concerning an execution that is scheduled to take place tonight, it is the height of simplicity to conclude that he has been requested to serve as the attending physician at a hanging.â
âYour powers of observation never cease to amaze me, Holmes,â I sarcastically replied.
âOh, it is simple deduction,â Holmes continued, missing my petulant tone. âAlthough why you volunteer for such duty escapes me.â
âSome time ago I was asked if I would be willing to serve as an alternate attending physician for the prison if the need ever arose. I felt it was my civic duty and would help serve the cause of justice. In the event that Dr. Raff, the prison physician, could not be in attendance, either myself or Dr. Taylor in Walworth would serve as his alternate. As it happens, this morning Dr. Raff was called away for a family emergency.â
Lifting the telegram, I concluded. âHence, I have been summoned.â
âWell,â Holmes said as he sat across the table, âyou have never been one to shirk your responsibilities. At least they have ceased with public executions and have brought the gallows inside the prison walls. Make sure you are thorough in your duties. You donât want another incident like that William Duell hanging.â
After pausing for a moment, Holmes said, âPray, tell me about the case.â
Referring to the newspaper, I briefly recounted the affair.
âIt seems that Mr. Simon Rhoads was convicted of the murder of Mr. Paul Watts. The trial took place late last month. You and I were in France attending to that business for Colonel Charles Maret and his wife.â
âYes. A simple enough case and not very challenging.â
âWell,â I continued, âit says here that Mr. Rhoads was tried and convicted for the murder. He had been seen quarrelling with Mr. Watts in a pub the evening before the murder. Witnesses said they saw the two men leave together. Both men were found the next morning lying in Battersea Park, across from the pub. Mr. Rhoads was asleep from a night of drinking; Mr Watts was dead from a severe stab wound. The newspaper says the weapon was a letter opener that Rhoadsâ wife had given him. Both the letter opener and Rhoadsâ clothes were covered in blood, as of course, was Mr. Watts. Even though Rhoads protested his innocence loudly throughout the trial, he was convicted of the crime and sentenced to hang.â
âAnd the requisite three Sundays have passed, so the execution is tonight?â Holmes enquired.
âYes, Sunday last was the third. And Iâm afraid that since it is the eve of All Saintâs Day there will be an even larger and more unruly crowd outside the prison than usual.â
âYes, theyâll make quite a festival of it.â
We were silent for a few moments until my eyes fell upon another story in the newspaper.
âAnd here is an article relating that several members of Parliament have asked the Home Secretary to commute Rhoadsâ sentence. They have even considered petitioning the Queen. But there are other members of Parliament, led by this Lord Oliver, demanding that the sentence be carried out. Theyâve made statements like âbrutal criminals should be treated brutallyâ and âblood will have blood.â It appears they will win the day.â
Holmes considered this for a moment. âWell, putting brutality and MacBeth aside for the moment, Lord Oliver would seem to have a point. The man received a fair trial by the finest justice system in the land. A life was taken, brutally it seems, so a debt is owed to society. A society can only survive if it has laws that are fair and enforced. You are simply serving as confirmation that the final step in the enforcement of the law has been carried out.â He paused another moment, then asked, âTell me, why does this distress you so? I recall the other times you served in this capacity you have also been in an agitated state.â
I shook my head.
âIt is my own wrangling with my conscience. As a physician I am duty bound to ease suffering. However, as you say, justice must be carried out. A wrong must be punished. I have sat here turning this over and over in my mind. I can find no other solution, yet I feel an uneasiness that neither justice nor society is being well served.â
We were each silent for several moments, considering the arguments for and against the issue that was laid before us.
Then Holmes sighed. âWell, we shanât resolve the matter tonight and I can see that you are out of sorts. It was inconsiderate of me to draw you into such a discussion. Please forgive me.â
We left the issue there and one hour later I was on my way to Newgate Prison.
# # #
During my journey to the prison, I was thankful for the shelter of a cab as the weather had turned foul. Unfortunately, I was forced to abandon the carriage some two blocks from the prison as the streets were choked with all manner of activity.
Upon exiting the cab, I encountered a mass of people cavorting in the streets and outside the prison walls. Hangings still attracted a large number of people and one could describe the overall mood as festive. Even the heavy mist couldnât dampen the celebratory atmosphere. Men, women and even children were laughing and playing games in the streets outside the prison. Some were dining on sandwiches. Many more were wearing costumes or masks and guzzling beer in celebration of All Saintâs Day. This was particularly ghoulish given the event about to take place. Boisterous laughter accompanied by drunken singing added to the cacophony of sounds. As I picked my way through the madness, I observed the very worst of human nature on display.
Street vendors and all manner of folk had set up small stands or tables to sell baubles, trinkets, or anything else that could be peddled wherever there was a crowd of people. One vendor sold masks with the image of a skull painted upon it. Another sold a three-foot length of rope with a hangmanâs noose on the end. I witnessed several children running through the streets waving the ghastly symbol over their heads.
With a glance down one of the alleys, I paused to watch two gaudily dressed women sitting on the back rails of a buckboard wagon. The male driver, dressed in an overcoat and shoddy hat, sat on the front seat holding the reins of the two horses. All three were gazing at the back of the wagon where I saw the upstretched legs of a third woman, her block-toed shoes in the air. A group of four men stood behind the wagon, quietly watching, waiting, and apparently unconcerned that their activities showed them to be little more than animals. A fifth man came up and spoke to the driver. After money was exchanged, he went and joined the others.
Then one of the seated women rose, apparently in preparation for taking the place of the one lying in the back of the wagon. The third woman, upon seeing me observe them, winked, blew me a kiss, and lifted her skirt slightly. I hastily averted my gaze and moved on.
As I continued making my way through the clamouring mayhem, the stench of burnt sausage and the odour of horse manure from the alley penetrated the damp air. Passing between groups of people, jostled by the rowdy crowd, the strong smell of body odour assailed my senses. From across the street, I could hear discordant singing accompanied by a small accordion. Elsewhere, a fife played as a woman sang an old Scottish dirge. The constant gaiety and laughter were occasionally punctuated with the sound of loud belching, angry cursing, or a random scream.
Pressing on to the prison, I had to step over a man sitting against a lamppost, his hat in his lap, swilling beer purchased from a street vendor. Under a canvas tarpaulin, a busy cadre of tricoteuses sat laughing in anticipation of the main event. Then several children with painted faces suddenly surrounded me, and holding hands, danced around me in a circle of gleeful laughter, before running down the pavement.
Finally, I made my way through the melee to the main gate of the prison. The guard was none too happy to see me request entry, believing that I was part of the general rabble celebrating outside.
âWe donât let spectators inside! Now be off with yeâ,â he stated gruffly.
âSir! I am Dr. John Watson. I have been requested to attend the execution this evening,â I declared as I showed him the telegram.
âOh, aye!â said he. âI didnât recognise yeâ. Let me get this here gate open.â He fumbled with a heavy set of keys until he found the correct one that unlocked the gate. As I passed through, several people behind me attempted to push forward and enter, but they were harshly forced back by the guard.
With the gate closed, the guard said, âFollow me, Doctor,â and led the way across the prison compound towards one of the large wooden prison doors some thirty yards from the gate. As we walked through the prison yard, I saw the execution shed through the mist.
The shed itself had been constructed some years ago when hangings were moved inside the walls of the prison. It was a massive stone structure that stood about fifteen feet tall and some ten feet wide at the top. It protruded away from the prisonâs west wall by some thirty feet. A large passage connected the condemned cells up on the first floor of the prison with the gallows platform standing at the top of the structure. The upper half of the gallows could be seen from where I was in the prison yard, perhaps to serve as a constant reminder of what awaited those convicted of a capital crime. I have to say that just gazing at the apparatus unnerved me greatly.
âThis ought to be a good one tonight, Doctor,â the guard said over his shoulder. âHeâs been telling anyone whoâll listen that âeâs innocent.â
With a knowing chuckle he continued, âOf course, theyâre all innocent in âere.â As the guard spoke, it was evident that he was anticipating the hanging with much enthusiasm.
Once we were inside the prison, we walked up a set of spiralled stone steps to the condemned cells on the first floor. Our footfalls echoed off the stone stairs and condensation could be seen on the walls.
âWe âave quite a crowd outside tonight,â said the guard, the echo of his voice carrying down the steps. âI âavenât seen a crowd this size in years. What with it cominâ up on All Saintâs Day and all, thisâll be quite a celebration.â
âIâm sure that there is a great deal to celebrate, sir,â said I grimly.
The guard turned to give me a look of disdain, but I was unconcerned with his opinion. I had found that it was one thing to hold a belief in how justice should be carried out, but it was quite another to actually be a part of the process. I do not mind saying that I was not looking forward to any part of the affair that I was about to witness.
Without any further discussion, the guard took me to an upstairs hallway. As we walked, I saw massive wooden doors at the far end of the corridor. I knew that through those doors, the gallows awaited.
Finally, I was shown to a room where I was told to sit and wait until I was sent for. As I stood at the entryway, I observed that the room had been a cell at one time, with crude messages scratched onto the stone walls and barred windows that looked out onto the back of the prison yard. A small table, upon which I set my medical case, stood against one wall. I sat on the only wooden chair, alone with my thoughts, and waited to be summoned.
As I waited, the sounds around me began to make their way into my consciousness. I could hear the muted rumble of merriment and carrying on of the crowd outside the prison walls. I could also hear an occasional whoop or scream from somewhere deep within the prison as well as the echo of insane laughter. The air in the cell remained chilled and the odour of damp rock was prevalent throughout. The stone floor and walls were cool and damp to the touch due to the inclement weather. Yet I noticed that my mouth was parched from nervous anticipation of the events that were about to take place.
I had seen death many times before. In the war I saw comrades killed by the enemy and in the many cases I shared with Holmes I had viewed dead bodies as the result of all manner of murder. But tonight, this was going to be a death that was to be orchestrated by order of a court. This was a planned, anticipated, and scripted killing that I was going to witness as it took place.
Ken Courtenay's The Case of the Man Who Died Twice: A Sherlock Holmes Adventure seizes the reader's attention and does not let go. This novel's pace and plot lure the reader into a London filled with misadventure and arrogance.
A man declaring his innocence hangs for a murder. Eighteen months later, the man supposedly murdered comes back to London from a business trip to America. And gets murdered for real.
Tobias Gregson, Scotland Yard Inspector, calls on Holmes and Watson to help untangle this case. More murders and suicides follow, even involving murders Inspector Lestrade is investigating. Although Holmes and Watson relentlessly follow clues, they fear they will not solve the case before others are murdered. The twists and turns of the case draw the reader in, but well-placed clues give subtle hints as to who might be the mastermind.
Courtenayâs Holmes, Watson, and Gregson stand up well compared to the original characters drawn by Conan Doyle. They have the same quick wits and moral code as Doyleâs originals. The detective duo spring in and out of cabs and briskly stride along Londonâs foggy streets, as always. Inspectors Gregson and Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson are willing subordinates, as in days gone by. Gregson and Lestrade know they will receive top-notch assistance. Mrs. Hudson is longsuffering and the bearer of hearty victuals for Holmes, Watson, and the others.
This novelâs themes resonate with todayâs political climate in the United States. In an understated, subtle, and even-handed way, Courtenay spotlights greed and murder. He also highlights the attitude some people have that they will get away with anything, including murder, because of who they are, their standing in the community, and their race.
Based on this work, I will check out the authorâs other works. I hope Mr. Courtenay continues to offer additional cases that Inspectors Gregson and Lestrade can use to entice Holmes and Watson into action.