A Request for Assistance
Holmes and I climbed the stairs to our Baker Street rooms wearily. My friend appeared untroubled by the cross- examination of counsel for the prosecution which he had endured less than two hours ago, for he had emerged victorious. This was the culmination of a long-expected summons to court and he had relished it, for he had always held that Fergus Stone was entirely innocent of the monstrous double-kidnapping charge that Scotland Yard had attributed to him.
“You can be proud of yourself this day, Holmes,” I remarked. “It is no small thing to restore the liberty of an innocent man, against such odds.”
“It is true that Sir Silas Crowther is a formidable opponent, but the facts, presented in the correct order, revealed the undeniable truth. When I pointed out the shortcomings in Inspector Trevalyn’s investigation, and they were acknowledged, I knew that Mr Stone would leave the court a free man.” He hung up his hat and coat and smiled. “But now the time for luncheon approaches, and I believe I hear Mrs Hudson on the stairs already. Let us take our places at the table, Watson, and await whatever delights she has prepared for us.”
After the ordeal of the morning, at least for me, we were glad to enjoy a rich beef stew. I was glad to see Holmes consume his food with an unusual relish, although he refused the following treacle tart and custard in favour of several cups of strong coffee. I pushed away my dessert plate and filled my cup with the steaming liquid, feeling pleasantly satisfied.
asked.
“What do you propose for this afternoon, Holmes?” I
He shrugged. “I have several chemical experiments
awaiting completion, but I think some attention to my index must come first. As you know, it has been most useful on occasion, and the demands on my time of late have caused me to neglect its upkeep.”
“The same is true of the accumulating pile of medical journals that seem to be arriving with increasing frequency. I really cannot afford to leave them any longer.”
“Then it is settled.” He sprang from his chair, still full of the nervous energy that is his driving force. “We shall experience a quiet, but enlightening, afternoon.”
But the prospect was short-lived. I rose from the table and looked down on Baker Street from our half-open window, knowing at once that our plans were about to be shattered.
“It is likely that our intentions will be altered, Holmes.”
He looked up from the volume he had selected. “Why should that be, old fellow?”
“Because there is a young man in rather an alarming condition, approaching the front door with difficulty.”
Holmes replaced the scrapbook, stood beside me and glanced down without comment.
The door-bell rang and we waited in silence. Moments later Mrs Hudson announced a tall, upright man who I judged to be about thirty-five and had clearly suffered some injury, before hurriedly clearing away the remains of our meal. Our
visitor appeared rather taken aback, obviously uncertain as to which of us to address.
“I am Sherlock Holmes,” my friend volunteered. “This is my associate, Doctor John Watson. Whatever your problem may be sir, be assured that you can speak as freely before him as to me.”
“Thank you, gentlemen. I am most grateful to you for admitting me without an appointment.”
“I see that you have recently endured some distress,” Holmes continued. “Will you take a glass of brandy to calm your nerves?”
“No, thank you Mr Holmes, for I have come to realise that I must recover myself without the aid of artificial stimulants.”
“Coffee then, or tea?”
He shook his head, and the cuts on his face glittered with congealed blood. “The truth is, I have hardly given any thought to food and drink of late.”
“Take the basket chair then, and tell us how we can help you. We are at your disposal.”
At my invitation he removed his hat and coat, and we all sat before the unlit fire. “I know that you keep abreast of things Mr Holmes, so you will have heard of the three murders of last week.”
“The dailies have featured them prominently, and there was some talk of growing panic. I recall that a woman was stabbed to death in a railway carriage, a man poisoned in
a restaurant and some fellow shot through the heart in his club.”
“Indeed. The panic came about because it was assumed that the killings were connected, and rumours of a wanton murderer stalking the streets of London in search of victims prevailed. The sensationalist press has much to answer for.”
“Then there is, in fact, no such possibility?”
“I suspect a connection but cannot say with certainty, for I am not far into the case.”
Holmes gave him a curious look. “Are you connected with Scotland Yard? I observed you approaching our front door and recognised your movements as resembling a march rather than a stride. It follows therefore, that you have been associated with either the military or the police.”
“Not any more, sir. I was forced by circumstance to abandon my position. Since then I have adopted the same employment as yourself.”
“You are a consulting detective?” I ventured with some surprise.
“I functioned more as an enquiry agent, which is how I was reduced to the state in which you now see me.”
“It would be best, I think, if you were to tell us your tale from the beginning,” Holmes said after a moment. “Pray endeavour to include all details.”
Our client was silent, probably collecting his thoughts, for as long as it took him to inhale deeply. Then, after a nervous glance at each of us, he explained the purpose of his visit.
“My name is Josiah Endicott,” he began. “Your observation was quite correct, Mr Holmes, for many are the times I have marched with a party of constables in the course of my duty with the Northumberland Division of the official force. About a year ago, having reached the rank of sergeant, I was about to seek further promotion with the plain-clothes branch, when I had to give up my post to nurse my wife as she slowly succumbed to consumption.”
Holmes and I expressed our condolences.
“Thank you, gentlemen,” our visitor continued. “After Gwendolyn passed on I existed in a dazed state for a time, until I realised that I must resume earning my living before I became impoverished. All I had ever known was Northumberland and the law, so I resolved to make a fresh start. I would journey to the capital and make my future there. I considered seeking a position at Scotland Yard, but hesitated at the thought of how the application of a former Northumberland sergeant might be received. Also I felt an unfamiliar desire to work alone, to see what could be accomplished.”
Holmes leaned his thin form forward in his chair. “And so, you began a new career as an enquiry agent.”
“That is how it was. This was six months ago, and I have since enjoyed some success at tracing people who, for one reason or another, have become estranged from their families or friends. I seemed to be making some headway in my chosen new direction, until I took it upon myself to study such details as the newspapers have published concerning the murders that I have already referred to.”
“What, especially, attracted your attention to these?”
“One of the victims, Mr Seth Cornwell, was attached to the Detective Branch of Scotland Yard. Shortly before his retirement he had occasion to visit the station where I served in Northumberland, and I was able to assist him slightly in the enquiry which had brought him to us. We became friends, I suppose you could say, although it was very much like a father- and-son relationship, but he was tireless in his encouragement of my plans for advancement.”
“So you decided to investigate his death, because of the intimacy that had existed between you.”
“Indeed, sir. I read that he died while in the company of a young woman, Miss Daisy Scanlon, as they dined together in a local restaurant. The newspapers revealed that Inspector Gregson of Scotland Yard has interviewed her, and reported that she was suffering great distress. He found no reason to connect her with the killing. Nevertheless, it seemed the obvious place to start my own enquiries, so I called to see the lady at her home in Harrow. She admitted me reluctantly, saying that the police had already been there, and I learned little except that her anguish seemed entirely real. It was on my way back to the capital that my carriage was brought to a halt by the sight of a body lying in its path. This proved to be a ruse, as the injured man leapt to his feet and held the cabby at gunpoint as he went to help. At the same time I was dragged to the ground by two roughs who appeared from among the trees and proceeded to beat me until I became unconscious. My last blurred memory of that incident is of the cruel face that stared into my own, telling me that my life would be forfeit if I visited Miss Scanlon again, or the others.”
“I would be glad to examine your injuries, if you so wish,” I offered.
For the first time, the ghost of a smile crept across his strained countenance. “Thank you, Doctor, but the cab driver delivered me to Saint Bartholomew’s Hospital, after my assailants had run off. Beneath my clothes I am bandaged, and I have been prescribed a regular dose of laudanum until my recovery is complete.”
“You have concluded then, that your attacker’s remark reveals that all three murders of last week are connected?” Holmes enquired.
“It seemed to me to be worth investigating. I cannot see why it should not be so, because otherwise each crime appears pointless.”
Holmes allowed his head to fall upon his chest, apparently deep in thought.
“Have you made this occurrence known to Scotland Yard?” he asked presently.
The cry of a newspaper-seller reached us through the half-open window, as our client adjusted his position painfully. “I approached Inspector Gregson, as he was previously involved in the enquiry into Mr Cornwell’s murder, but he advised me only that his investigation was proceeding. He considered my experience to have no definite connection, as such incidents take place in and around the capital every day. The remark of my attacker, he said, could have a variety of meanings. I formed the opinion that my interference was resented.”
“No doubt you are correct in that,” Holmes allowed. “I had hoped the Scotland Yarders had learned to listen more closely to victims and witnesses over the years, but sometimes I wonder at their continued obtuseness. I assume, Mr Endicott,
that you then sought to perpetuate your enquiry, by referring it to us?”
“I have followed your cases in the newspapers at length. You seemed the appropriate choice, after the official force showed such disinterest.”
If my friend felt disappointment or outrage at the prospect of being considered second choice after Scotland Yard, he showed nothing of it. His sleepy demeanour was suddenly cast aside, and I saw that his eyes glittered at the prospect of a new case.
“Very well, Mr Endicott, you may go home and leave this with us. Watson and myself will do what we can. Be assured that we will get to the bottom of things, in one way or another. But first, if you will kindly furnish us with some details.”
Mr Endicott produced several sheets of paper from a pocket of his coat. “I have committed it all to writing. These are, of course, my own private conclusions and observations. I hope they will be of some assistance to you.”
“I am certain of it,” Holmes said after accepting the sheets and running his eyes over the script quickly. “But now I see that you are in need of sleep and convalescence and, since you have described your findings so well, there is no need to detain you further. Be assured that you will hear from us before long.”
With that we all rose. Our client thanked us with some embarrassment, and left us shortly afterwards. We heard the front door close behind him, before Holmes spoke.
“I thought better of Gregson.”
“Possibly his attention has shifted to other things. The Millington train robbery and the rumours of forthcoming assassination attempts on members of the government, and even the royal family, must be occupying much of his time. Lestrade, as you know, is in Aberdeen.”
“Quite so. How do you suggest that we proceed, Watson?”
“First, you will need to peruse those documents.”
He nodded. “And I will do so, this evening. We may, however, be able to make a start this afternoon. May I take it that you are with me?”
“Of course. As soon as I have collected my service weapon.”
“Since we do not know, as yet, the full nature of what we are about to embark upon, that would be as well. Clearly, the home of Miss Daisy Scanlon was under observation by our adversaries, whoever they may be, which also suggests that this affair was planned in advance.”
“Where, then, do we begin?” I felt the peaceful few hours that I had expected suddenly slip away. Already, Holmes’ movements had become like those of a foxhound, restrained but ready to begin the chase.
He glanced at the papers again. “Mr Endicott has compiled these details well. Mr Seth Cornwell, was poisoned while enjoying a meal in the Carousel Restaurant in Harrow. There is time, I think, for us to visit Miss Scanlon, even at the cost of our dinner suffering some delay.”
With that we retrieved our hats and coats. We stood in the late spring sunshine for several minutes, before a hansom
deposited a fare nearby. Holmes strode across the street with me in his wake, and we were comfortably settled as the frisky gelding set off along Baker Street at a fast pace.
Sometime later, we neared our destination as the trees leaning from both sides of the road gave way suddenly to a considerable number of houses, together with a church, a public house and a row of shops. As we passed I noticed that the Carousel Restaurant appeared to be a popular and well- turned out establishment, with a large blackboard outside on which today’s menu was displayed. We paid off the hansom, and it had scarcely vanished from our sight when my friend raised his stick to indicate our destination.
“There is the house we seek, Watson. It is much as our client described it in his notes.”
I had to agree that the writings had been comprehensive. The tiny cottage was one of a thatched-roofed group of four. I noted, as I knew that Holmes had, that all the curtains were drawn.
He rapped upon the door, and presently we heard slow footsteps from within. It opened, slowly at first, to reveal a fair- haired young girl in some distress. Tears flowed down her face, as she enquired as to our business.
“My name is Sherlock Holmes,” he replied, “and this is my friend and colleague Doctor John Watson. We are continuing an investigation into the death of Mr Seth Cornwell, in whose company we believe you were at the time of his unfortunate demise. We would be grateful for a few minutes of your time to that end.”
Miss Scanlon regarded us blankly for several moments, then she nodded with what appeared to be reservation and, still sobbing quietly, stood aside for us to enter.
We were led into a spotless room, decorated with tasteful wall-hangings and copper bed-warmers from a previous age. The furniture was well-polished and the carpet, I would have said, was of Turkish origin. Our hostess bade us sit and offered tea, which we refused.
“Please, gentlemen, ask your questions,” she invited through a vale of tears.
“It is obvious that you are very upset,” Holmes began in a softer tone, “so we will endeavour to bring this interview to a close as quickly as can be. Firstly, I would be grateful if you would enlighten us as to your connection with Mr Cornwell.”
Miss Scanlon removed her handkerchief from her face. “He lived next door. Shortly after I came to live here, about a year ago, we began chatting over the garden fence and soon became friends. One day he and I chanced to be eating in the restaurant down the road at the same time, and soon began to attend there together regularly. He used to entertain me with stories of his years in the police, and after a while I learned that people around here had assumed that he was my grandfather.”
“Then it is his death that has distressed you so,” I said. She nodded. “That, and my guilt.”
“Kindly elaborate.” Holmes requested curiously.
“There are things I could not bring myself to tell the police, when they came to investigate, or the kind gentleman
who followed. Now, increasingly with each passing day, they weigh upon my conscience more heavily than I can bear.”
“If you unburden yourself to us, we will do our utmost to help you, if that is at all possible.”
She looked steadily at Holmes, then at me, before deciding to speak.
“I do not believe that anyone can save me,” she said in a dull tone, “though I would welcome your assistance. Truly, I am desperate.”
I felt pity for her. “Come now, in my experience there are not many situations that are absolutely hopeless.”
“Here, I fear that it is so.” She shook her head in anguish. “I am for the hangman.”
Holmes and I glanced at each other, as the sound of a horse galloping by reached us from the road. It faded into the distance before he spoke.
“How can that be?” He asked softly.
She closed her eyes, as if her own words caused her agony. “Because it was I, who killed him.”
