Murder at Sorrow's Crown Read online

  I opened the door to Mrs. Hudson’s knock. She handed me a card, which identified our caller as the man I had been expecting: G. Wilson Waugh, the manager of Shad Sanderson Bank in the city. I asked our landlady to show the gentleman up to our rooms.

  The man who stood in our sitting room moments later was more youthful than most in his profession. His side whiskers were a dark brown, giving his face a dire look, and he looked uncomfortable in his damp, light wool suit. I offered our guest a seat on the couch. By this time, Holmes had completed his work with the burning cigar, had made his notes, and was in the process of sweeping the well-weighed remains into a basket. Taking his customary chair, he did not shake hands, but rather sat and looked intently at the visitor, his face a blank mask.

  “Holmes, I met Mr. Waugh while I was at the bank. He was most considerate to help me with a matter and we fell into conversation. He mentioned a problem and I told him you might well be the fellow to come to his aid,” said I. Turning, I addressed the bank manager who shuffled his feet, a sign of nervousness if ever I saw one.

  “Mr. Waugh, when we spoke at the bank, you mentioned there was a problem that mystified you,” I began. “Would you be so kind as to elaborate for Mr. Holmes?”

  “Of course, Dr. Watson,” said he, nodding his head. “I appreciate you seeing me. The truth of the matter is, I remain stumped by the problem and could benefit from a wiser mind.”

  “That would be mine,” Holmes said. “Tell me in as great detail as you can.”

  “Our banking establishment has been finding various cashier accounts deficient at the end of each day. It is never the same cashier so we cannot begin to accuse any one person.”

  “How long has this been going on?”

  “Two weeks, sir,” Waugh said.

  “And how much has gone missing each time?”

  “By our accounts, we believe the sum total unaccounted for comes to three hundred pounds six pence.”

  “Is it the same amount each time?” Holmes had barely moved, taking in everything about the speaker, who appeared not to notice, shifting his gaze from Holmes to me and back again.

  “No two sums have matched.”

  “And you say these are all different employees working the cashier windows?”

  “Indeed they are; most having worked for us for a number of years. We trust each and every one of them.”

  Holmes stopped questioning the man and appeared to consider the issue, his gaze taking in the banker, from his brightly polished shoes to his immaculately tailored suit, before focusing somewhere in the middle distance. I could almost hear the cogs whirring as his mind processed every last detail of Waugh’s appearance. I tried to apply my own mind in the same fashion, noting the cologne the man wore, deducing from the condition of his footwear that he’d visited the shoeshine boy on the corner—as I often did myself—before his arrival. Waugh fidgeted under the detective’s scrutiny and seemed increasingly uncomfortable. I, having had more than a few occasions to see his great mind at work, merely sat by and waited for his conclusions.

  The dull early morning light filtered in through the thick curtains and the thin haze of cigar smoke, picking out that familiar aquiline profile, deep in thought.

  “I daresay, you are a bold one,” Holmes finally said, a small smile cracking his severe face. Waugh looked positively stunned. “Have you noticed, Watson, that Mr. Waugh’s shoes are brand new? Italian made, judging by the stitching and suppleness of the leather, and only recently imported.” I said nothing, understanding immediately where Holmes was going. “Then, there is the pocket watch chain, new gold, and as of yet showing no signs of wear, suggesting it is a recent addition to his ensemble. One could assume that a bank manager is fastidious when it comes to personal appearance, after all, in order to be the part one must first appear the part, that is how one engenders trust and encourages fools to part with their money, wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Waugh?” The banker said nothing. “We must also consider the cut of his suit, which falls exquisitely on his slender frame, and is of the latest style from Savile Row. Such a suit would exceed the comfortable reach of a manager’s salary. I will concede that while bankers must present the most trustworthy of appearances, sometimes it is difficult to discount the obvious when it comes to financial impropriety. Additionally, Watson, I am sure you noted our guest’s topcoat when he arrived? Burberry’s, new gabardine if I am not mistaken. Also new.”

  I shook my head, not having perceived any of these facts.

  “If the amounts are random as are the days they go missing, I think we may safely rule out the possibility that one of the cashiers is being blackmailed. Equally, if as Mr. Waugh insists, the staff are trustworthy, then someone else must be at fault. Since customers cannot access the money drawers we may rule out the population of Greater London and instead conclude that a single individual is responsible, randomising the funds taken and the burgled drawers simply to cause confusion.”

  “Sounds altogether reasonable,” I conceded.

  “But, the bank officials are now growing alarmed and will shortly bring this matter to the police; after all, theft is the one thing in their business that cannot be countenanced. The public give their money to the bank for safekeeping. If the bank cannot be trusted to keep that money safe what is the point of using their services? The shadow of suspicion will cast its pall over the staff and our thief will be among them. That is why he is now worried as to how obvious his crime will be. Isn’t that so, Mr. Waugh?”

  Waugh bolted upright, a look of terror on his pallid features as every ounce of blood drained from his face. It was immediately obvious he wanted to be anywhere else but 221B, under the scrutiny of Holmes’s all-seeing eye. I would have pitied the man, but for the fact that he was a crook.

  “You, Mr. Waugh, are the thief. You have endeavoured to make it appear the work of others, but to a trained eye, you have been spending your ill-gotten gains on improving your appearance when not paying off the house. And I am not referring to your home, Mr. Waugh.”

  Now Holmes had my attention. I swear Waugh thought the detective was consorting with the spirits; how else could he read his guilt so thoroughly? I wondered much the same myself, but knew the question had to have a far more mundane solution, like most spiritualists’ tricks.

  “How in the world can you tell he owes a gambling debt?”

  Holmes offered a wry smile. “You will note the way his hands jostle back and forth when he is nervous? It is a tell, as if his cupped palm still contains dice. In his mind’s eye, he is no doubt picturing the rolls that went awry, placing him in debt and precipitating the unfortunate sequence of events that have brought him to our door. No doubt Mr. Waugh here stole when he could no longer afford to cover his gambling debt on his own modest salary, thinking to replace the missing funds when his fortune improved. However, once he realised the checks and balances in place were insufficient to catch a thief in the act, he began stealing in earnest without fear of retribution or recrimination, and continued, exceeding his needs until ultimately guilt set in and made him dispose of it.”

  “On expensive clothing,” I concluded.

  “Precisely,” Holmes agreed.

  “Why would he present you with this as a mystery if he is at fault?” I asked. Waugh remained frozen in his seat between us.

  “Ah, my dear Watson, our young banker is merely testing his pretence at innocence and has found it to be useless. Without doubt, he is well aware that his crimes are going to be exposed and is already thinking through the implications. Isn’t that so, Mr. Waugh?”

  “Are you going to turn me in?” Waugh asked. His voice had shifted its register, the panic clearly evident in his tone. I could see the instinct to run bright in his eyes.

  “No. If I am any judge of human nature I should think you will turn yourself in this morning,” Holmes said without preamble. “You are clearly feeling the unbearable burden of guilt. Of course, if I do not read of your confession in tomorrow’s paper, I will i
nform the police myself. That should suffice.”

  The air of agitation quickly left poor Waugh, who sank back into the couch, utterly defeated. “I am through.”

  “Indeed you are. See him out, Watson.”

  Holmes was no longer interested in the man. I steered the hapless Waugh back down the stairs and returned to our rooms to an unhappy Holmes.

  “You made quick work of that, why do you look so glum?”

  “You said it yourself, Watson, and more than once: we need a paying case or we will find ourselves in straits similar to the hapless Waugh. But not just any case: one that will not only pay its way, but one that will challenge my intellect.”

  I offered a knowing smile. “Then you are in luck, my friend,” I replied. “Because I have scheduled a series of such visits today and I daresay at least one of these should prove a worthwhile challenge.”

  Which, of course, was a bold statement. As the morning progressed Holmes grew less and less interested in the parade of clients and their problems, large or small. He was dismissive of their concerns, blunt in their dismissal, and repeated again and again that he was only interested in a true challenge, which I was rapidly coming to conclude was about as common as a unicorn in this city.

  As I had made these appointments over the last several days, I will admit I had been filled with confidence, certain that we should have not one but several cases worthy of the great detective. The word you are looking for, dear reader, is hubris, but in my defence, of late I have increasingly spent time accompanying Holmes on these investigations, taking my notes and recreating the cases to the best of my recollection as yarns for publication. I believe I have become a better raconteur with each such effort, but every time Holmes reads the finished report and dismisses it as exaggeration bordering on outright falsehood. However, not once has he asked me to cease these efforts and the payment for each piece has been sufficient to compensate me for the time not spent practising medicine, keeping a roof over our heads. Indeed, our partnership has become so commonplace that Lestrade has come to expect us as a pair.

  What I had not and could not have anticipated was that this July would prove to be one of the wettest in memory, which had turned my injured leg into a throbbing reminder of my time with the Berkshires. The discomfort proved a distraction as the afternoon wore on and potential clients came and went. I should not have been surprised when Holmes managed to solve each “mystery” with the same ease as he did our poor banker’s conundrum.

  A Mrs. Mary Carrington arrived next, complaining of a missing pearl necklace. Holmes sent a withering look my way, obviously disappointed with the prosaic nature of the crime, but took a deep breath and turned his penetrating attention towards the woman. She was in her late fifties, crow’s feet prominent on her otherwise smooth face that suggested a life lived with lots of laughter and gave her an attractive air. As she sat in the guest chair, she fidgeted with her hands, constantly reaching up to her naked neck, no doubt missing the pearls.

  “Mrs. Carrington,” Holmes said, not wasting time with anything as civil as introductions. “I am going to ask you a few questions. Please be completely honest with your answers.”

  “Of course.”

  “First, tell me about your finances,” Holmes said, bluntly.

  She appeared shocked by such a bold approach, but didn’t shirk or seek to deflect the question as she might have done. “We are adequately provided for. My husband works for Shaw Brothers, a trading firm at the London Stock Exchange and has for the last two decades.”

  “Yes, but that is not what I actually asked, dear lady. Have there been any irregularities in how your husband chooses to spend his money that you have noticed?”

  “How so?”

  “Are you, perhaps, paying bills later than you would have previously, or buying less expensive cuts of beef?”

  “My husband pays our bills, of course, and we have a cook who goes to the market,” she said in a defensive tone.

  “So, what you are really telling me is that you have no sense of your family’s fortunes?”

  “I suppose… No, I do not,” she stammered, flustered. She couldn’t look him in the eye.

  “Your perfume is, I believe, French, yes?”

  “It is,” she replied then looked at me as if Holmes’s question marked some kind of madness she couldn’t follow. I inclined my head slightly, urging her to go with his line of enquiry.

  “Your dress is also of French design, is it not?”

  She paused to look down at her attire and nodded to confirm his observation.

  “It is my belief your husband has suffered a reversal of fortune,” Holmes said. “He has favoured the French which has translated to the lifestyle you enjoy.”

  “I’m sorry, but favoured how?” the woman asked, earning her a disapproving look from Holmes.

  “He was investing in their financial instruments, I suspect. However, in March, a substantial loan was being proposed by the government and I believe he invested thinking the loan would be forthcoming. Instead, the loan was denied by the International Financial Society, the monies diverted to the United States of America to subsidise development of their railways, so your husband’s investments turned out poorly. He is now burdened with unexpected debts and I contend has hocked your necklace to cover the family’s obligations.”

  Her jaw dropped in surprise, eyebrows shooting towards the ceiling. “How could he…?” her voice trailed off and I offered her my handkerchief to stem the tears rapidly welling in her eyes. It was not, all things considered, a happy end to her visit. After escorting her out, I returned to the sitting room and confronted my bored companion.

  “How the devil can you not know the Earth orbits the sun, but recite by heart some obscure bit of financial business from four months ago?”

  “Watson, my job is entirely dependent on what might drive others to commit criminal acts. Among those many causes will be various financial transactions including movements in the financial markets. I do not make a great study of the Stock Exchange, but I do follow it well enough to make such obvious deductions.”

  “Obvious to you, but not to that poor woman,” I said. “How bad do you expect their difficulties to be?”

  “If he is keeping the news from his wife and going so far as to pawn jewellery, I would suggest it is quite dire.”

  Next, we entertained an elderly man who asked for Holmes’s help in finding his first love. He wrung his hands as his raspy voice pleaded that he had thought of her every day since they last saw one another when he was but sixteen.

  “If you were so much in love, what separated you?” Holmes asked our guest.

  “A difference in purpose, I suppose. I was determined to become successful in business, having been apprenticed to a man named Jorkin, and went to London to work. She wanted to raise a family and farm so remained out in the country. I suppose our love was not strong enough.”

  “No, I daresay it could not have been, otherwise one of you would have joined the other. You are reaching your twilight years, sir, and I suspect you think of the young lady as a life that might have been. Believe me when I say seeking her out will not bring you happiness. It is best you keep her memory and not mar it with a current portrait.”

  After the man left, I turned to Holmes and smiled. “That may have been the kindest thing I have ever seen you do.”

  Holmes made a dismissive noise and lit his pipe, which had the virtue of having a far more pleasing aroma than the foul cigar.

  A vicar came by seeking help with missing candlesticks but that too was easily solved, a solution so simple that I was fairly close to finding it myself before Holmes determined the conclusion.

  With each dismissal my companion grew increasingly sour. I suggested we cancel the remaining appointments but he fortified himself with tea and insisted we not delay the inevitable.

  “The sooner we dismiss the superfluous cases, the sooner a true challenge will present itself,” he declared. At least that
was the plan. But as the morning turned to afternoon even I was beginning to despair. We worked through the potential clients without a single promising problem. By half past two, we had completed the interviews and I was at a loss. I suggested, as the rain had lightened by then, we take a stroll and clear our heads. I privately thought that it would also allow me to open a window and air out our rooms, which still stank of cigar smoke. We were gathering ourselves for a walk through the park when there was a ring at the bell.

  “I thought you said we had exhausted your calendar?” Holmes said with some irritation. “I think I have indulged you enough for one day.”

  “We have,” I replied. “I cannot say who this might be.”

  Mrs. Hudson appeared at our door again, looking distinctly irritated; we had, after all, caused her to ascend the stairs many times already that day. The card she proffered to me was that of a Mrs. Hermione Frances Sara Wynter, with an address in Shoreditch, not the most salubrious of addresses. Holmes joined me in the doorway and took the card.

  “She says she has no appointment but seems determined to see you,” said Mrs. Hudson to Holmes.

  He began to shake his head dismissively when Mrs. Hudson continued boldly. “She’s an old woman, sir, and has likely put herself out a considerable bit to be here in this weather. I know you have had a busy day, but surely one more visitor could do you no harm?”

  “Oh, very well,” Holmes said, spinning on his heel and resuming his place in the chair.