Sherlock Holmes (34 page)

It was upon a somewhat gloomy
day in April1901that the case that I have here recorded as that of
‘The Second Key’ began. We had breakfasted and Holmes was now
entirely hidden from view behind his copy of 'The Times'. The only
indication of any activity being the occasional plume of blue smoke
rising from behind the paper and the odd derisory grunt as he
continued to read. I had settled down to read my copy of 'The
Lancet' and had become intrigued by an article reporting on
'Dermatitis from arsenic in stockings'.

From the floor below we heard
the ringing of our door bell followed closely by the unmistakable
sound of Mrs Hudson's tread on the stairs.

Holmes put down his paper and
was then immediately alert, saying, "It appears that we have a
visitor, Watson. From her step, a young lady, it would seem."

Although we had both heard the
same sounds of persons climbing the stairs to our rooms, I had not
been able to determine anything of our visitor. A few moments later
there was a gentle knock at our door and Mrs Hudson entered. Our
visitor was indeed a young lady but her appearance was somewhat
surprising. Before us stood a slender figure of average height,
dressed completely in black, her face covered entirely by a black,
mourning veil.

Mrs Hudson nodded to us both and
announced our visitor. "This is Mrs Carter, sir. She wishes to
consult you."

Holmes stood and moved forwards,
extending his hand, saying, "Good morning. Please, be seated. How
can I be of assistance?"

Our visitor held out her black
gloved hand and allowed herself to be guided to our settee by
Holmes. After she had sat for a few moments, she raised her veil.
Once her features were revealed, I could see that she was a woman
aged, I would say, around thirty years. Her dark brown hair was
pulled back severely and her face looked drawn, eyes reddened from
tears.

Taking a deep breath, she began
her story. "My... my name is Elizabeth Carter, Mr Holmes. I have
come to you in despair. My husband, Henry, was killed recently by
an explosion at Liverpool Street Station."

Holmes looked thoughtful and
then nodded, saying, "Yes, I do remember reading of this. It was
reported, as I recall, that it was caused by an anarchist
bomb."

Mrs Carter dabbed at her cheek
with her handkerchief and then continued, "But I fear it was not,
sir… I know it. Henry had become involved in something... something
not right. After he was killed, I was clearing out his clothes and
I found this tucked away at the back of his wardrobe." Opening her
black, drawstring bag, she drew from it an envelope and passed it
to Holmes.

Holmes took the envelope and
reached for his glass. He sat for perhaps half a minute examining
it before taking out a single, folded sheet of paper. "May I read
this to my colleague, Dr Watson?" asked Holmes.

Looking towards me and giving
the briefest of smiles, Mrs Carter nodded in agreement.

Holmes began thus, "Here are the
five sovereigns, as agreed. Make the impression and give it to the
man who, on Wednesday morning, asks if there is a train that runs
from Putney to Pimlico and stops at Golders Green. He will give you
the ticket for the bag. You can collect it on the twelfth, but not
before."

Looking towards Holmes, I could
see that his face had hardened and he was now greatly concerned.
"Tell me, Mrs Carter, was your husband employed by the
railway?"

Mrs Carter nodded. "Yes, sir. He
was the Senior Ticket Clerk at Liverpool Street Station. Please
sir, I needs to know. What was Henry a party to? Anarchist posters
had been posted up outside the station but he was no anarchist,
sir, I am sure…" She began to sob and I moved to comfort her.

Holmes moved forwards in his
chair and asked, "Do the police know of this note?"

Mrs Carter shook her head. "No
sir. I was too ashamed. I didn't know if it would damage Henry’s
reputation if I were to take it to them. I thought… I thought you
might..."

Holmes rose and, taking Mrs
Carter's hand, he gently patted it, saying, "Fear not, Madam. We
will be discreet. How might we be able to find you?"

Rising from the settee, she
reached again into her bag and from it removed a small visiting
card. "Here sir. It was one of Henry's. I took the liberty of
writing my address on the reverse."

Holmes nodded and escorted Mrs
Carter to the door of our rooms. After replacing her veil and with
a few final words of encouragement from Holmes, she left.

I sat and scratched my head
before looking towards Holmes for some enlightenment. "You seem
greatly concerned, Holmes. What are your thoughts?"

Holmes had once more taken up
his pipe. His expression was grim. He seemed to be looking towards
some point far in the distance. With fingers steepled against his
lips, he was now deep in thought. "It is most curious, Watson.
Whilst an anarchist bomb plot is an eminently plausible explanation
for the explosion, this note presents further possibilities." With
that, Holmes rose and began to search in our ever growing archive
of newspaper cuttings. Fortunately, the explosion at Liverpool
Street was but recent and so was easily found.

For the next few minutes Holmes
read through the relevant articles. When he had finished, he again
took up the note and envelope. Tossing it to me, he asked, "Give me
your observations on this, Watson."

I caught the manila envelope and
began to examine it. It appeared, to me at least, to be quite
ordinary. It had seemingly been delivered by hand as it bore no
stamp and had only the initials “H.C.” written upon it.

Clearing my throat, I began,
"Well, the note is written in a strong, flowing hand in black ink
on paper of commercial stock. There is no watermark, but I detect a
slight smell of perfume... although that may be attributable to Mrs
Carter. The envelope shows the recipients initials but bears no
seal." I passed the note and envelope back to Holmes knowing full
well that he had gained far more from it than had I.

Holmes took it from me and then
wagged a finger in my direction, saying, reproachfully, “I thought,
at least, that you might recognise the handwriting, Watson.”

I was taken aback for a moment.
At first I didn’t realise the importance of what he was saying.
“Why, I have never seen anything like… Great Heavens! Moriarty! No!
It cannot be…surely not, Holmes.”

Holmes’ face was now like riven
granite. “I see her hand in this, Watson…but what is her game? The
note was clearly written by her and the envelope clearly shows the
circular imprint of the five sovereigns.” Holmes began to fill his
pipe and then continued, “But what is the meaning of the note?
Clearly there is a small payment for some task to be fulfilled by
Carter. Presumably, it is for making the impression that is
mentioned. Logic suggests it to be an impression of a key…but for
where? He is also to collect a bag, presumably by means of the
ticket he is to be given…but not before the twelfth. Why, Watson?
Why?”

I looked towards Holmes and
shook my head. It seemed now that there were indeed more questions
than answers! Suddenly, I became inspired, saying, “Left luggage!
Perhaps…perhaps the ticket was for the Left Luggage Office at
Liverpool Street Station!”

Holmes smiled and nodded,
saying, “Quite so, Watson. That is to be my next port of call.”
Springing from his chair, Holmes tapped me on the shoulder whilst
crying, “Gather your coat, Watson. Let us examine the site of the
explosion and also call at the Left Luggage Office.”

Following Holmes almost at the
gallop, I headed downstairs and waited as he waved impatiently,
trying to attract the attention of a passing cabbie. Having now
successfully hailed a Hansom, we were on our way. Thinking again of
the contents of the note, I turned to Holmes, asking, “What of the
password to identify who was to receive the impression? Surely
anyone might have innocently asked for this information about the
train journey?”

Holmes smiled, saying, “No,
Watson. That is a totally fictitious journey that could not be
made.” He paused for a moment before asking, “Tell me, Watson, do
you recall the date of the explosion?”

I had to think for a moment and
then said, “The eleventh, I believe…no, no…the twelfth!” I sat back
stunned. It was as if a thunderbolt had struck me from the heavens!
“The twelfth! Good Lord! You do not think…the bag… it contained the
bomb?”

Holmes’ face was now indeed
grim. “I fear that it might. The intention was not only to
terrorise the public, but to kill someone in particular. What
better way to disguise the murder of one man than by hiding his
death amongst the deaths of others? To contrive to have the police
blame the explosion on anarchists, that was indeed a stroke of
genius, Watson. It was truly her doing!”

I sat in the cab numb from the
horror of it all. I found it most difficult to believe that anyone
would sacrifice the lives of others to disguise the killing of one
individual. It was beyond my comprehension.

The cab drew up outside
Liverpool Street Station and we quickly found our way to the Left
Luggage Office. As we walked, I observed that an area had been
roped off and a police constable was standing guard. Behind the
ropes, the floor of the station was scarred by a small crater,
perhaps three feet in diameter. The walls were blackened and pitted
from shrapnel. Thankfully, they had been washed and all traces of
blood had been removed.

At our approach, the constable
saluted smartly. He recognised Holmes who, in turn, raised his cane
in salute. Pointing towards the area of damage, Holmes asked, “Tell
me, Constable, are there any theories as to how this happened?”

The constable rubbed his chin
and said, “From what I have heard, sir, it was an anarchist bomb
that was probably placed beside what’s left of that bench.” He
turned and pointed a stubby finger towards an iron frame and a few
fragments of wood that stood by the wall. “The Special Branch
officers found a bit of a handle. They reckon the bomb was in a bag
which was found by a passing railway employee. When he opened it,
it exploded. The bag was full of nails and what not, they say.” The
constable now looked sad and simply shook his head, saying,
“Wickedness…pure wickedness.”

Holmes nodded, touched his hat
and we walked on. After only some fifteen yards we found ourselves
outside the Left Luggage Office. Even here the walls bore witness
to the volley of metal fragments from the explosion. Holmes stood
for a moment and looked back towards where the constable stood,
saying, almost to himself, “Yes, that is perhaps as far as a
curious man might get.”

We entered the Left Luggage
Office and found ourselves inside a small, wood panelled vestibule
which was painted a rather sallow cream and highlighted by a rather
muddy chocolate brown. At the centre of one wall was a small
counter with a mahogany top that clearly showed the many years of
heavy luggage passing across its rutted surface. Behind the counter
there could be seen shelves and wire racks that held trunks,
valises, suitcases, carpet bags and luggage of all descriptions.
Holmes pressed down upon a tarnished, tired looking circular brass
bell of the type commonly found on the reception desk of a cheap
hotel. Some moments later, an equally tired looking railway
employee appeared behind the counter.

Holmes addressed him brightly.
“Good morning. I wonder if it might be possible to look at your
register for left luggage. I am particularly interested in the days
leading up to the twelfth, the day of the explosion.”

The clerk looked Holmes up and
down and then sniffed, saying, “I can’t do that sir. That’s
private, that is. It’s against company rules.”

Holmes took out one of his cards
from his card case and passed it to the clerk. “I have been
retained by Mrs Carter to look into the death of her husband, Henry
Carter.”

At this, the clerk perked up a
little. “What? Harry’s missus? That’s different then, sir. I’ll be
just a moment.”

In less than a minute, the clerk
had returned with a large ledger. “Here you are, sir. You wanted to
look at the days previous to the explosion.” The clerk flicked
expertly through the pages and quickly found the relevant entries.
“As you can see, sir, we didn’t have much luggage that week. We
always asks the person leaving the luggage to give their name and
address, just in case they forgets to pick it up. Then we gives
them the ticket."

The clerk turned the ledger
round towards Holmes who then began to look through the entries,
running his finger down the page. I noticed that he had suddenly
stopped and was looking most closely at one particular entry for
the eleventh of April.

Holmes looked across to me. I
could see a glint of fire in his eyes. Turning the ledger round to
face the clerk, Holmes asked, “Can you tell me if this item has
been collected? It has the number 514 written next to it.”

Without turning to look, the
clerk said, “No sir, it hasn’t.”

Holmes looked puzzled at first
and then his expression became intense. “Are you sure? Need you
check?”

The clerk shook his head,
saying, “I know it’s there, sir. It’s right next to the space where
Harry’s bag was. I know because I was the one that signed ‘em both
in. Look, here’s my initials and here’s the name and address of the
man who left them. Two identical bags they were. When Harry picked
one of them up, number 515, on the twelfth, he told me the bloke
who left them had given him the ticket and half a crown to pick it
up for him.” The clerk scratched his head and then continued,
“Funny old world, ain’t it? Harry earns himself an extra half a
crown and then, not a minute later, he’s blown to bits.”