Sherlock Holmes (40 page)

Holmes now had a frown upon his face. “There
seems precious little here to level a charge of murder at the
child. Perhaps the post-mortem will enlighten us further.” Taking
up the report, he read it in silence. After several minutes his
head came up and he tapped his lip with his forefinger, saying,
“Hmm, we learn a little more from this. It is the report of the
post-mortem carried out by a friend of ours, from the Lymington
case, Dr John Parry. Give me your opinion, Watson."

I nodded in recognition of the name and
Holmes read aloud to me. “On examining the body of James Smith his
face was pale but showed signs of significant bruising. However,
the skull was intact. There was vomit on the right side of his face
and in his hair. On the left side of the torso there was serious
bruising, though not sufficient to account for his death. The left
arm showed a recent long graze from the heel of the palm to the
elbow. There was coal dust residue beneath the fingernails of both
hands and the nails of the left hand showed signs of tearing. Blood
was discovered on the victims left thigh but that could be
attributed to bleeding from the nose of his wife as she lay on him.
An internal examination showed that he had three broken ribs, the
internal organs showed no congestion which would indicate asphyxia.
Samples of blood and lung tissue from both deceased were removed
for further analysis.”

Holmes paused. “It is interesting, Watson,
that the description of the wife's body is remarkably
different.  'Catherine Smith had no bruising to the body,
although her face showed a purplish hue. Her nose showed some signs
of bleeding and was swollen, as were her gums and lips. Her body
looked somewhat 'agitated' as though she had struggled, in contrast
to that of her husbands, which looked calm.'

Holmes leafed through the file, saying,
"There is a note here also that the stomach contents were removed
for examination by Dr Parry as he thought that this could be a case
of poisoning.”

I reflected on what I had heard for a minute
or so. “There doesn't seem to be a great deal of physical damage,
Holmes. Certainly not sufficient to cause death. Examining the
stomach contents is both prudent and appropriate in order to
confirm or eliminate poisoning as a cause of death. However, we
know from Flora that both of the parents were inherently weakened
by pre-existing conditions. If it were poisoning, it would take but
only a little to cause death.”

I paused for a moment and frowned. “I am
concerned regarding the discolouration of the face of the wife. Why
just the wife and not the husband also? If they had both been
poisoned, would not this poison have engendered the same symptoms
in both victims?” I looked across at Holmes who seemed deep in
thought and I continued with my assessment. “If Flora had poisoned
them both, do you think it plausible that she herself took a mild
dose of the poison to appear to have some symptoms, sufficient,
perhaps, to put the police off the scent? I think not...although
she did behave strangely whilst trying to raise the alarm.”

Holmes
consi
dered this before saying, “Yes, that
is indeed a puzzle. We need to visit Broad Street and the scene of
the crime...if, indeed, that is what it is.” I looked quizzically
at Holmes. It seemed to me that there was already a solution
forming in his head.

The next day found us back at Bow Street
Police Station returning the police report and the result of the
post-mortem. Whilst there, Holmes enquired whether it would be
possible for us to visit the house in Broad Street. The Sergeant
was quite amenable and he wrote us a note which we were to give the
constable on duty outside.

Broad Street was but a few minutes away and,
arriving at the house, the constable outside saluted. On reading
the note he was content to allow us entry to the premises.

The house, I observed, was in generally poor
condition. The front room was entirely destitute of furniture and,
in the kitchen, there was but a small table, two chairs and a
stool. Leading off from the kitchen was a door that we found led to
a coal cellar. Holmes opened the cellar door and stopped, his arm
thrust out so that I could not follow. “Hello? What do we have
here? Light a candle, if you please, Watson. I need more
light.”

I searched the room and finally found a small
stub of candle on the kitchen mantelpiece. Lighting it, using a
Vesta, I passed the candle to him. Holmes firstly examined the
steps and then the walls of the passageway leading down to the
cellar proper. “Look here, Watson. There is a scrape on the second
step where someone has slipped...and here, on the left hand wall,
there is a long mark describing an arc where someone has tried to
save themselves as they fell. That explains the graze on the
forearm of James Smith and would also explain the three broken
ribs.”

Satisfied that nothing more could be gleaned
from the steps, we proceeded down into the cellar. At the foot of
the steps there were further marks suggesting that someone had,
indeed, fallen there recently. Holmes was sure that if James
Smith's clothes were to be examined, then the police would find
evidence of a great deal of coal dust upon them.

Moving further into the cellar, Holmes
reached down and picked up a handful of coke from a small pile
heaped in one corner. Looking up, I could see that this was located
just below a circular iron plate which gave access for deliveries
from the yard above.

Holmes held the coke in his hands, saying, “I
am intrigued with these Rattle-Jacks, Watson. I think a visit to
the local gas works may be in order.” With that, we climbed the
cellar steps, snuffing out the candle and replacing it where I had
found it.

 The bedrooms on the upper floor were as
Flora had described them. The front bedroom was uninhabitable. It
was plain that there were slates missing from the roof which the
landlord had failed to replace. Consequently, rain had grievously
damaged the ceiling and, part of which, had fallen through into the
bedroom below.

The back bedroom, however, was dry. The only
pieces of furniture present were a low double bed and a small pine
chest of drawers. I noticed that the covers of the bed were blood
stained, whether from an in-situ post-mortem or from before, it was
impossible to know. Holmes glanced briefly at the bed but seemed
more interested in the small window that looked out onto the back
yard. It was tight shut and, just as Flora had described, a piece
of folded newspaper had been placed in the gap between the window
and the frame to prevent any draughts. At the foot of the bed was
the cast iron fireplace with a few sticks on the hearth and the
remains of a fire in the grate. To one side was a small, wooden box
with more of the coke from the cellar below.

 Holmes examined the grate and then took
from his waistcoat pocket his silver match case. Striking a match
on the bottom of the case, he held it just above the open grate.
Almost at once, the flame blew back towards Holmes, before being
extinguished. Holmes knelt in front of the fire. “Watson? Be a good
fellow and retrieve the candle stub from the kitchen, I need to
look up the chimney.” I descended to the kitchen and returned with
the candle which Holmes then lit. He removed his hat and, shielding
the candle from the down draught from the chimney, he stuck his
head into the chimney opening. He emerged a few seconds later with
a little soot in his hair but looking triumphant. “I think we have
found the murderer, Watson… but I have a little chemistry to do
before I can be certain.” I was somewhat mystified by this but
Holmes would say no more.

The following morning found us hailing a cab
outside our lodgings. As we climbed in I heard Holmes shout up to
the cabbie, “Imperial Gasworks, if you please. Just behind St.
Pancras station.” And, with a jolt, we were off. As we sat back in
the cab, I noticed that Holmes was rolling something between the
fingers of his gloved hand.

“What is that, Holmes?” I asked.

Holmes smiled. “In the eyes of the police, it
could, perhaps, be a murder weapon” and he tossed the item over to
me. I looked at it and turned it over in my hand. It was a piece of
Rattle-Jack coke from Broad Street.

I was puzzled. “That? How so?”

Holmes held out his hand and I returned the
coke to him. “I hope you will determine its significance after our
visit to the gasworks, Watson.”

It was not long before we were drawing close
to St Pancras station and I detected the distinct tang of tar and
burning coal in the air. The gasworks was off Old St. Pancras Road
and we walked but a few yards to the offices of The Imperial
Gasworks. Outside the offices Holmes put his hand on my sleeve. “We
must be careful, old fellow. We have no authority here and I may
have to be a little 'inventive' in the reason for our visit.” I
nodded and noticed a twinkle in his eye as he opened the door.

Once inside, I noted that the office walls
had been painted a drab, dark burgundy colour which reached up to a
moulded, dado rail. Above that, a perhaps once pale cream had now
turned a rather sickly yellow by the smoke and chemicals from the
gasworks. Everything seemed to be steeped in the cloying odour of
tar and disinfectant. We approached the enquiries counter where sat
a middle aged lady dressed in a starched blouse and with her hair
tied back, rather too severely. She was, it has to be said, sour
faced and was wearing a pince-nez upon her nose. She looked at us
over the top of this and was, seemingly, unimpressed by what she
saw.

Holmes touched his hat, saying, “Good
morning. My colleague and I are shareholders of The Imperial Gas
Company and we would like to see a little of our investment.” At
this, the countenance of the receptionist appeared to change
magically. She beamed a smile at the pair of us and asked us if we
would wait for just a moment whilst she fetched the General
Manager.

Within a minute or so, a short, plump fellow
appeared from a side office, still pulling on his jacket as he
approached us. “Good morning, gentlemen. I am John Oldfield, the
General Manager. I understand that you are investors in the company
and wish to see the gasworks?” He proffered his hand and we both
shook it.

I left the talking to Holmes as he seemed to
be getting into his stride. “Indeed we do, Mr Oldfield. We are
considering making further investments, especially in the coke
making aspect of the business.”

Oldfield’s face lit up. “Splendid! Come this
way, gentlemen. It will be my pleasure to show you our coking
facility.”

The gasworks encompassed a vast, sprawling
site with four enormous gas holders. Buildings were interconnected
by lines of pipe work and also by the tracks of a small gauge
railway. I have to say that, at times, the smell was intolerable.
Indeed, on some occasions, I had to cover my nose with my
handkerchief. This was helpful, in some respects, as it allowed me
to simply nod rather then get involved in the conversation that
Holmes was engrossed in. I was, however, somewhat intrigued when
Oldfield took us to the 'coking house' and began describing how the
coke was produced.

He stood by an impressive collection of huge,
upright iron cylinders which glowed red hot. Two men raised the lid
of one cylinder and a blast of heat, as if from hell itself, came
from it. Smoke, combined with the stench of Sulphur, billowed forth
and we could plainly see the red hot coke within.

Holmes shielded his face and shouted to
Oldfield. “This seems very dangerous work, Mr Oldfield!”

Oldfield nodded, shouting in return, “Yes, it
is not only the heat itself, but the toxicity of the gases that are
driven off during the heating process. A bituminous coal is used
and, by heating it, we are able to collect valuable liquors and
coal gas. When the coal is heated with very little oxygen, it
produces a decidedly poisonous oxide of carbon. We have been indeed
fortunate, here, to have had no fatalities. However, there have
been many within our industry caused by the inhalation of this
gas.” Holmes nodded and looked towards me, with an eyebrow raised,
in a truly meaningful way. The implication of this was not wasted
upon me.

Holmes shouted once more, “Can you show us
some of the finished product?” Oldfield held up his hand and
beckoned us to follow him.

I must confess that it was a great relief to
be away from that hellish place. Oldfield led us to the rear of the
building where a small steam engine seemed to be waiting patiently.
It was attached to a line of trucks and, as we watched, an
avalanche of red hot coke descended from the coking house and into
the final, steel sided truck. From above, one of the workers played
a jet of cooling water onto the small mountain of red hot coke and
immediately, huge clouds of steam billowed from it which completely
obliterated our view.

We walked some short distance further to a
storage area where huge iron grids had been set up. These shook
continuously to sift and sort the coke. From our vantage point, we
observed a man and his wife beside a small hand cart, gathering
some coke from a small pile set to one side.

I thought I might at last be useful and moved
to where Oldfield stood. I pointed to the man and woman, asking,
“Are these people here to purchase a quantity of coke?”

Oldfield
looked towards the couple. “Why,
yes,
sir. The coking process is not 100% efficient and there is some
waste from the retorts. This is made up of small pieces of low
grade coke that cannot be used for industry so it is sold off
cheaply. The locals use these small bits of coke for heating. They
call them Rattle-Jacks.”