The Lost Casebooks of Sherlock Holmes (58 page)

Far more interesting to Holmes was the image of the bridegroom. His was a strong broad-boned face in which the nose and chin were sharp rather than regular. He had a full dark moustache, which an Italian waiter might have affected, but wore it as if to conceal a line of cruelty in his mouth. The eyes looked hard and straight under low and frowning brows. They shone with a dreadful clarity and a merciless sanity. His brown hair was worn short and neat, so that the high points of the ears appeared prominently. There was no flabbiness in the face, the skin being tight over the bones and still shining from the razor, yet the neck was one of the thickest in proportion that I have ever seen.

‘Ah!' said Holmes at once. ‘What would the great Lombroso not have given for the skull of such an hereditary degenerate! Look at the features, Watson! The eyes stare down at you, just as a man regards a beetle in the moment before he crushes it with his boot! The power of those cheek-bones! The strength of that neck! Mr Maxse told us he knew the man for what he was. I doubt if the poor fellow guessed the half of it!'

We studied the portrait in silence for several minutes. Then Holmes said coolly, ‘I do believe the strength of that neck may cause some little inconvenience to Messrs Pierpoint and Ellis in the exercise of their gruesome trade. For, Watson, if ever I saw a man born to be hanged, this is he.'

Sherlock Holmes had, to a remarkable degree, the power of detaching his mind at will. He was also exceedingly reluctant on occasions to communicate his plans or his thoughts to any other person. During the next few days I once again concluded that he had given up any active interest in the case for the time being and was now waiting for the sinister bridegroom to make his first mistake. This impression became all the stronger when he told me that his second cousin, Lieutenant-Commander Holmes-Derringer of the admiral's staff at Scapa Flow, had invited him to attend the live-firing tests of the new Whitehead torpedo in the vicinity of that remote island anchorage. For three days at least he would be absent from London. I hoped most fervently that I should not be the subject of Mr Maxse's reproaches during this period.

I was about to say as much, shortly before he left, when I saw that I was already too late. I had been out and had just come back as far as Mrs Hudson's open street door, about to go upstairs, when a neatly-rigged and capped naval officer, his light-brown hair and beard well-trimmed, came cantering down with a brown binocular-case in his hand. He called out to Holmes who was evidently already in the cab that waited in the street, ‘Sit tight, old boy! I've got them for you!' Then, as if noticing me for the first time in the shadows, he snapped, ‘Morning to you!'

The sharp air of command was such that I very nearly saluted him. So much for Lieutenant-Commander Holmes-Derringer. As I watched, he tossed the overlooked binoculars into the hansom, swung himself aboard as if it might be a battle-cruiser's whaler, and the cab clattered north towards the Euston Road.

In order not to incur the reproaches of Mr Maxse, I decided that I would withdraw to my club for the greater part of the next day or two, leaving Baker Street after breakfast. I should then come home when I judged that the last train from Marylebone to the counties had left.

It was on the second day that I entered the sitting-room, at 11
P
.
M
. or thereabouts, and found a wire waiting for me.

IMPERATIVE YOU SEEK SMITH IN WESTON-SUPER-MARE AT ONCE STOP
.

WILL JOIN YOU ON RETURN FROM SCOTLAND STOP
.
FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS AWAIT YOU TELEGRAPH OFFICE
,
TEMPLE MEADS STATION
,
BRISTOL STOP
. =
HOLMES
,
C
/
O ADMIRALTY INTELLIGENCE STOP
.

I put down the scrap of paper with the feeling of a man commanded to make bricks without straw. With no further information than this, how was I to find Smith, or anyone else, among the resident population and teeming summer holidaymakers of a seaside town that was utterly unfamiliar to me? What further instructions of any value could Holmes possibly send me from his present isolation in the Orkney Islands? I certainly had no means of contacting him. I could scarcely wire a message to him through Lieutenant-Commander Holmes-Derringer in the middle of the night and, in any case, I had no time to wait for a reply next day.

I slept uneasily with the phrases of that telegraph running and twisting like railway tracks, crossing and parting, in my brain. Once I woke sharply from a dream with the face of Mr Smith in his wedding-photograph shimmering like a gargoyle in the darkness. By next morning I decided that there was nothing for it but to do as I was told.

III

By the evening of the next day, the express that had brought me from Paddington was pulling into the long curve of the railway platform at Bristol, the hills of the city rising high above the river on either side. At the telegraph office, to my dismay, there was no wire from Holmes. Perhaps by now he was on the high seas in a cruiser or a destroyer and was forbidden such communication, for German intelligence was keenly aware of our development of submarine warfare. However, on further investigation there was a telephone message for me, which the clerk had scribbled down without bothering to put the name of the sender. I stared at the pencilled letters.

Dr Watson to proceed to Grand Atlantic Hotel, Weston, and

await instructions
.

As evening sunlight mellowed over the flat coastal fields of north Somerset, I accomplished the last part of my journey and found myself in a fine modern hotel like a French château. There was a view of sands and donkey-carriages, two islands in the foreground, the hills of Wales beyond, and a wide expanse of grey sea stretching to the Atlantic. I had ample time to stare at this prospect from my window, for neither the usual telegraph service nor the next morning's post brought me any instructions. It was a Saturday and the town full of trippers. That afternoon, weary of my confinement, I took my stick and crossed the beach lawns with the object of taking a stroll along the broad two-mile stretch of promenade above the sands, where the sea breeze brought a healthy tingle to the cheeks.

Unfortunately, this broad paving had lately been given over to the American plague of roller-skating. Men and even women of the lower orders rumbled or sped past one, weaving in and out among the respectable pedestrians, endangering the lives and limbs of their betters. The audacity of these pests to society was beyond belief. There was one jaunty fellow, in a tweed jacket, gaiters, and cap, who fancied himself something of a virtuoso. He wove among the walkers, deliberately caught the rear of my hat-brim with his hand and tipped it forward over my eyes. This was an insolent devil with a bushy moustache that failed to conceal the high-coloured cheeks and broken capillaries of the inveterate beer-drinker. I shouted after him but he took not the least notice.

Somehow, though I did not see him do it, he must have circled back. The next thing I knew was a sharp tap behind me and my brim settled over my eyes once more. As I pulled up the hat, he had the damnable effrontery to turn and laugh at me, idling on his skates just beyond the reach of my stick.

‘Do that once more,' I shouted, ‘I will summon a policeman and give you in charge!'

‘Oh dear!' he chuckled merrily. ‘I beg you will do no such thing, Watson! I have just established a most cordial working relationship with Inspector Gerrish of the Somerset Constabulary, who is no less than Lestrade's cousin. I cannot but feel that my arrest might cast a cloud upon it.'

To say that this knocked the breath from me would be an understatement. Of course I asked him what the devil he was doing here, when all the world thought he was at Scapa Flow. Indeed, I demanded an explanation as to what all this nonsense about Weston-super-Mare signified.

‘My poor Watson,' he said jovially, as he sat on a bench, unlacing his skates before we returned to the hotel, ‘I did not dare let you into the secret earlier, for fear you might give the game away. It was imperative that I should be thought to be well out of circulation by Mr Maxse, his daughter, her husband and the whole world. It is true, of course, that I was not at Scapa Flow, but Portsmouth is no less famous in our naval history.'

‘Portsmouth!' In the room he had taken at the hotel, which was only a few doors from my own, I watched him peel off the moustache and rub the rouge and gum from his cheeks with surgical spirit. ‘You have been down there after this fellow Smith?'

‘It was not difficult,' he said more seriously. ‘It is clear that he thinks himself quite safe from all but Mr Maxse. However, I confess that even I had not imagined the extent of his depravity. I followed him between Portsmouth and Southsea for a day and a half, to little avail. But then, to my surprise, he suddenly made for the harbour station with a Gladstone bag in his hand. He took the train as far as Bristol, decamped, and boarded the tram to Clifton. Thence he returned with a young woman whose name I gathered from a question or two to an errand boy is Miss Pegler, though known sometimes as Mrs Smith. They are here at the moment, staying as man and wife. What story he has told to his poor bride of a fortnight ago, heaven only knows.'

‘There may be enough for a divorce petition when the time comes,' I said darkly.

‘Oh, no, Watson. I should be greatly disappointed if this led merely to divorce. Besides, this practice of ours does not stoop to concern itself with what the papers call matrimonial cases. On that, I am inflexible.'

‘Where is he now?'

Holmes shrugged.

‘I have lost him,' he said, as if it were not of the least consequence.

‘Then what are we to do?'

Lights were beginning to twinkle like strings of pearls in the mauve dusk, strung between the lamp-standards along the shoreline. Above the rush of the returning tide, the music of a band drifted inland from the theatre pavilion of the Grand Pier.

‘We shall take a walk,' he said jauntily. ‘Just so far as the sea-front photographer's kiosk. Mr Jackson, of Jackson's Faces, has become quite a holiday friend of mine.'

Any visitor to the seaside is aware of that other promenade pestilence, the man who pushes his camera at your face, ‘snaps' you, hands you a ticket, and enjoys the privilege of sticking your likeness on his billboard until you pay to have it removed. Jackson's Faces possessed a kiosk by the causeway of the muddy harbour, flanked by those boards on which prints of the photographs taken in the last day or two were pinned.

‘Allow me to present Mr Smith,' said Holmes quietly.

My companion was indicating the somewhat wrinkled photographs pinned on the board. He did not need to tell me which he had in mind, for it was a most extraordinary picture. It showed an incongruous couple walking arm-in-arm along the very stretch of promenade where we now stood, the lights glinting in the harbour tide. The woman wore her hair loose with an expression of simpering stupidity. The man was absurdly-dressed for a seaside visit in a top hat, stiff wing-collar and bow-tie, a frock-coat and waistcoat with gold chain. Such was the holiday masquerade of a would-be ‘man of property'. To anyone who had seen the recent wedding-photograph, however, there was no mistaking the bold stride and the contemptuous eyes above the abundant moustache, a frightening moral indifference to pain or distress.

Such were Mr Smith and Miss Pegler.

‘I rather fancy, Watson, that there is enough in that photograph to send our man to penal servitude for seven years to begin with, under section 57 of the Offences Against the Person Act.'

‘I have no idea …'

‘Bigamy. Do you not see the ring on the fourth finger of the lady's left hand?'

‘That means nothing. It is for show.'

‘I think not,' he said softly, ‘I think he may be married to this lady, validly or not. If validly, then the marriage to Miss Maxse is bigamous. He wants that young lady's money, or her family's money, and mere seduction will not do. Whatever else Mr Smith may lack, he seems accomplished as a professional swindler of the female sex. One moment.'

He turned into the entrance of the kiosk, from which came the harsh chemical odours of bleach and ammonia. The bald proprietor in his neat suit stood behind the counter.

‘Mr Jackson, allow me to introduce my colleague, Dr Watson. Pray tell him what you told me this afternoon about the man in that photograph.'

Mr Jackson's eyes brightened behind his wire-framed spectacles.

‘I can't say, gentlemen, that I remember every name that goes with every face. We get too many. But I have a natural recollection of many. That's how I was first called “Faces.”'

‘Most interesting,' said Holmes impatiently, ‘and this one?'

‘I'd good reason to remember him, though it was a year or two ago. I took his likeness then, just here by Knightstone harbour, and put it on the board. He never wanted it. However, we keep them there a few days. Just before it was to be took down, a lady came in. Mrs Tuckett that has a boarding house in Upper Church Road above Glentworth Cove. “That man,” she says, “him in the photograph. He left the day before yesterday and bilked me of three weeks money.”'

‘Had she been to the police?'

‘Where's the use?' Mr Jackson became philosophical. ‘Police won't do nothing. They'll tell you it's a civil matter and you can sue him if you like. If you can find him, they mean!'

‘And his name?'

‘Williams,' Mr Jackson emphasized the name as if to impress on us the reliability of his memory. ‘Him and his wife.'

‘And you remembered him and his name all this time?' I asked, I fear with a touch of scepticism.

Mr Jackson looked at me as if I were an imbecile.

‘He came back,' he explained slowly. ‘That's how I remembered him. His wife came back first, going to stay with Mrs Tuckett again, paying the arrears and offering apologies, saying how her husband had deserted her the year before. She had some money of her own now from her father's estate, he having been a bank manager, and so she paid the debt. A week or two later, as Mrs Tuckett told me, Mrs Williams went out to buy her some flowers. She came back quite shocked, but pleased, saying that she'd just met Mr Williams her husband, that she hadn't seen for a year. There he was, standing by the bandstand near Glentworth Cove, alone and looking out to sea.'