The Mammoth Book of New Sherlock Holmes Adventures (48 page)

“Apparently the meeting made something of an impression,” I observed.

“And one beside that of simple grammatical impropriety,” said Holmes. He stepped away from the fire and rubbed his hands gleefully before removing his watch from a pocket in his waistcoat. He glanced at the timepiece. “Almost five and twenty past seven, Watson.” He returned the watch and smiled, his eyes narrowing. “There is a milk train which leaves King’s Cross station at four minutes past ten o’clock. It is my intention that we be on it.”

I was about to protest, fully realizing that it would be to no avail, when Holmes turned around and strode purposefully from the room. “Might I rely on you to pack some suitable clothes, old fellow?” he requested over his shoulder. “And please do bear in mind that Yorkshire is not a county renowned for the clemency of its weather, particularly at this time of the year.” With that, he slammed his bedroom door.

I glanced down at the single sheet of paper in my hand. It never ceased to amaze me at how little it took to propel my friend to levels of great excitement, and at how quickly those levels could be so attained. It was a trait that was at once both enviable and despairing to behold, for these high moods when he was absorbed in a case were countered by depths of depression when he was not. It was at times such as this that Sherlock Holmes reminded me not so much of a sleuth as of a young schoolboy, so pure were his beliefs and motivations.

I set to preparing overnight bags for the two of us, including sufficient clothes for a few days’ stay, and, when Holmes reappeared, we left our rooms and, without further conversation, ventured out into the cold evening.

We boarded the train at five minutes to ten o’clock and made our way immediately to our sleeping compartments. At the prescribed time, the train departed King’s Cross and headed for Yorkshire. As the gently rocking motion of the carriage lulled me towards sleep, I watched the dark countryside pass by the window, noting somewhat ominously that the fog was growing seemingly thicker with each yard we travelled northwards.

We arrived in Leeds at a little after a quarter past six on the following morning.

I had had a reasonable enough night’s sleep, the rocking of the carriage keeping me quite comforted. Holmes, however, appeared not to have fared so well and, when I first saw him in the corridor, he looked pale and drawn, his eyes pouched and discoloured. He was fully dressed and clearly ready to disembark and begin the next stage of our journey.

“Sleep well, old fellow?” he enquired in a tone that suggested the answer was less important than the fact that, in his opinion, he had been waiting too long to pose it.

“I did indeed,” I replied. “And you?”

He gave a slight grimace and adjusted his gloves. “As you know, I dislike periods of enforced inaction. Periods during which there is little to demand my attention.” He clapped his hands together and his face beamed beneath his ear-flapped travelling-cap. “However, we are but some fifteen miles from our destination. There is a train leaving on the half-hour.” With that, he lifted his bag and walked along the corridor to the door.

Harrogate is a delightful town, a criss-cross of busy streets and thoroughfares surrounded by an interlocking grid of cultivated grassland called “The Two Hundred Acres” or, more commonly, “The Stray”, which we had seen in all of its early-morning, mist-enshrouded finery as we approached the station.

A brisk walk ensued and we arrived at the police station as a distant clock chimed ten, to be greeted by a tall, burly, uniformed sergeant whose face displayed a florid expression and the most singularly inquisitive eyes.

“Now then, gentlemen,” he boomed, “and what can we be doing for you this fine morning?”

It transpired that my friend had telegraphed Inspector Gerald John Makinson the previous afternoon, informing him of our intended arrival time. “So you’re Mr Sherlock Holmes, then?” the officer enquired.

Holmes set down his bag on the station steps, removed the glove from his right hand and held it out. “I am he,” he said.

The officer gave, I thought, a somewhat forced smile and shook the proffered hand once. “And you must be Mr Watson,” he said turning to me.

“I am, indeed,
Doctor
Watson,” I said, accepting the hand. The shake was as brusque as his manner.

“I’m Sergeant Hewitt. Come on inside,” he said, lifting both of our overnight bags. “There’s a fresh pot of tea made and it’ll take but a minute to do you some toast. Inspector Makinson will be along presently. Perhaps you’d be kind enough to wait in here, gentlemen,” he said, ushering us into a small, square room ringed by chairs around a circular table. He rested our bags on one of the chairs and proceeded to help us off with our coats and hats, which he then placed on a hatstand next to a blazing fire. “Tea’ll be along in a minute. Will you be having toast?”

“That would be most welcome,” Holmes said.

“Right then, toast it –” The sound of a door banging outside interrupted him and he turned to see who had just entered. “Ah,” he said, turning back to us, “Inspector Makinson has arrived. I’ll be back presently.”

Hewitt stepped back to permit entrance to a short gentleman with quite the most bristling moustache I have ever seen. The man removed his bowler and nodded to the officer who backed out and closed the door gently behind him. “Good morning, gentlemen,” he said offering his hand which, ungloved, was freezing cold to the touch. “Gerald Makinson.”

We made our introductions and took seats by the fire.

“Mr Holmes, it’s a great pleasure to meet you again, sir,” Makinson began as he rubbed his hands together vigorously in front of the flames, “though we might’ve hoped for more pleasant circumstances.”

“While Patience may well be a card game from which I have derived some considerable pleasure,” Holmes responded with a thin smile, “it is not, I fear, my strongest suit. I wonder if you might give us some indication of your situation. If I am not mistaken there had been further developments in the case even as we were travelling here from London.”

“Quite so, quite so. Well, it’s like this, gentlemen.

“Almost two weeks ago – the second of November, to be precise – the body of Terence Wetherall, one of the town’s most prominent landlords, was discovered by one of his tenants. Murdered.”

The Inspector imbued the last word with an almost absurd theatrical flourish and I had to stifle a smile, thankfully unobserved.

“What was the manner of his death?” Holmes enquired.

“He’d been strangled. No instrument was found but the nature of the marks around his neck suggests some kind of rope or string. We found traces of coarse hair in the wound. But the worst thing was the man’s heart had been removed.”

“Good Lord!” I ventured.

“Quite, Doctor Watson, his chest had been slit open and the unfortunate organ torn out. It was a messy affair, I can tell you,” he added. “There was no indication of careful surgical procedure – we’ve had a local surgeon examine the wound and it appears that the heart was just pulled out. His chest looked like a pack of wild dogs had been at it …”

“Suspects?”

The Inspector shook his head. “Mr Wetherall was extremely well-liked as far as we can make out. His wife – sorry: widow – knew of no reason why anyone would wish him harm. And certainly she knows of no one who would conceivably wish to defile his body in such a way.”

“I wonder if we might see the body,” I said.

“Of course, Doctor. You can see them all.”

I glanced across at Holmes who tented his fingers in front of his face and carefully studied the tips. “Do continue, Inspector.”

At that moment, Sergeant Hewitt reappeared with a tray containing a teapot, three cups and saucers, a small jug of milk, a large plate of buttered toast, a small phial of marmalade and one of honey, and three side plates. It was a meal which, despite its simplicity, was a sight for weary eyes. We set to pouring tea and helping ourselves to the toast, and Inspector Makinson resumed his story.

“A few days later, 7 November, a farmer was brutally slain in the nearby village of Hampsthwaite. Shotgun-blasted in the back of the head, point blank range. He’d gone outside to check his livestock – something he did every evening at the same time – and the killer must’ve been waiting.”

The Inspector took a sip of tea and returned the cup to his saucer.

“And, once again, the heart of the unfortunate victim had been removed, though this time the damage to the body was less.

“The third slaying was last week, the eleventh, and this was maybe the most heinous of them all. A young woman, Gertrude Ridge, a schoolteacher in the town, was reported missing on the morning of the tenth when she didn’t appear at school. She was discovered on the embankment by the side of the railway line … or, should I say,
some
of her was discovered.”

Holmes leaned forward.
“Some,
you say?”

The Inspector nodded gravely and reached for his cup of tea. “Only the torso was found – it was identified by her clothes. Both legs, both arms and the unfortunate girl’s head were missing.”

“But her heart?” I said.

“Her torso was intact, Doctor Watson. And we’ve since found both legs, the head and one of the arms.”

“Where were these limbs found, Inspector?” Holmes enquired.

“A little way along the embankment, in the bushes.”

“Were they close together?”

Inspector Makinson frowned. “Yes, yes I believe they were.”

“And the embankment has been thoroughly searched?”

“In both directions, and with a toothcomb, Mr Holmes. The other arm wasn’t there.”

Holmes lifted his coffee and stared into the swirling liquid. “And now you have another murder, I take it.”

Makinson nodded and twirled his moustache. “Yes, a fourth body was reported in the early hours of this morning to a Bobby on the beat. Down a small alleyway alongside the market buildings in the town square. Another shotgun blast, this time in the face at point blank range. Took most of his head with it, it did. We identified the corpse from what we found in his pockets. William Fitzhue Crosby, the manager of our local branch of Daleside Bank.”

“And the man’s heart?” I enquired.

“Ripped out like the first two.”

“Who reported the body?” asked Holmes.

“An old cleaner woman for the market buildings. She lives there all the time. She heard the shot, looked out of her windows and saw the body.”

I watched my friend drain his cup and return it to the tray before him. He settled back into his seat and glanced first at me and then at the Inspector.

“Tell me, Inspector,” he said at last. “How much disturbance had there been around the teacher’s body?”

Gerald Makinson frowned. “Disturbance?”

I recognized a touch of impatience in the way my friend waved his hand. “Blood, Inspector. How much blood was there on the ground?”

“Very little, Mr Holmes. But our doctor tells me that once the heart was removed there wouldn’t be much blood loss. The girl’s clothes were soaked, mind you.”

Holmes nodded. “Were there any traces of blood on the grass leading to and from the severed limbs?”

Makinson shook his head. “None as we could find,” he said dolefully.

Holmes considered this before asking, “And what signs were about the body of the banker?”

“Again, very little. We put it down again to – ”

“to the removal of the heart.”

“Yes,” Inspector Makinson agreed.

“Quite so.” Holmes nodded slowly and then closed his eyes. “And why would anyone want to steal a heart? Or, more significantly, three hearts plus an assortment of severed limbs and a head? For that matter, why would they leave the young woman’s heart in place?”

“It’s like I say,” said the Inspector, “it’s a puzzle and no denying … which is, I might add, why I called upon your services. And those of the good doctor,” he added with a peremptory nod in my direction.

“And we are both delighted that you did so, Inspector,” said Holmes. “But what if,” he continued, leaning forward suddenly in his chair, “the murderer simply forgot to take the girl’s heart.”

“Forgot
it!” I was so astounded by the seeming preposterous nature of my friend’s suggestion that I almost choked on a mouthful of toast. “Why ever would he do that when that was his entire objective?”

“But
was
it his objective, old fellow?” said Holmes.

“What are you saying, Mr Holmes?”

“Just this: suppose the removal of the hearts was simply to cover up some other reason for the murders?”

“I cannot imagine any reason for murder which is so despicable that the murderer would want to cover it up with the removal of a heart,” I observed.

“No, perhaps not, Watson. Not a
despicable
reason, I agree. But perhaps a reason that might lead us to his identity.”

While Inspector Makinson and I considered this, my friend continued.

“Inspector, did your men find any traces of blood or tissue … perhaps even bone fragments … on the wall which took the shotgun blast?”

Inspector Makinson’s eyes widened. “Why, I don’t believe we did.”

“Quite, Inspector. That fact and the fact that was little or no evidence of blood around the body, despite the removal of the heart, means that the murder was committed somewhere else and the body carried to the alleyway.

“I sense a confusion of red herrings,” Holmes continued.

“Red herrings?”

“Quite so, Watson,” Holmes said as he got to his feet. “But before we go any further, I think we should see the bodies.”

Without further ado, Inspector Makinson led us out of the room, along a series of corridors and then down a long staircase.

Finally, we arrived at a large oaken door inlaid with sheets of metal and an iron bar manacled through two support frames. The door opened onto a narrow corridor through whose windows we got our first glimpse of the unfortunate victims.

The entrance to the “resting” room was at the far end of the corridor and, as we walked along, I could not help but stare at the series of cots covered over with bottle-green sheets, and at the unmistakable human shapes beneath.