The Sensible Necktie and Other Stories of Sherlock Holmes (12 page)

“In that case,” responded Lestrade, “you hardly need a cab. He lives only two streets from here.”

“What makes you discard the old clothes shop as a lead?” I asked Holmes as we started walking.

“Because I cannot piece together a likely hypothesis based on the assumption that someone was after the boots that Selwyn purchased. My last theory was that somebody had dropped something into one of the boots from the room lying above the shop. There were wide gaps in the ceiling of the room where Mr Klum kept his shoes, and anybody standing in the room above could easily have dropped something so that it landed in one of the shoes. But as we stepped out, I saw that the upstairs room is empty and has been for quite some time.”

“But if the shop cannot tell us anything,” said Lestrade, “I fail to see how Mr Selwyn could. He knows nothing of what is going on.”

“I suspect that perhaps he knows more than he is aware of,” replied Holmes cryptically.

Montague Selwyn's residence was located on the top floor of a terraced house in a street of relative respectability in this otherwise squalid corner of London. We were let in by Selwyn's landlord, a tall and lean gentleman with a large bushy beard whom I was surprised to hear present himself as Dr Wilfred Graves. Hearing that I too was a medical man, he appeared delighted, and pressed my hand with glee, asking whether we would like to come in and have a look at his collection of phrenological specimens. We excused ourselves by repeating the reason for our visit, and Dr Graves informed us that Mr Selwyn had just returned home from his work. His door was only reached by a steep and narrow staircase, and by the time we came to the top, the three of us were all out of breath.

Selwyn looked hesitant when he opened the door, but after Lestrade had explained our business, he was pleased at being treated with such an extensive investigation, and promptly let us in. His home consisted of a small sitting room and what appeared to be an adjoining bedroom, and Mr Selwyn, although obviously unattached, had made the best of his lot by hanging attractive curtains and framed pictures along the walls. Holmes stepped straight in and started to remove his hat and coat, hanging them on a peg by the door. We concluded from this that Holmes intended to interview Selwyn for quite some time, and so we followed his example. Selwyn invited us to sit around the square table that was placed in the centre of the room, but Holmes, to our surprise, declined the offer by explaining that we would not detain him very long.

“There is really only one point in this whole affair that is unclear to me, Mr Selwyn.”

“Oh yes? And what might that be?”

Holmes fell silent and looked Mr Selwyn in the eyes.

Selwyn nervously glanced at Lestrade and me. “Did you want to ask me something, sir?”

“I did,” said Holmes. “Waking up after that blow on the head, how did you feel?”

“How did I feel?”

“Yes, how did you feel?”

“Well, under the circumstances, I felt alright. I was a bit groggy of course, after the blow, but then when I became aware that my boots were gone, I sort of sobered up.”

“I see. Will you please describe exactly what you did upon waking up?”

Selwyn appeared bewildered by these seemingly random queries, but endeavoured to answer as fully as possible. “I sat up, touched my forehead, blinked a few times, got on my legs, walked over to where my cap was lying, picked it up and put it back on my head. It wasn't until then that I noticed my bare feet, and all I could do was walk away in my socks.”

“Excellent! Thank you very much, Mr Selwyn, you have been most helpful.”

And with these words, Holmes turned to the door and started to put on his coat again. Buttoning it, Holmes looked back at Selwyn with a smile while reaching with one hand towards the bowler that he had hung on a peg. However, he mistakenly grabbed Selwyn's cloth cap that was hanging just beside it and placed it on his head. Realising his mistake, he apologised to Selwyn, laughed awkwardly, and took his bowler.

“Well that was a very rewarding visit, was it not?” said Lestrade sarcastically when we were out on the street.

“Extremely,” said Holmes quite seriously.

“Oh, really? Well, we hardly learned anything at all, did we? Apart from the fact that Mr Selwyn felt groggy after being hit on the head, and that he stood up after he had fallen.”

“Most instructive, don't you think, Inspector?”

“Please, Mr Holmes, I can take no further from you. And I would appreciate it if in the future you would refrain from taking advantage of my position by pestering innocent crime victims and attempting to steal their hats!”

“Lestrade, please forgive me for applying such unorthodox methods now and then, but I assure you, they are quite effective. I have all the information I need. Now, only a quick examination of the scene of the crime remains.”

“Well, then you can do it on your own. I have better things to do.”

“Will you direct us there before you go?”

Lestrade sighed impatiently. “Turn right and right again. There is a foul word written on the wall at the entrance of the passage. That should lead you in the right direction.”

“Thank you, Lestrade. If you will come around to Baker Street tomorrow afternoon around three o'clock along with some of your men, I will hand over the man who stole Mr Selwyn's boots.”

“Are you pulling my leg, Mr Holmes?”

“I am being perfectly serious.”

“And why will I need to bring reinforcement?”

“I have reason to believe that this man will not come quietly.”

Lestrade snorted, turned his heels and hurried off. Holmes started laughing as soon as he had rounded the corner.

“Holmes,” I said, “I am as much in the dark as Lestrade. You have evidently learned something, but I fail to see what it is.”

“That is nothing to be ashamed of, my dear Watson. Mr Selwyn does not see either, and he is the victim.”

Holmes remained secretive until the following afternoon, being out on errands the entire morning, only to return in time for a late luncheon. He was carrying a large carpet bag with him, which he placed by his armchair before settling himself by the table. I had already eaten by then, and watched him while he devoured his cold leftovers with the appetite of a Bengal tiger. Not for a minute did he look up or acknowledge my presence, and it was not until he put down his knife and fork and joined me by the fire that he showed a readiness to divulge his information.

“Well?” I said, putting aside my book and leaning forward.

“Well what?”

“What have you been up to? Have you cracked the case of the stolen boots?”

“Watson, I have been an utter fool for not realising the truth behind this charade.”

“Charade?”

“A cruel charade, no doubt. The crime behind the crime is immoral and hideous, and in a way you were right in ascribing it all to the work of a madman.”

“I was? Well, it had to be, hadn't it?”

“Yes. But little did we realise that it was one of the most dangerous and notorious madmen of the country.”

“You interest me. Go on.”

“It would be foolish to reveal too much before his arrival. After all, not until then can we be absolutely certain of his guilt.”

“Arrival? You mean he is coming here?”

“That is what I told Lestrade, is it not? Let's just hope he takes the bait.”

“Holmes, your secrecy is insufferable! What on earth could the simple theft of a pair of boots portend other than petty larceny?”

“Watson, you are staring yourself blind at the boots! Forget about the boots, man.”

“Forget about the boots? This is not what you would have advised in the Napoleon bust case.”

“This is something entirely different. But of course, to focus on the boots is exactly what the culprit wanted us to do. And I admit that I fell for it to begin with. You see, the clubbing down of an innocent man and the removal of his boots was so strange a crime that it was difficult to see beyond and think that there was something beneath it.”

“You mean to say it was some sort of decoy?”

“Precisely.”

“From what?”

“Ask yourself, Watson, what do you want to distract someone from by drawing attention to his boots?”

I had no answer to this question, and I was given no time to think about it, for just then the doorbell sounded and a man was let in. We listened to his footsteps as he climbed the stairs to our room. I looked inquiringly at Holmes, but he avoided my gaze and smiled at the door when it was opened. I was completely startled by the unexpected sight of Dr Wilfred Graves, Mr Selwyn's landlord, in the doorframe.

“Ah, Dr Graves,” said Holmes. “Do come in.”

“I got your note, Mr Burnley,” said Graves. “I came as soon as I could.” He halted on his way towards the hearthrug. “But you are the gentlemen from yesterday, are you not? Montague Selwyn's friends?”

“Quite so, Dr Graves. Or should I say: Dr Alcott?”

The man's features froze suddenly in a perplexed and enraged grin. I quickly rose from my chair.

“Dr Roderick Alcott?” I exclaimed.

The name was known to me, as indeed it was to any Englishman at that time. It had only been a year since his name was in the papers in connection with the deaths of a number of pregnant women as a result of the misconduct of an established Harley Street practitioner. What had at first seemed like only the example of an inept doctor eventually turned out to be the premeditated doings of a twisted and scheming mind, seemingly intent on using his patients as guinea-pigs in what were unscientific and diseased experiments. Dr Alcott had managed to disappear from view before the police had been able to get their hands on him, however, and since then nobody had managed to trace his whereabouts.

“You are right, Mr Burnley,” said our visitor. “I am indeed Roderick Alcott. Or at least I was. I suspected that there was something untoward about your summons, but I could not at first put my finger on it. Now I know what it was. The address. This is not the address of a Mr Patrick Burnley who is interested in selling me some phrenological specimens. This is the address of Sherlock Holmes.”

“I am afraid the false name was a necessary precaution, but I did not think you knew about me since you did not seem to recognise us when we visited you yesterday.”

“Since my brush with the legal authorities last year I have learned to know where I have my enemies.” He drew a short-bladed scalpel from his inside pocket. “And I prefer to keep them at arm's length.”

He smiled, and took a quick, stealthy step forward. Holmes remained seated, but I grabbed the poker from the fireplace, the nearest weapon at hand.

“Be calm, Watson,” said Holmes. “I have an even more effective weapon.”

He produced from the pocket of his dressing-gown a small police whistle, which he raised to his lips. Upon the sharp signal, the door behind Dr Alcott flung open once more, and through it rushed two uniformed policemen followed by Inspector Lestrade. It all happened so quickly that our visitor found no time to react, and the constables had grabbed and handcuffed him before he had been able to swing his blade.

“Well, Mr Holmes,” said Lestrade. “This is a pretty bird you have caught for us.”

“Please, Inspector. I only set the trap. The catching business I leave to your capable hands.”

“You scoundrels!” cried Dr Alcott, his eyes wild with agitation.

“Take him outside,” instructed Lestrade, and the two husky bobbies pulled him out of the room with little difficulty.

“Well, well, well,” said Lestrade. “Little did I suspect when we parted company yesterday that I would lay my hands on Roderick Alcott on my next visit to Baker Street. Climbing the stairs outside, I could hear that he was threatening you, and when I heard his name mentioned, I put two and two together and brought my men up with me.”

“Your conduct was impeccable, Inspector,” commended Holmes. “I must admit that I had not anticipated that he would be quite so hostile, but it seems he has become rougher in his ways since his fall from grace.”

“But what I still do not understand,” said I, “is what all this has to do with Montague Selwyn's boots.”

“Take your seats by the fire, gentlemen, and all will be explained to you. There. Now, I was also very much in the dark about this case until we arrived at Mr Selwyn's house last night. I was beginning to suspect that this did not really have anything to do with the boots themselves, and when we met Selwyn I started to form a theory in my head. I immediately noticed something curious about Selwyn. He had a small but discernible puncture wound at the back of his head, just behind his right ear. Perhaps I was unconsciously paying attention to his head after Dr Graves had spoken about his phrenological specimens. The wound was of just the type that a thin biopsy needle leaves behind. Therefore, it seemed to me relevant to ask Selwyn firstly how he felt after waking up from the assault, and secondly to ascertain whether he still had his hat on his head when he woke up. By detailing his movements upon waking up, he revealed to me that his cap had been lying quite a distance from where he had been lying, as he had to get up and walk over to it. As I had removed my hat and coat, I was able to pretend to take the wrong hat upon leaving, which allowed me to inspect Selwyn's cap up close. There were small splotches of dried blood at the place where his puncture wound would have rubbed against the lining of the cap.

“It all seemed perfectly clear to me. What better and more simple way of distracting someone whose head you have just been meddling with, than to remove his boots seemingly without reason, so that all his thoughts go to his feet rather than his head. Hitting him on the head of course also disguises the possible pain left by the incision.”

“So you mean,” said I, “that Dr Alcott used Mr Selwyn for an experiment in phrenology, piercing a thin part of his skull with a biopsy needle?”