Sherlock holmes and the.., p.14
Sherlock Holmes and the Sixty Steps, page 14
“As you know, Mr. Holmes, since the Adair case we have never had the slightest vestige of evidence which would connect Moran with any form of criminal activity. Now, this Klesmesh Porloch,” Lestrade went on, reading from the official report, “I’ll give you that Mr. Holmes – you have got the name correct, or almost. Known locally as Fred Porlock, as you said. Fifty-eight, a Russian Jew and former tailor of Princelet Street, well-known in the district but a noticeably quiet character, apparently, no close friends or family. Made his living by doing odd jobs here and there. Now, as to the post mortem, this will make more sense to you, Doctor, than it does to me. ‘Bullet entered at the back of the neck, slightly to the left of the third vertebra; embedded in the zygoma to the left. Bullet passed through the trapezius, fired at point-blank range.’ Most of the locals we spoke to were astonished at his murder – they thought he was the type who would have had no enemies.”
“Now we have established that he had at least one implacable enemy!”
“The fellow has been assiduous in concealing his links with the underworld for there was nothing incriminating upon the premises – and certainly nothing which would connect him either with this late professor of yours or with Colonel Moran. There are certainly plenty of Russian criminal societies in the area: the Odessans; the Black Cossacks; the Aldgate Mob – again we found no evidence. There are, no doubt, smaller fry but it would be a complete waste of our time to pursue further enquiries amongst the Russian immigrants for they have an ingrained terror of any kind of police or authority – even a private detective.”
“A terror which is wholly justified, as I learned first-hand,” said Holmes.
“Anyway, my colleague, Inspector Larsen, who makes a speciality of the Russian communities in Whitechapel and Bethnal Green, told me that this method of killing is generally reserved for those who have impeached upon one of the societies or collaborated with the police. It reminded him of the killing of the former Tsarist policeman, Gavrilovitch.”
“Indeed, I thought immediately of the Trepoff case, for when I was in Odessa it was a hotbed of anti-Tsarist dissent, but in this case, I know precisely whence Porlock’s persecution derived.”
“Bring me the evidence, Mr. Holmes,” said Lestrade with a smile, “and I shall have the colonel under lock and key within the hour!”
“Very well, Lestrade, I perceive that I shall not convince you. Still, we have a number of points, do we not, from which we may draw some inferences: There is the watermark on the notepaper which suggests that the sender of the notes has a connection with a trade or business, one that requires headed correspondence; there was the lack of skill evident in the dismemberment; there is the connection with three villages in suburban Surrey – which, admittedly, may be a blind.
“Let us reconstruct the events and see where these clues lead us. First, Porlock is murdered – was he murdered in his home or was he lured to the killer’s own lair?”
“To break in and kill him in his home would be very risky, surely, in such a densely crowded neighbourhood?” I said.
“And yet depending on the time of day, perhaps not. It is a busy, noisy neighbourhood. There are factories, warehouses, tradesmen constantly at work at this or that task, with tools, equipment and ladders – all of this might cover the sound.”
“None of the neighbours heard a thing,” said Lestrade, “surely someone would have heard a gunshot? And there was no sign of any blood in Porlock’s house. How could a murder like this have been committed and a corpse dismembered without leaving any bloodstains or bullet holes?”
“Then he was lured to a rendezvous and killed. The assassin or his accomplice would then have had to dismember the corpse then transport it piece by large piece. The torso must have been brought in through the rear door of the church – under the cover of darkness, no doubt, but it is still no mean feat to transport a corpse through the metropolis; it would require a great deal of nerve to dodge the beat constables, albeit their rounds are generally predictable. But what if he should be stopped by a plainclothes man? How does he explain the body parts if he and his vehicle are searched?”
“He may have been prepared to shoot his way out of it, if he had a gun,” I suggested.
“Worse and worse. How could he know that the crack of a pistol would not bring policemen running from every quarter? Even after the torso was left in Spitalfields there were still the head and limbs to dispose of. I merely point out at this stage, that they must have had some fool-proof method, or as fool-proof as possible, for moving the body parts without the risk of being disturbed by curious policemen, and that the whole affair was well thought out in advance.”
“We commandeered the costermonger’s barrow that he brought the arms in,” said Lestrade, “and discovered that the thing had been stolen from the yard of a well-known, firm, Carteret & Sons, in Covent-Garden. They hadn’t noticed that it was missing until our constable turned up with it, and I’d say they have no involvement in this.”
“I am sure that you are right,” said Holmes. “Moran is a professional, and neither he nor any of his agents would take such ridiculous chances as relying on amateurs for the success of his mission. Now, Inspector, you said you would take a run out to Surrey.”
“Yes, well I’ve not been letting the grass grow under my feet,” said Lestrade. “I questioned the three postmistresses myself at Horsell, Woking, and Byfleet. I didn’t want to depend on the yokels out there.”
“Excellent, pray continue.”
“I was relying on the possibility that the sender might have had to go into the post office to buy the stamps or that someone might have noticed a letter being posted by a stranger in the village. That depended on there being a post box inside the post office. Unfortunately, we drew a blank at Horsell – the woman doesn’t remember selling stamps to anyone on the day in question and says she was too busy; and in any case, the post box there is out on the street. The other accounts, from Woking and Byfleet, agreed on two points: a man whom they didn’t recognise bought a stamp and posted a letter around the time we were interested in, and he was tall, youngish, fair, and very formally attired; ‘looked a right toff,’ the woman in Woking actually said – she remembered his top hat; the other woman, in Byfleet, said she didn’t remember any top hat but remembered he was dressed ‘a bit sombre like.’ Not a lot of help, but we know our man was there.”
“Yes, I fear it is not much in the way of data, yet we proceed do we not? A tall, fair, formally dressed youngish man. On his way to his office in the city or to his club for lunch perhaps. A gentleman in other words, is the suggestion is it not? And yet that would sit at odds with the cheap stationary.”
“Which could be a blind.”
“Perhaps. The two women couldn’t say in what sort of vehicle he came?”
“No, I asked them that too,” said the inspector, “they saw none.”
“And yet dressed like a toff, it is unlikely he walked there. Well, thank you for the information. I fear I must now retreat into solitude and ponder the details of the case. I shall keep you abreast of any developments.”
Once the inspector had departed, I left my friend to his desired seclusion and went for a walk in the park. Having bought some of the early editions, I stopped at a small café near Portman Square for a pot of coffee. The press was now reporting the matter as “the mysterious murder of a Russian tailor” and made several inane speculations as to the motive, which included references to Russian secret societies, the Nihilists, the Fenians, and the East End protection rackets. I went back to Baker Street at lunchtime expecting to find Holmes in one of his black moods; instead, I found him with an unmistakeable gleam in his eye.
“Anything in the ’papers?” he asked chirpily.
“The usual tosh,” I replied, tossing the newspaper on to the table. “Nothing of any interest.”
“Tell me, Watson, what connection do you think there could be between Horsell, Woking, and Byfleet?”
“I’m sure I cannot say. I have walked an odd time on the moor and common at Horsell, and you will recall my old school friend, Percy Phelps, who once brought us on a case to Woking; but I cannot think of any connection in particular between those two and Byfleet.”
“I mean a physical one.”
“Ah, of course, the Basingstoke Canal?” I ventured.
“An inspired and clever, but unfortunately slightly out-of-date answer, Watson. I am afraid there is, in fact, no longer any such connection. There was a serious breach at Crookham some years ago which not only left the canal dry but flooded some of the farmland in the vicinity. The canal company was liquidated as a result of the lost traffic and the compensation claims.”
He pointed to the map on the table.
“I think you have hit upon the right idea, though,” he said. “The canal connected these three places when it was built in the eighteenth century; what connects them today, Watson, in the nineteenth?”
“The railway!”
“Good. Which one?
“The London and South Western Railway to be precise.”
“Let us leave the London and South Western Railway to one side for one moment and recall our discussion regarding the difficulty in transporting a corpse, even a dismembered one, through the city. We foresaw, as no doubt did Moran, the risk of the assassin or his accomplice being stopped by the police. But what sort of person might legitimately transport a corpse through crowded City streets without raising the slightest suspicion. Think on what the two postmistresses said.”
“What was that?”
“A man with a top hat, sombrely attired.”
“Why, of course, an undertaker!”
“Excellent; a funeral director, to give him his proper title. Or a member of his staff. At least, that is a probability worth exploring, is it not? Now let us return once more to the railway. Which part of the London and South Western Railway do you think a funeral director might take an interest in?”
“I really could not say.”
“Of course you could. Remember that rather bizarre little station with the delightful inscription which we passed on Westminster Bridge Road on the way home from the Oxshott case? ‘Mortuis quies, vivis salus’ – no mortuis quies for friend Porlock, I am afraid.”
“Of course, the Necropolis Railway at Waterloo, transporting the coffin trains to Brookwood! Thurston told me that they built a lunatic asylum there too – what a strange institution.”
“A citadel of the mad and the dead, Watson.”
“I recall reading a rather droll article in the ‘Gentleman’s Magazine’ some time ago, an invective damning the entire operation as grotesque and inhuman, concerned with the possible mixing up of the carriages of the dead with those of the living.”
“I read the same article, though I must say I was left with the distinct impression that the author was rather more dismayed at the prospect of mixing first-class passengers with third-class ones. Nevertheless, I believe you have it: the Necropolis Railway.”
“As a cover for criminal activities, I suppose no occupation could be more useful for disposing of the bodies of victims!”
“Indeed not, one can imagine what skulduggeries may be achieved with double sized coffins.”
“But amongst the hundreds of funeral directors in London how does one begin to narrow the probabilities even further?”
Holmes picked up a heavy volume from the table.
“Here is the trade directory for London,” he continued, “I had no idea there was such a demand for their services; from Aldgate High Street to Zanzibar Terrace, there are a hundred and seventeen funeral directors. Then there are those situated in the neighbouring counties of Kent, Middlesex, and Surrey.”
“Good gracious! We cannot possibly visit each of those surely…” I groaned.
“Indeed no. Hand me the Bradshaw, if you please. Now, listen to this, though! At eleven thirty-five, Monday to Saturday, a funeral train departs the Necropolis Station in London for Brookwood, arriving at Necropolis Junction where it leaves the main LSWR line at twelve twenty-five. The train returns from Brookwood leaving the Anglican station at two-fifteen and the Nonconformist and Roman Catholic station at two-thirty p.m. and is back in London by three twenty.”
“Brilliant!”
“So, our enterprising undertaker arrives with his legitimate cargo at Westminster Bridge Road the night before and leaves the coffin; next day he has to meet the train at Brookwood and convey the remains of the deceased on the final leg of its journey; this leaves him ample time to pop into one of the villages en route and post his letter, then arrive to meet the train in good time and complete the service. Equally, he could post the letter on the return journey. Of course, he is dressed fairly conspicuously and travelling in a hearse, but the villagers there are no doubt used to seeing such traffic to the cemetery day in and day out that they barely notice. It would be no more remarkable than seeing a fishmonger’s cart at Billingsgate. Nevertheless, he avoids going to the same village more than once, so as not to attract attention. By virtue of his profession, he is practically free from police scrutiny, for how many constables would have the impiety to stop and search a hearse?”
“Since he posted letters on three subsequent days, we have only to find out which of the undertakers officiated at funerals on Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday, and we have the answer?”
“Here we have yesterday’s newspaper, from which we can start to make a list; I had sent Billy round to the newsagent for Monday’s and Tuesday’s editions. I shall ring for lunch now, then we can make a start afterwards.”
It took us several hours to go through the newspapers, checking and double-checking the entries with the object of making a list, but by the finish we had discovered that only two firms had officiated at Brookwood on all three days.
“A. Braithwaite, Undertaker, Funeral Furnisher, and Monumental Sculptor,” said Holmes, “Established 1850. Funerals to Suit All Creeds and Classes – First, Second, and Third Class available on application – admirably egalitarian! Situated in Clare Market. And the other is McCabe and Son, Breffni Funerals, Roman Catholic only – more select, though they also cater for three social classes; they are located in Crimea Road, Aldershot, Hampshire. Braithwaite had a third-class funeral on Monday and Wednesday, and a second-class one on Tuesday. The Breffni company did two third-class funerals on Tuesday, with one each on the other days.”
“So, either is equally likely.”
“Perhaps. However, Aldershot lies in the opposite direction from Brookwood to the three villages from which the letters were sent, so our Breffni man would not pass the three villages; he may of course have made a deliberate detour, but why? Whereas Braithwaite’s hearse would pass the villages on both the outward and return journeys – always assuming that the hearse has to return to the Clare Market premises.”
“In which case Braithwaite is the marginally more likely one.”
“More than marginally, I think, Watson; look at the times postmarked on the letters, they are all consistent with morning funeral times, whereas on Wednesday the Breffni company had one in the afternoon. As Braithwaite’s premises are closer, it would make sense to start there.”
“And the names give you no hint?”
“I know no one of either name in Moran’s establishment, but in any case, it will be a false one. I feel that I have a sudden pressing need to bury a deceased relative, which nothing but a visit to Clare Market will satisfy. In fact, no, I have it! A recently deceased parishioner of mine needs a burial, and you, Watson, shall be the solemn, lachrymose, recently bereft husband.”
“Shall I get Billy to call us a cab, then?”
“Good Lord, no! The very last thing we should want to do,” replied my friend cryptically. “We’ll pick up a growler or a hansom at the cab stand at the station.”
Holmes’s impersonation of the nonconformist clergyman was exquisite: he had played this part once before in the Irene Adler case and his dress, his speech, his demeanour, were such as could not have been equalled by the real thing; the moment he put on the clerical neckband he became the man. With myself at his side, dressed in deep mourning and summoning all the false solemnity that I could muster, surely the proprietor would entertain not the slightest suspicion as to the reason for our errand. Holmes asked the jarvey to drop us at Lincoln’s Inn Fields for some reason and we made our way on foot from there, negotiating the ill-lit crowded lane behind the Royal College of Surgeons; every roadway and cobbled thoroughfare seemed to be choked with butchers’ and costermongers’ carts.
“We seem to have picked the very worst time of day,” I said.
“Indeed, Watson, that was my intention,” replied Holmes mysteriously.
The yellowing shade of a gas lamp above a shop doorway in a row of smoke-blackened two-storied buildings proclaimed the parlour of “Albert Braithwaite,” and there was a courtyard entrance to the side at the corner of New Inn-passage to facilitate the hearse vans. There could be few dirtier or noisier spots, and fewer poorer populations in London.
“It seems an inauspicious spot for one of Moran’s crew,” I remarked to Holmes.
“It is a mere façade. It would hardly do to proclaim one’s wealth in the midst of such a hovel. Now let us see what Mr. Braithwaite has to offer the grieving widower and his spiritual adviser.”
The shop bell announced our presence and very shortly a tall, fair-haired, fresh-faced, young man in dark clothes appeared behind the counter. Holmes explained our business and before long we were going through the rigmarole of discussing prices for this and that standard of coffin, what purvey could be provided and when, and, inevitably, the specifications for first, second, and third-class funerals by train. The young man was very well-spoken, and at no point did his eyes desist from sharp scrutiny of us.
