The Adventure of the Tired Captain A Sherlock Holmes Case (13 page)

“You see your little lectures have not been lost upon us
, Mr. Holmes.”

“That was quick work, Bradstreet. You have done well.”

The man from Scotland Yard beamed with pride. “However....,” he hesitated.

“
However?”

“There is a most curious fact to which I wish to draw your attention, Mr. Holmes.”

“You interest me exceedingly, Inspector, pray continue.”

“Very well
, Mr. Holmes. Well sir, upon closer examination what appeared to be a tattoo was actually nothing more than a somewhat common Japanese character etched upon the skin with India ink.”

“Are you sure, Inspector?”

“Quite sure, Doctor.”

“And what conclusion do you draw from this remarkable fact, Inspector?” asked Holmes.

“No conclusions yet, Mr. Holmes, it is merely an observation, and as the only person who can shed any light upon the matter is dead I think it is something which must remain unexplained. However it was Inspector Michael’s opinion that the Japanese are much more likely to tattoo themselves than their Oriental cousins so perhaps it was an attempt on the part of the dead man to make himself appear to be of Japanese ancestry and not Chinese.”

“And Michaels is an expert in such matters?” Holmes asked.

“He was our top man in Limehouse for years.”

Holmes never liked to be proved wrong, especially by the official forces. However he was a gentleman and secretly proud that he had been a mentor to many of them, and he accepted the other’s news gracefully.

“If you ever put this case to paper Watson, you can make me out a jackass,” Holmes said.

“This is all well and fine Holmes, however considering the untold thousands of Chinese in London the possibility of this being our man is certainly remote,” I pointed out.

“Would you like to view the body once again Mr. Holmes?” asked Bradstreet. “Perhaps in the light of day you will be able to see more than we.”

“By all means
, Bradstreet. What say you, Watson, are you up for a drive through the early morning streets, and lend us your expert medical opinion?”

“Anything that will help us find Mary would be preferable to sitting here.”

“Bring your mac then, there is a rain.”

Bradstreet had a four-wheeler waiting and we climbed in. The heavy rain beat down relentlessly against the sides of the cab. The great city which never seemed to sleep was teeming with traffic despite the hour and the rain.

For the second time in three days we arrived at that stark and morbid repository. Despite the fact that dead bodies were nothing new to me, the place sent a chill down my spine, I was more accustomed to preventing my patients from ending their existence in a place such as this for as long as possible. The room was hot and airless, the white-washed walls gleaming in the harsh electric light. The attendant slid back the sheet which covered the body.

I stepped forward, the better to view the lifeless thing which was laid out upon the table as I had neither the time nor opportunity to examine it the previous night. The body was that of an Oriental man of around thirty years of age and it betrayed all the telltale signs of being viciously beaten. Holmes was unmoved at the sight.

“What do you think, Watson,” he said.

“This man has been beaten severely about the head,” I said.

“An astute observation, Doctor,” Holmes said dryly.

I ignored his tone and continued. “This man has been beaten severely about the head,” I repeated. “Death from a bludgeon to the head is almost always due to trauma of the brain and when the human skull receives such an injury splinters of bone often become embedded in the brain. Sometimes the brain itself becomes pulped if the damage to the skull is severe enough, however in those instances where the skull is not fractured
haemorrhaging beneath the bone will result in internal bleeding.”

“Quite interesting and quite correct, Watson. Is there anything about this particular case to which you would wish to draw my attention?”

“Without a closer and more detailed examination, there is very little I can tell you, Holmes.”

“
As always you are too timid in your inferences, Doctor. For instance this.....,” here he pointed to the massive trauma which had been inflicted upon the head, “appears to have been caused by the butt end of a pistol.”

“How can you tell that, Mr. Holmes?” whispered Bradstreet.

“There is no need for silence here, Inspector, you will disturb no one. As to your question, I have been lucky enough over the years to be allowed to spend some time at St. Bart’s Hospital. It is where Watson and I first met. While there, I conducted a series of experiments as to the shape of wounds left by various weapons. The wounds caused by such an attack as this are for the most part ragged in nature and there are usually strands of blood vessels, skin and tissue deeply impacted into the bone. The skull will often show depressed areas which in the majority of cases indicate the shape and by inference the nature of the weapon. I believe that once the body has undergone a more thorough examination it will be discovered that the injuries have been caused by the butt of a heavy revolver.”

“What else can you tell us, Mr. Holmes?” asked Bradstreet.

“I believe that the killing was either an accident or perhaps a crime of opportunity.”

“How can you say that, Holmes?” I asked. “It seems to me that the attack was a particularly brutal and premeditated one.”

“Brutal yes, but premeditated no; again look at the choice of weapons. A firearm used in this fashion would be quite unreliable. It is not really heavy enough to do the job plus there is every chance that the pistol would be ruined in the process. It seems to me that if someone had intended to kill this man they would have chosen a more appropriate weapon.”

“Why not use the pistol in the more traditional manner?” asked Bradstreet.

“There would be too much chance of being discovered,” I said.

“Exactly, Watson, however it is this tattoo which intrigues me, Bradstreet. You say that the design has been applied to the skin with an India ink.”

“It appears so, Mr. Holmes. The morgue attendant in the course of washing the body in preparation for the autopsy discovered the fact.”

“Holmes what possible reason could someone have for having a false tattoo?”

“I have no idea Watson. As with many aspects of this case, it is something which remains to be explained.”

Holmes and I returned to Baker Street in time for lunch. The enticing smell of a roasting woodcock greeted us as we entered the premises.

“What are our plans now, Holmes?” I asked as I drained the last of my post prandial glass of port.

“I think a visit to the Diogenes Club would be in order,” Holmes replied.

“A call on brother, Mycroft?” I asked.

Mycroft was Holmes’ elder brother whom I had first met in the affair relating to
The Greek Interpreter.
He was Holmes equal in the science of deduction but as Holmes was apt to point out he lacked energy. He seldom strayed from his office and rooms in Whitehall except when he visited the Diogenes Club, that strange association of men who belonged to no other clubs due to their abhorrence of any customary social contacts. No member of this peculiar group was allowed to speak to another except in the Strangers’ Room. Holmes had told me the tale, possibly apocryphal, of one member who choking on a bit of cheese had appealed for assistance from a fellow member, his life was saved however he was expelled from the club. It had always amazed me that Holmes himself was not a member. Mycroft being a founding member, his inclusion would have been automatic.

“You remember him then,” replied my friend.

“Of course, but what has Mycroft to do with the matter?” I asked.

“Mycroft, along with his more prosaic duties is also one of the guiding forces behind this country’s unofficial security and intelligence service and has made himself quite indispensable. If there are any irregularities to do with this Chinese man or the ship he sailed on, Mycroft will be able to put his finger on it, or,” he added as an afterthought “at the least he will be able to point us in the right direction.”

The drive to Pall Mall and the Diogenes Club was but a short one.

The attendant at the club was obviously familiar with Holmes as he showed us directly into the visitor’s room. A melancholy, yet distinguished looking gentleman was just leaving the room as we entered. Jarvis, for that was the attendant’s name, disappeared through the door like a wraith, no doubt to inform Mycroft Holmes of our presence. In a short while the massive bulk of my friend’s brother entered the room.

Seven years Sherlock’s senior, Mycroft was obese and indolent. No amount of excess flesh though could disguise the massive intellect, or the powerful and somewhat intimidating stance. Nor could it hide the cold, hooded grey eyes with their masterful gaze. The powers which my friend turned to solving crimes, his brother used with equal success in becoming an essential cog in the gears of the government machinery.

He greeted me warmly and then shook hands briefly with his brother. I k
new the two of them to be close. However their nature forbade any outward showing of emotion.

He motioned us to two large overstuffed chairs and then like a battlesh
ip maneuvering it’s way into its berth he lowered himself into the chair by the window. As if on cue Jarvis brought us three large brandy and sodas.

“I am glad that you received my telegram
, Mycroft and could absent yourself from your offices for a time.”

“I have no pressing business at the moment, Sherlock.”

“Lord Ecclestone has had a reversal of fortune I see,” said Holmes.

“Yes he has recently come into some money I believe,” replied his brother.

“No doubts the proceeds of a life insurance settlement. Someone close to him has passed away,” said Sherlock.

“His wife, Sherlock,” Mycroft answered.

“Yes, of course,” Sherlock said laughing.

“He is using the proceeds to invest in the market,” Mycroft shot back.

I looked from one to the other at this exchange. Holmes and his brother enjoyed these little contests but I was always hard pressed to follow their reasoning. They must have noticed the bewildered look as I made a subtle clucking sound.

“You doubt our conclusions
, Doctor,” said Mycroft, in a condescending yet not unkind voice.

“It is not so much that I doubt your conclusions, Mycroft, it is only that it is a mystery to me as to how you reached them.”

“Shall I enlighten the Doctor, Sherlock, or would you prefer to do the honours.”

My friend demurred to his brother.

“As you may have surmised Doctor the old white haired gentleman who was leaving when you arrived was Lord Steven Ecclestone. Due to some bad investments and a spendthrift son he had lost much of his fortune and has had to resort to selling some of the family plate and paintings to make ends meet. That much is public record, Doctor. As a founder and treasurer of this club I know that he had fallen behind in his dues and was about to be expelled. However in the last month he has made good on his obligations. I have also noticed that he now partakes of the most excellent brandy and the finest cigars, the price of which are not part of the monthly dues.”

“Also,” piped in Sherlock, “his hat is brand new and of a most expensive style. I noticed it as he was walking out. This also points to a reversal of his fortunes. The fact that he retained his hat instead of entrusting it to this institution’s most peerless serv
ant would seem to indicate that the hat is a new one and Lord Ecclestone is quite attached to it, perhaps because he has not been able to purchase a new one for some time.”

“And I suppose you deduced the death of his wife by the absence of a wedding ring and the pale band around his finger where it for so long resided?” I added.

They both stared at me in wonder. “Bravo, Watson,” said Sherlock. “We were actually referring to the news in the society column of some weeks ago which mentioned the fact. I did not have the opportunity to observe his left hand and so did not notice the feature you mention.”

Neither had I;
however I had assumed that the brothers had relied on some clever bit of detective work, rather than on such a commonplace thing as reading of it in the papers.

“And the investments?” I asked.

“The paper sticking from his pocket was covered in stock symbols, many of which were circled. Lord Ecclestone it seems is attempting to increase his income with some risky investments,” said Mycroft.

“Enough of this game, Mycroft,” said my friend suddenly banging his hand on the table. The sound echoed like a shot in the customary silence of the visitor’s room. Jarvis opened the door. One look at the two brothers caused him to back out silently.

“Forgive me Mycroft, however our business is urgent and time is of the utmost importance.”

“No doubt the matter concerns the continued absence of
Mrs. Watson,” said Mycroft taking little notice of his brother’s outburst.

“It is true, Mycroft,” I said. “Your brother has already filled you in on the matter then?”

“My brother has not yet spoken to me on the subject. I have only learned of the unfortunate facts through my contacts with the Metropolitan Police. I have also become aware that for the last few days you have not returned to your own house, instead, adopting the Bohemian lifestyle of my brother. That and the fact that the death of your neighbour has been widely reported in the paper are the only knowledge that I have of the situation.”

“Ah, that
has
been your people I have seen then,” my friend said under his breath.

“Yes, Sherlock,” Mycroft replied, his own hearing as keen as that of his brother. “Ever since you returned from the Continent we have kept an eye on yourself and Dr. Watson. We were, as you know, unable to snare Colonel Moran in the same trap in which we caught the rest of the Moriarty gang and we thought we might prevent him from doing either of you a mischief.”

“Mycroft, I can’t believe......,” began my friend.

I interjected. “So, Mr. Holmes if you or your organization have been keeping this unwelcome vigil on my home you must know what transpired the night my wife was kidnapped.”

“No, Doctor. Even though my men had specific orders to keep your household under surveillance, they managed to bungle the affair.”

“It was most certainly bungled Mycroft. My wife
was not even at home that night as she spent most of the evening at my neighbour’s.” I explained to him the precautions which I had taken to ensure Mary’s safety; precautions which in hindsight proved useless.

“
Hmmmm, that would explain much. They would have paid little attention to your servant.” Maids and all other domestics were by their very nature invisible to the general public.

“I know that you have your fingers into many different pies, Mycroft. Do you know anything about a man with a missing finger found dead in King William Street?” asked the younger Holmes.

“Why should I know anything of a body found in King William Street,” replied Mycroft blandly.

“This man was one of your people I believe,” said my friend.

“That is the second time during this conversation in which you have referred to
my
people,” Mycroft stated.

“Come now, dear brother, although its very existence has not been made public I know that you are in virtual if not actual control of our government’s nascent security organization.”

“I would not attempt to deceive you even if I could, Sherlock,” replied Mycroft. This answer seemed to satisfy my friend.

“What makes you think that this man worked for me?” continued Mycroft.

“The deceased was obviously a military man his boots and the cut of his moustaches told me as much. No doubt he received his wound
and
in all probability lost his finger in one of those senseless conflicts in which Her Majesty’s government seems to take great pleasure in waging.

“Need I continue, Mycroft?”

Mycroft remained silent.

“This man also had several one-pound notes in his pocketbook. It seems to me that if this person was what he appeared to be, namely an itinerant fruit peddler, he wo
uld not be in possession of such a sum of money.”

“Perhaps this unfortunate creature was an agent of Colonel Moran?” I said. “I am given to understand that contrary to popular belief, crime does indeed pay, and pay handsomely.”

“As to that you are certainly correct, Watson, however I do not believe that this particular gentleman was employed by the Colonel,” my friend said. He did not elaborate.

“Also in hi
s possession,” continued Holmes “was one of this estimable club’s calling cards. Although the Diogenes Club does not put it’s name or for that matter it’s address on it’s stationery, it’s distinctive stamp as well as the member’s name or assumed name is printed upon each card, which are of course solely for the use of members. The card found in this man’s pocket bears your alias.”

“You know a great n
umber of things concerning this institution Sherlock,” said Mycroft quietly.

“It is my business to know what others do not.”

“......and just because this man was in possession of my card and a large sum of money you assume that he worked for me as an intelligence agent. Come Sherlock there must be dozens of professions which make use of such men.”

“Yes, you are no doubt correct dear brother, but what other profes
sion would appeal to such a man; a man who is used to the action, the rigors and the discipline of army life. And what other profession pays such a man so well as evidenced by the money in his pockets.”

I sat transfixed by this conversation.

“My question to you Mycroft is why did you hire this man to spy on Dr. and Mrs. Watson and what connection does he have if any to the death of a Chinese man at Charing Cross station and the disappearance and subsequent death of Dr. Anstruther; and most damning of all Mycroft why did you engineer the abduction of Mrs. Watson?”