The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories Part I Page 5

  The Case of the Lichfield Murder

  by Hugh Ashton

  Note by Dr. Watson: The case of Henry Staunton, in which my friend Sherlock Holmes became involved, was one of the more remarkable crimes of that year, though the true story never reached the ears of the public. Holmes himself expressed his wish that I should withhold the details until such occasion as he considered the time to be ripe. Since that occasion never transpired, I have kept the details in my dispatch-box, safe from the curious eyes of the present, but where they may possibly be discovered by generations and readers as yet unborn. Here, then, I present the remarkable events that transpired in the city of Lichfield in the year 188-.

  Originally, I used pseudonyms to denote the personalities and locations of this case, but have restored the originals, all the principals now being deceased.

  At the time that the events of which I am writing began, Sherlock Holmes was unengaged on any case. He had recently returned from the Continent, where he had been occupied with a matter of some delicacy regarding the ruling family of one of the minor German principalities, and now found time to hang idle on his hands.

  He was amusing himself by attempting to discover a link between the Egyptian hieroglyphic system of writing, and that of the ancient peoples of the central American continent. This attempt, incidentally, proved to be fruitless, and the results of his researches never saw the light of day.

  The rain was falling, and few cabs and even fewer pedestrians were on the street, as I stood in the window of our rooms in Baker Street observing the scene below. “Halloa!” exclaimed Holmes, who had laid down his pen with a gesture of impatience, and joined me at the window. “A client, if I am not mistaken.”

  The corpulent man approaching our house certainly seemed to bear all the distinguishing marks of those who sought the assistance of Sherlock Holmes. The vacillation in his movements, and the nervous glances at the numbers displayed on the front doors of the houses of Baker Street, had by now become almost as familiar to me as they were to Holmes.

  As we watched, he glanced upwards, and caught sight of us standing in the window, as we in turn observed him. Hurriedly ducking his head downwards, he quickened his pace, half-running to the door, and within a matter of seconds we heard the pealing of the bell.

  We returned to our seats as Mrs. Hudson announced the arrival of our visitor, presenting Holmes with his card.

  “A somewhat uninspiring choice of name,” he announced, after examining the card, briefly presenting it to his long aquiline nose, and presenting it to me, where I read simply the name “Henry Taylor” and the title “Merchant”. “No matter,” he continued, “the truth will eventually come out. Show him up, if you would, Mrs. Hudson.”

  The man who presented himself a few minutes later was clearly in the grip of a powerful emotion, in which fear appeared to be mingled with grief.

  “Sit down, please, Mr. Taylor,” Holmes invited him. “You have come far today, and no doubt you are tired.”

  “Why, yes, Mr. Holmes, indeed I am.” The words were uttered in an accent that betrayed our visitor as hailing from one of our more northern counties. He seated himself in the armchair usually occupied by Holmes’s clients, and I was able to observe him more closely.

  Clad in a tweed suit, more fitted for the country than the town, his large frame was still heaving with the exertion of having climbed the seventeen steps to our rooms, and to my professional eye, this, combined with his over-ruddy complexion, indicated some problems with his health. His left hand gripped a stout blackthorn, and the corner of a sheaf of papers peeked out from beneath his coat. His eyes were reddened, as though he had been weeping.

  “Forgive my impertinence,” Holmes said to him after about a minute had passed in silence, “but is your visit here connected with your recent loss?”

  I myself had, naturally, remarked the mourning band attached to his right sleeve.

  For answer, Taylor raised his head, which had sunk to his breast, and answered in a lugubrious tone, “Yes, Mr. Holmes, that is indeed the case.” Another silence ensued, broken only by the wheezing emanating from our visitor as he slowly regained his composure. At length, he spoke again, in a voice heavily charged with emotion. “Gone, Mr. Holmes. Gone. Struck down in the full flower of her beauty by a fell hand.”

  “Murder, you say?” exclaimed Holmes in a tone of some excitement. The news seemed to arouse him from his languor. “How very fortuitous - I mean to say that it is fortuitous that I have no other cases on hand, of course. The police...?”

  “The police have their suspicions as to who may have committed this foul crime, but I believe them to be in error,” replied the other. “This is why I have come to you. I wish to seek justice for my dear wife, Martha.”

  “Tell me more,” Holmes invited him, leaning back in his chair and regarding our client with that curious hooded gaze of his. “Watson, take notes, if you would be so kind.”

  “I am a merchant of cloth and other such goods,” began our visitor. “Some years ago, my first wife died of consumption, leaving me with two young children. As a busy man of business, I found I was unable to care for them as they deserved, and I thereupon lodged them with my sister in the town of Burton upon Trent, and made due financial provision for their support. Though my sister is a good woman, and took excellent care of them, I nonetheless felt that my children deserved to be with their father and his wife. In addition, living alone was irksome to me, and I therefore cast about for a wife. When I moved to the city where I currently reside, my eye was caught by Martha Lightfoot, the daughter of a neighbour, and after a brief courtship, we married, and my children, Stephen and Katie, returned to my home.” He paused, and I took the opportunity to offer him a glass of water, which he accepted gratefully. “Well, sir, it seems I could not have made a better choice for a wife. Martha was devoted to my children as if they had been her own, and they, for their part, appeared to adore her in return.”

  “Excuse me,” Holmes interrupted him. “May I ask the ages of the principals in this case?”

  Our visitor smiled, for the first time since he had entered our room. “I suppose that some would term our marriage - our late marriage, that is - a December and May affair. When we married, some two years ago, I was fifty-three years of age, and Martha twenty-two. Stephen was at that time twelve years old, and Katie ten.” He paused and mopped his brow with a none-too-clean handkerchief. “We were a happy family, in so far as my work would allow it.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Holmes asked him sharply.

  “Well, Mr. Holmes, my work involves a good deal of travel, and obliges me to be away from home for considerable periods of time. I considered it to be somewhat of an imposition on Martha for her to care alone for two youngsters, but as I mentioned, she and the children appeared to have a harmonious life together. That is,” he sighed, “until the events of a month ago.”

  “Pray continue,” Holmes requested, as our visitor seemed to have sunk into some kind of reverie.

  “I came back from an extended trip that had lasted for a week, and discovered my Stephen in an uncharacteristically sulky mood, and with what appeared to be a bruise upon his face. I assumed that he had received a blow while scuffling with his playfellows, as lads will, but on my questioning him, he informed me that the blow had been struck by my wife. He refused to give the reason for this event, simply referring me to Martha. When I questioned her, and confronted her with the accusation, she admitted to striking the child, but claimed it had not been a deliberate action.”

  “No doubt she was able to give reasons for this assertion?”

  Taylor sighed. “Yes. She informed me that she had observed Stephen taking money from the maid’s purse. A small sum, to be sure - a few pence only - but theft is theft, no matter what the amount, do you not agree, Mr. Holmes?”

  “Indeed so,” answered my frie
nd, with a half-smile.

  “She remonstrated with him, and an argument ensued, during the course of which she attempted to retrieve the money, and struck the lad in the face. She swore to me with tears in her eyes that it was an accident, and she had never had any intention of doing him harm. He, when I questioned him later, admitted that he had taken the money in order to purchase some trifle, but claimed that Martha had deliberately delivered the blow to his face.”

  “And which one did you believe?”

  Taylor sighed. “I believed my wife, Martha. Much as I love my Stephen, he has proved himself to be less than truthful in the past, and I have had cause to admonish him. I fear that the sojourn at my sister’s did nothing to improve his character. She is a woman whom some might term over-kind, and she indulged his whims while he was living there, at the expense of his character.”

  “I take it that relations between your wife and your son deteriorated from that time?”

  “Indeed so, Mr. Holmes. As I mentioned, I am often compelled to be away from home, and so it was for this past month. However, on recent occasions when I returned from my travels, it was painfully obvious to me that my wife and my son were on poor terms with each other. I confess that I was completely ignorant of any way in which this breach could be mended, and was forced to endure the spectacle of those whom I love in a state of mutual enmity. Mealtimes were a particular torment, where each seemed to find every opportunity to insult and belittle the other. If one could be banished from the table, peace would have prevailed, and as master of the house, I could remove one of the sources of conflict. But which one was to be removed, Mr. Holmes? I ask you, for I could not resolve that riddle.” He paused, as if for effect. “And then, Mr. Holmes, we come to the events of yesterday.”

  “It was last night that your wife died?”

  “Indeed it was only yesterday. I returned home to find Martha lifeless, stretched out in her own blood on the drawing-room floor. She had suffered a series of stab wounds to the body.”

  “And your son?”

  “I discovered him in the scullery, with a bloody kitchen knife. He was cleaning bloodstains off his clothes in an almost frantic manner. The water in the basin in which he was washing his hands and garments was a scarlet mess, Mr. Holmes. I never want to see the like again.”

  “And his story?”

  “He told me that he had discovered my Martha in the room, with the knife beside her. Despite his recent dislike of her, he is not at heart a bad lad. He believed that she was not dead, but severely wounded, and attempted to move her to make her more comfortable. It was during this operation that he determined that she was, in fact, dead, and it was at this time that his hands and clothing became covered in blood. He picked up the knife-”

  “Why did he do that?” I asked.

  Taylor shrugged. “Who can tell?”

  “The mind causes us to act strangely and without rational motive under unusual conditions,” remarked Holmes. “I can think of several similar cases in my experience. Go on, Mr. Taylor.”

  “He picked up the knife, as I say, and carried it with him into the scullery, where he started to wash his hands and to clean the blood from his clothes. When I encountered him, I immediately ordered him to cease what he was doing, and to come into the street with me, where I gave him over to a passing constable. It gave me little pleasure to do so, but I felt that justice must be served.”

  “Quite so, quite so,” murmured Holmes, but his words seemed to me to lack conviction.

  “I felt in my heart that it was impossible that he had committed such a base deed, but what other explanation could be given?”

  “You mentioned a maid,” said Holmes. “Where was she while this was going on?”

  “It was her afternoon off.”

  “I see. And your daughter?”

  “She was visiting a schoolfellow. My son and my wife were the only two people in the house when I returned.”

  “When you returned, was the house door to the street locked?”

  “The police asked me the same question. Yes, it was. The door leading to the back yard was also locked.”

  “And there was no sign of entry through any other aperture? A window, for example?”

  “To the best of my knowledge, there was no such sign.”

  “And the police?”

  Taylor spread his hands. “What can they do, but believe that my son is guilty? What other explanation could there possibly be for these events? They are confining him, and I fear he will hang.”

  “Even if he is guilty, it is not likely he will be hanged,” Holmes informed him, not without a certain sympathy in his manner. “The courts often show clemency to younger offenders, even in the case of serious crimes. However, I take it you will wish me to establish his innocence?”

  “Of course, Mr. Holmes. But may I ask your fee? I am not a wealthy man, and I fear that I may be unable to afford your services.”

  “My fees never vary, save on those occasions when I remit them altogether,” smiled Holmes. He scribbled a few lines on a card and handed it to Taylor. “I advise you to return to Euston and take the fastest train available back to Lichfield. Do you happen to know the name of the police agent in charge of the case?”

  “An Inspector Upton, I believe, of the Staffordshire Constabulary.”

  “Excellent. Pray give him this message, and inform him that I will be arriving soon. Thank you, Mr. Taylor. We will join you at your house. Where may we find it?”

  “Dam Street, on the way from the marketplace to the Cathedral. Number 23.”

  “We will find it, never fear.”

  Our visitor picked up his hat, and bidding us farewell, departed.

  I turned to Holmes in astonishment. “How on earth did you know that he lived in Lichfield?”

  “Elementary. When I see that not only his hat bears the label of a tailor in that city, but that his stick also bears the mark of a merchant there, I am forced to conclude that most of his purchases are made in Lichfield. Since he describes himself as a merchant who travels extensively, I consider it unlikely that he lives in a village, since Lichfield is a city well served by two railway stations. Lichfield therefore presents itself to me as his city of residence. In addition, today’s weather being wet, I would have expected his boots and his stick to display splashes of mud if he lived outside the city. It is obvious, therefore, since they did not display such signs, that his journey on foot was conducted along paved thoroughfares. Hence my conclusion that he lives in the city.”

  “And you remarked that his name was uninspired. Surely a man has no choice regarding his name.”

  “Under certain circumstances, he may well be able to choose,” answered Holmes, but did not expound further on this somewhat enigmatic pronouncement. “Did you not remark that the card he presented to us still smells strongly of printer’s ink, thereby signifying that it has been produced very recently? Not only that, but the initials marked in ink inside the hat were not HT, but HS? Mr. Taylor, or whatever his true name may be, does not strike one as the kind of man who borrows others’ hats.”

  “You see more than I do,” I remarked.

  “On the contrary, Watson, you see all that I do. I merely draw logical inferences from what I see, and you fail to do so.”

  “And those papers he was carrying inside his coat. What were they? I had assumed that they had some relevance to his query.”

  “I, too,” confessed Holmes. “Many of them appeared to be letters, from the little I could observe, and I fancy that at least one of them was a will.”

  “His late wife’s?” I asked. Holmes shrugged.

  “Who can tell with certainty? But we may assume so, I think. In any case, we must move fast, before the heavy boots of the local constabulary remove all traces of evidence from the scene. As you know, I have lit
tle faith in the abilities of our Metropolitan Police, and even less in those of the provincial forces.” He rang the bell for Billy, our page, and wrote and handed him another note, to be sent as a telegram to the police inspector in Lichfield.

  “You are prepared to stay in the Midlands for a few days?”

  “It is the work of a minute for me to be ready,” I answered him.

  “Good. If I recall correctly, there is an express train from Euston at fifty-three minutes past the hour, which will bring us to the Trent Valley station before the day is too far advanced. Be so good as to confirm it in Bradshaw.”

  I did so, and reported this to Holmes. “I confess that I am confused regarding our client’s motives,” I said to Holmes. “On the one hand, he appears to love his son with true parental feeling by approaching you in an attempt to establish his innocence. On the other, he seems keen to blacken his name, as shown by his confession that the child is not always truthful. Also, by immediately giving his son in charge to the police, Taylor seems to have assumed that he was indeed the culprit, without bothering to make detailed enquiries.”

  “Indeed, there are several mysteries about this aspect of the matter, which I think we can only clear up by means of a visit to the scene. Come, Watson, let us make our way to the fair city of Lichfield.”

  We alighted from the train at Lichfield Trent Valley station, a mile or so from the centre of the city, and hailed a cab to take us to the market square. From there, we walked along Dam Street until we reached number 23, close to the Cathedral. A police constable was standing outside the door.

  Holmes introduced himself to the constable, and requested permission to speak to the Inspector in charge of the case.

  “I’ve read of you in the newspapers, sir,” replied the policeman, “and I am sure that you will be welcome, but I have to talk to Inspector Upton first before I allow you inside, if you don’t mind, sir.” He went inside the house, and re-emerged a minute or so later, followed by a uniformed officer, who identified himself as the inspector.