The Adventure of the Tired Captain A Sherlock Holmes Case (10 page)

“What can you deduce from it, Mr. Holmes?”

“Only that the purpose of this murderous assault was certainly not robbery. The attacker did not make off with the jewelry or for that matter, the pipe. As you know Lestrade, whenever there is a crime committed in Greenwich, or indeed in any of a half a hundred areas of the city, as often as not robbery is the reason. Individuals have been robbed for little more than a bit of string or a broken piece of mirror.”

“You are right there Mr. Holmes and while there are certainly worse parts of the city such things are not unknown in Greenwich. The dead man did not appear to have been robbed, having in fact a few notes still in his pockets, amongst some other items. We also found some sort of message on his person, Mr. Holmes.”

“A message?” asked Holmes.

“Indeed. I have it here,” replied Lestrade, pulling a small parcel from his pocket.

“One thing at a time Lestrade let us concentrate on the locket,” said Holmes.

“Might not the attacker have been interrupted before he could rob his victim?” I asked exasperated. It did not matter to me what direction the investigation took as long as it was going somewhere.

“I think not,” said Holmes handing
me the pendant.

“What do you see
, Watson?”

I looked at the item and noticed a brownish stain upon in. “It looks like blood,” I said.

“It is undoubtedly blood, and probably that of the dead man. Thus the locket would have been placed in his hand after his death.”

“I don’t follow you, Mr. Holmes?” replied Lestrade.

“Well I am sure you would agree with me Lestrade that in Greenwich or for that matter
any
of the less savoury parts of the city a man would be foolish indeed to proceed down the street with such an expensive bauble in plain view. His life or at least his good health would not be worth a moment’s purchase.”

“Come now
, Mr. Holmes it is not as bad as that,” the Inspector replied.

“Well perhaps. Tell me, Lestrade, did this fellow have wounds on his hands or forearms?”

“Not that I noticed, Mr. Holmes. Why do you ask?”

“Such wounds are quite common during attacks of this kind. It is instinctive in such a situation to raise your hands to defend yourself.”

“Perhaps he was attacked from behind and did not have a chance to defend himself,” Lestrade remarked.

Ignoring the little detective Holmes continued, “It is also instinctive in such situations to raise your hands to the wound in an effort to staunch the blood. In such a case you would, of necessity, drop anything you happened to be holding.”

“Maybe he picked up the locket again while he was lying on the sidewalk,” I ventured.

“I would think that if you lay bleeding to death on the pavement you would have more important things on your mind than protecting your valuables,” said Holmes.

“Maybe, however I doubt you would be thinking rationally in such circumstances,” I replied.

“What would this man be doing with Mrs. Watson’s locket?” asked Lestrade.

“We may never know. Possibly he was looking to pawn it. There are a number of pawnshops in the area,” answered Holmes.

“You said that there was a message, Lestrade?”

“Yes, Mr. Holmes,” said the little detective producing a long strip of paper from the small box which he had earlier set upon the side table. He handed the paper to Holmes who studied it minutely.

“Where was this found, Lestrade?”

“It was found inside of the dead man’s vest pocket, Mr. Holmes.”

“As I thought,” replied my friend.

“What do you make of it, Holmes?” I asked peering over his shoulder. He handed the paper to me.

“You are familiar with my methods Watson, what do you make of it?”

I took the paper from him and examined it.

“Other than the fact it is covered in a random and meaning
less jumble of letters I can make nothing of it.”

“On the contrary
, Watson you can see as much as I but you deduce nothing.”

“What can you infer from it then, Holmes?” I asked handing the item in question back to him.

“The paper has been cut into strips with a small curve-bladed scissor as evidenced by the jagged edge along the bottom. The strips have been glued together with what appears to be a simple water and flour paste. The paper is of a quality which can be purchased at any stationers and is moderately priced. It is of English manufacture, the partial watermark,” he said holding it up to the window, “seems to indicate one of our paper mills located in Maidstone. The author of this note is a heavy smoker. The paper fairly reeks of tobacco. As you know Watson my sense of smell is a particularly acute one and I dare say that I can detect the lingering smell of an Egyptian tobacco. The writer was probably enjoying a smoke as he was composing the message. There is also a smudge of ash on one end. As Lestrade pointed out the paper was found in the dead man’s vest pocket however it appears that it was also kept safely in a pocket book for a time as you can still see creases in the paper where it was folded.”

“And
what of it’s meaning?” I asked.

“I have written the message down, Watson. Please read it back to me so I can double check my own accuracy.” He passed the paper back to me.

The message consisted of one long unbroken sentence, which I have reproduced below.

HEAVENPOLO22WINEWILLEDWILLIAMCADMAWITHCOXCINCINNATITOWERCAB

“It appears to be a simple transposition cipher or perhaps a substitution cipher,” remarked my friend. “You may not be aware of this Lestrade but I am familiar with over one hundred and fifty different codes and ciphers, this little puzzle should present nothing new.”

“This is all very interesting Mr. Holmes, but....
,” replied the official detective rising from his chair.

“You are going,
Lestrade?” I asked.

“Yes, Doctor Watson, I have a cab waiting and was hoping that you and Mr. Holmes might come to view the body.”

“Capital idea!” exclaimed Holmes.

It was but a short ride to the mortuary. The attendant led us to the small and gloomy chamber where the body was laid upon a bench and covered by a filthy sheet.

Holmes gave the body only a cursory examination disturbing a small swarm of flies in the process. We did not need Holmes’ magnifying glass to see that the man was missing a finger on his left hand or that his throat was disfigured by a hideous wound.

“You remember those cuts on the forearms that I mentioned a few minutes ago Lestrade, you will notice that such wounds are absent here. This would seem to indicate that either the attack was unexpected and sudden or less likely that the assailant was known to the victim. These types of people trust no one, friend or not.
”

“Do you have his effects
, Lestrade?”

“They are laid out in the next room, Mr. Holmes.”

Holmes made a thorough search of the man’s belongings. He let out a sigh.

“Thank you, Lestrade. There is nothing more to be learned here.” With that we took our leave of that dreary place and began to walk in the direction of Baker Street.

“What did you expect to find, Holmes?” I asked.

“Simply confirmation
, did you notice his shoes Watson? Did you see how the one shoe was slit along the sides? What does that indicate to you as a medical man?”

“The man is suffering from corns,” I said. “He has slit the shoe leather in order to relieve the pressure. I have seen many of my own patients do the same thing while awaiting professional help.” The relevance of this fact suddenly dawned on me. “Of course Holmes, the pain from the corns would cause him to limp.”

“If you had looked closely through my lens Watson you would have observed that the bottom layer of the leather has not yet been discolored.”

“It indicates that the slits are fairly new,” I said.

“Yes Watson, you have hit the nail on the head. The deceased has probably only begun suffering from this infirmity, which may indicate that he has only begun to spend long hours on his feet.”

Even walking it did not take us long to arrive at Baker Street.

“Now Watson, let us turn our full attention to the matter of the paper which was found on the dead man,” said Holmes pouring me a whisky.

“It
appears most mysterious,” I remarked holding the strip of paper up to the light.

“Secret writings are by their very nature a mystery,” reminded Holmes.

“Of course Holmes, it was a poor choice of words. However with so brief of a message I would think that your customary method for solving such things would be of little use.”

“On the contrary it is probably only a matter of a few moments work. The curly appearance of the paper I think points to the nature of this particular cryptogram. Around twenty two hundred years ago the Spartans had developed a military code that was both ingenious and simple. They would wrap a strip of paper around a shaft and then write the message vertically down the paper. After that they would unwrap the paper and fill in the blank spaces. This accounts for the slight yet noticeable irregularities in the spacing of the letters. A rather sloppy job that! They would then send the message via courier to one of their generals. The recipient would then wrap the paper around a shaft of a pre-selected and matching size thus reconstructing the message.”

“I rather think we shall have a hard time finding a Spartan in nineteenth century London, Holmes.”

He laughed. “I think we may dispense with the natives of that ancient city
, Watson for it will be a simple matter of trial and error, one which Mrs. Hudson shall be able to assist us with.”

I looked after him in bewilderment as he disappeared out of the door of his apa
rtment. Soon I heard voices and the sound of banging doors from downstairs. Within minutes he returned with an armload of assorted kitchen and garden implements. Soon he was winding the strip of paper around various brooms, mops and shovels. The handle of a butter churn seemed to serve the purpose. Sticking a tack into one end of the paper he carefully wound it around the wooden handle.

“It still makes no sense Holmes,” I said to him.

With a twinkle in his eye he slowly rotated the handle until the words ‘BRIXHAM DEVON CROFT’ leapt into view.

“What does it mean, Holmes?” I asked.

“Hand me my gazetteer of England, Watson.”

“It seems that Brixham is a fishing town about five miles from Dartmouth in Devonshire. If you remember your history Doctor, Brixham was also the landing place of Willem III in 1688 in his attempt to s
ave England from the Catholics. Croft may be the name of a resident of the town. Possibly someone whom the dead man was supposed to meet.”

“It seems then that we must go to Devon,” I said.

“Perhaps,” he walked over to the window and stared out at the traffic.

“What then do you intend to do?” I asked him.

“I have one or two inquiries to follow here old fellow and it is impossible for me to leave London. You go to Devon, Watson and follow where the trail may lead you.”

“Me!
What should I look for?”

“You are familiar with my methods, Watson. Ask
questions and most of all keep your eyes open.”

I was dismayed at Holmes’ seeming lack of interest at this promising turn of events.

“I did not know that you were presently involved on a case. I would think that finding my wife would be of the utmost importance, Holmes.”

“It is an old case, and new details have just come to light, however I do also think that remaining in London is where I can serve Mrs. Watson best.

“You have just enough time to catch the three o’clock train from Paddington; there is an inn in Brixham by the name of the Bolton Hotel. I will wire ahead and reserve a room for you,” said Holmes.

“Can you not give me a cl
ue as to what to look for?”

“I can only advise you to keep both your eyes and your ears open, Watson.”

I threw on my coat and hat and left him to stare out the window. I did not look back.

The customary forty five minute trip to my home from Baker Street took somewhat longer, as Marylebone Road was blocked by an accident. An old and sway backed dray horse pulling a hot-potato van had gone down on the pavement. The driver was sitting on the animal’s head to quiet it, while others were detaching the harness. I instructed the cabby to stop as I offered the driver the benefit of my medical assistance. He had suffered some minor cuts and bruises in his struggle with the creature but we were soon on our way. I hoped that the delay would not cause me to miss my train.

I arrived at Paddington Station with five minutes to spare. I rushed to purchase my ticket and hurried to my train which was already waiting under the gre
at arched roof of the terminal.

The behemoth began to pull out of the station as I reached my seat. The magnificent vista of
Kensington Palace passed by as we left the station and soon the grey drab of the city had been replace by the hedged fields and lush vegetation of the Devonshire countryside. Fields full of spotted cattle were no more than a blur as we rushed by them. Within hours the train had pulled to a stop in the sea port town of Dartmouth situated at the mouth of the river Dart.

The smell of the sea was a refreshing change from the sometimes overpowering stench of manure, sewage and humanity which still pervaded many parts of London, and which most Londoners barely took notice of anymore. It seems a person could become accustomed to anything.

From the station I hired a trap for the five mile trip to Brixham. I spent the time wondering what Holmes was doing as regards to the case.

Within thirty minutes I was in the busy fishing town. I asked the driver to drop me at the Bolton Inn. The proprietor of the establishment was a round faced jovial man by the name of Brown. I engaged a room for the night and asked the man if there were dining facilities on the premises.

“Yes indeed, Dr. Johnson,” he replied reading my name from the register.

I had felt it necessary to use an alias as Holmes, and by association, my own fame had spread due to the recent publication of two of his most perplexing cases and I wanted to remain incognito.

“The food is not fancy but
no one has ever left here saying that they were not well fed,” he continued.

The man led me to my modest yet comfortable looking room and deposited my Gladstone bag which was my only article of luggage, upon the bed.

“If you would like to unpack your things, I shall bring you up a basin of hot water so you can wash some of that dust off before dinner,” the innkeeper stated.

After performing my toilette I went downstairs to the small dining room. Mrs. Brown was a female counterpart to her husband, fat and jovial. Even though she was probably no older than I, she had a very motherly air. She brought me a large portion of steak and kidney pie and a very welcome glass of ale.

I ate my meal in silence while I thought of what direction my investigation should take. Mr. Brown brought me a second glass of ale even before I had emptied the first. As I was the only one in the room, I invited the landlord to join me in a drink. His bulbous red nose indicated that he enjoyed such invitations on a regular basis.

“This is a very beautiful part of the country around here,” I said. “It is prime farm land down here is it not?”

“That it is sir,” he replied genially.

“I have come here to look into the possibility of buying a small farm,” I told him.

“Begging your pardon sir but you do not look to be the type of man interested in farming.”

“The medical profession has been kind to me and I would like to leave the city,
raise a few sheep and possibly set up a little country practice. I had planned to make rounds of the local land agents tomorrow.”

“The nearest one is in Dartmouth, sir. However most of the farmers around here
, are tenant farmers who could not sell the land should they even wish to do so.”

“Never the less I shall ask around. While I am at it I was thinking of visiting an old school chum by the name of Croft, whom I haven’t seen in many years. I seem to recall that he was from this very area.”

“I do not recall any person by the name of Croft but there is a family at the end of the village by the name of Craft who make a living by mending fishing nets.”

“It has been a long time perhaps he has moved on,” I said.

“Perhaps he has, sir,” he said getting up to leave.

“The hotel seems quite empty,” I continued. “Am I correct in assuming that Brixham is a quiet little backwater, with not a lot of strangers c
oming and going?”

“Why do you ask, sir?” There was a trace of resentment in his voice.

“After many years in a busy medical practice I am looking forward to a quiet semi-retirement as a tonic for the nerves.”

This explanation seemed to satisfy him. “Well, since you ask, no, there are not many strangers here abouts. There is nothing here to attract them, save our fresh air and scenery. Once a month or so a peddler comes through selling his wares and usually for a short time during
the summer months a gypsy caravan makes its home on the outskirts of town. As to the hotel, yes we are almost alone here. Our busy season will not begin for another couple of weeks when many city folk come from Plymouth or even London for a holiday.”

“Well, Mr. Brown I do not wish to keep you from your duties. Thank you for your company and for your conversation. Please thank your wife for the most delicious steak and kidney pie that I have eaten in a long time. I think I shall take an evening walk through your charming village. Is there a public house near here?”

Holmes had often told me that a public house was a prime source of village gossip.

“Yes indeed, Doctor. There is a fine establishment by the name of the ‘Blue Anchor’ on The Quay, run by a man by the name of Maxwell. There you can have a quiet game of draughts or dominos while enjoying the excellent local ale. However you must be in by ten as we lock the front door at that time.”

“Thank you Mr. Brown. I shall return betimes.”

I left the hotel and proceeded down the street through the pretty little town. The clean salt air was a welcome change to the choking yellow fogs of London. The streets were now surprisingly busy.

The ‘Blue Anchor’ public house was a typical village watering hole, the sign hanging above the door proclaiming the age of the place. The few tables and chairs which were the sole furnishings were clustered around a large stone hearth in which burned a low fire. A haze of tobacco smoke hung in the air.

Two of the tables were occupied. At one, two men
who were fishermen by the look and smell of their clothes sat enjoying a pint of ale. At the other table two other men seemed to be deeply engrossed in a game of dominos.

A small knot of men at the bar were involved in some entertainment of their own.

Three certain young ladies of Brixham

Likes to pull out their tits and we licks ‘em

Then they grab at our cocks

Which are now hard as rocks

And then they pulls out our balls and they kicks ‘em

They laughed drunkenly at this bit of doggerel while I smiled to myself. This ribald exhibition was a welcome change from the genteel surroundings of the typical London clubs which Holmes and I were more accustomed to, and while I much preferred listening to Marie Lloyd at the Oxford singing ‘She’d Never Had Her Ticket Punched Before,’ Holmes had more of a fondness for the likes
of Sarasate and Madame Neruda. I usually deferred to his wishes.

With a beer in one hand and a pair of pickled eggs in the other I made my way
to one of the unoccupied tables on the other side of the room. As any stranger would in a small town I came under the scrutiny of the locals, who soon stopped their merrymaking. One of the idlers from the bar walked over and sat down uninvited.

“You are a stranger in these part
s?” he asked by way of introduction.

“Yes, I have come down here from London to visit an old family friend and to inquire as to the possibility of buying a farm.”

“Well you won’t find no farms around Brixham,” he said. I thought I detected a hint of menace in his voice. The alcohol perhaps was making him overly aggressive.

“None the less I think I shall ask around. Will you have a drink with me?”

“I don’t mind,” he said his manner changing dramatically at this unexpected bounty. I went to the bar and ordered two more pints.

“Would you know of a person or family in the town by the name of Croft or Craft?” I asked my new companion as I set the glass in front of him.

“What business is it of yours?” he asked. He greedily downed his ale without taking a breath. I pushed my own untouched glass across the table to him.

“They are old friends of my parents,” I lied.

“Yes there is old Craft and his wife who live at the end of the village.”

“Have they lived here long?”

“Ever since I was a lad.”

“If
I remember correctly my parents mentioned that old Mr. Craft is a fisherman.” This seemed like a good bet as many of the men in that area made their living by fishing.

“Not any more, he is too old to go on the water.”

“How does he make his living then?” I asked.

“I think him and his old lady raise vegetables to sell in the local market and mend what nets need mending.”

I decided not to press the matter, for the denizens of such places do not take kindly to outsiders. Also Holmes had always said, and quite correctly, that I should keep my mouth closed and my ears open. As if knowing that another free beer would not be forthcoming the man left to rejoin his friends.

I went to the bar for another drink. My former drinking companion was whispering to his friends and the feeling of hostility from them was almost palpable. I plunked down 6p for the beer and left.

A combination of alcohol, fresh air and the train journey had begun to take their toll and I started towards the hotel feeling a bit light headed. As I have a good head for directions I decided to cut through a back alley, a route I felt would get me to the hotel sooner. From behind me I could hear the faint scraping of feet on the cobblestones, while in front of me shadows darker than the night loomed. Suddenly the rays of a dark lantern penetrated the darkness blinding me.

“Here, guv we don’t like strangers nosing around,” said a voice I recognized. It
was the man from the bar. More lanterns were lit and I could see that there were three other men with him. They obviously knew of their own short cut.

“I think it would be best for your health if you was to return to London on tomorrow’s train,” snarled a tall brutish looking man,
with a most sinister looking scar running down the left side of his face. His accent was difficult to pin down. It did not occur to me at the time to wonder how he knew I was from London.

The alcohol had instilled within me a sense of bravado which I could scarcely credit myself with. “Perhaps it has escaped your attention living in such a place but this is a free country and I shall talk to anyone whom I choose,” I said. “What is it you want?”

“Your purse for starters,” sneered my acquaintance from the pub.

“Go to b
lazes,” I spat. I was a big man; and a little rough and tumble held few terrors for me.

“It’s going to be like that is it?” growled the tall man, whom I took to be the ringleader. At some unseen signal the group of toughs began to advance and I hastened to place my back to the damp stone wall. For a time I gave as good as I got but one of them must have hit me from behind as suddenly all went dark and the last thing I remember was cursing the moon which seemed to
have fallen from the sky.

I
woke up some time later. The silence and the darkness were like a shroud. I was lying on the wet cobblestones, my head throbbing. It took me a few minutes to ascertain that I had suffered no broken bones. By the dim illumination given off by the moon I stumbled out of the alley and was able to make my way back to the hotel. I consulted my watch which the ruffians had somehow neglected to take and saw that it was close upon midnight. The proprietor of the hotel would long ago have taken to his bed however I had no recourse but to try and wake him. I pounded on the door for five minutes before the form of Mr. Brown appeared in an upstairs window, outlined by the light of a lamp. He peered out of the window.

“My God, Doctor what has happened?” he called out.

“I seem to have had a disagreement with some of the less friendly citizens of your village,” I croaked.

He quickly disappeared from view and in a moment had unlocked the front door. I staggered over to the settee which made up most of the furnishings of the small lobby and slumped onto the cushions.

“I will wake my wife and she can attend to those bruises and cuts.”

“I am a doctor and am perfectly able to tend to my wounds myself,” I told him a little more curtly than I had meant to.

“As you wish, Doctor, I meant no disrespect. I will bring some hot water to your room.”