The Secret Chronicles of Sherlock Holmes (18 page)

Of all the investigations with which it was my privilege to be associated over the years of my friendship with Sherlock Holmes, few began with such dramatic abruptness as the one we were later to refer to as the case of the Camberwell poisoning.

It was, I recall, a little after eleven o’ clock one evening in the spring of ’87.
*
As my wife was away for a few days visiting a relative in Sussex,
†
I had called on Holmes earlier, having not seen him for several weeks, and, as the hours slipped by, we fell to reminiscing companionably over past cases, as we sat by the fire, in particular the theft of the Mayor of Bournemouth’s regalia and the mysterious haunting of the Hon. Mrs Stukely Wodehouse.

Our conversation was interrupted by the sound of a vehicle drawing up in the street outside, followed soon afterwards by an urgent ringing at the front door bell.

‘A client?’ Holmes inquired, raising his eyebrows. ‘I can think of no other reason for anyone to call at this time of night.’

Rather than allow Mrs Hudson or the maid to be disturbed, Holmes himself went downstairs to answer the summons, returning with a fair-haired, snub-nosed young man of about
three and twenty, respectably dressed but without a topcoat, although the evening was chilly, and in a state of considerable agitation, his pleasant, rather nondescript countenance convulsed with an expression of despair.

When Holmes invited him to sit by the fire, he sank into the chair with a groan and covered his face with his hands.

After exchanging a glance with me over the top of his bowed head, Holmes opened the interview.

‘I perceive,’ said he, crossing his legs and leaning back comfortably in his own chair, ‘that you are employed in an office, that you are a keen amateur cricketer, that you left home in great haste and that, although you arrived here by cab, the first part of your journey was conducted on foot.’

The words had their desired effect for the young man sat up instantly and regarded my old friend with great astonishment.

‘You are quite right, Mr Holmes, although how the deuce you know all this is beyond me. I have heard of your reputation which is why I am here, but I never knew you had the gift of clairvoyance.’

‘Not clairvoyance, my dear sir; simply observation. For example, you are wearing on your lapel a Camberwell Cricket Club badge with the letters CCC on a blue shield, easily recognizable to someone like myself who has made a study of such insignia. As for your haste in coming here and for making the first part of your journey on foot, the absence of a topcoat and the state of your boots give that away. There is fresh mud upon the soles.’

‘Then how do you know I work in an office?’ the young man inquired, looking more cheerful. ‘I don’t carry that on my lapel or my boots.’

Holmes laughed out loud.

‘No, indeed! But you do on the middle finger of your right hand where I see there is a small callosity just above the first joint where a pen has constantly rubbed while your attire, although dishevelled, shows nothing of the bohemianism of the artist. Now come, sir, I have given away some of my professional methods. Will you now do me the courtesy of telling me who you are and what business has brought you here at
this late hour? It is evidently a matter of some urgency which could not wait until the morning.’

The young man was immediately plunged once more into the depths.

‘Urgent! I should think it is, Mr Holmes. I have been accused of murder although I swear I am innocent …!’

‘Pray, sir, let us approach the case from the beginning,’ Holmes interrupted with a touch of asperity. ‘Facts first, if you please. The protestations may come later. What is your name?’

Looking abashed, our young visitor made an effort to control his feelings.

‘My name is Charles Perrott, Charlie to my friends, and I work as a clerk at Snellings and Broadbent, the stockbroker’s in Cornhill. As both my parents died when I was young, I was brought up by my maternal uncle, Albert Rushton, and his late wife, my Aunt Vera, who were very good to me, took me into their own home and treated me like a son.

‘Earlier today, when I returned from the office to my diggings, I found a message from my uncle, asking me to drop by at his house in Camberwell this evening, as he had an urgent matter to discuss with me. I called at about six o’ clock and was invited into the study for a glass of sherry while my uncle explained to me that only that morning he had heard that his younger brother had died in Australia, leaving no family, and that consequently, he had altered his will, making me his sole heir. Under the terms of his old will, his brother would have been the main beneficiary. I ought to explain, Mr Holmes, that, before his retirement, my uncle was a successful wholesale greengrocer with a business at Covent Garden and was quite wealthy.

‘I must confess that, while I was distressed for my uncle’s sake over the death of his brother – also an uncle although I had never known him as he had emigrated before I was born – I couldn’t help feeling pleased at the news that I would inherit the largest portion of my Uncle Bert’s estate which I knew amounted to as much as fifteen thousand pounds, not to mention the house and its contents. He had never made any
secret of it and often talked openly about his will, even in front of the servants.

‘Uncle Bert invited me to stay to dinner but I had to turn him down as I’d promised some friends I’d have supper with them and a game or two of billiards afterwards.

‘I got back to my lodgings soon after half past ten and was getting ready for bed when there came a loud knocking on the front door and my landlady showed two men up to my room. They were police officers, Mr Holmes, come to tell me that my uncle was dead and they were arresting me on suspicion of murdering him!’

‘Who were these officers?’ Holmes asked.

‘An Inspector Needham and a Sergeant Bullifont from the station in Camberwell Green.’

‘Did either of these officers tell you how your uncle died or what evidence they had against you?’

‘No, not a word, Mr Holmes. Inspector Needham handed me my jacket after the sergeant had searched the pockets and told me to put it on. I was in such a state of shock, what with the news of Uncle Bert’s death, not to mention the accusation of murder, that I hardly knew what I was doing. It was while I was fastening up my jacket that the sergeant found something in the pocket of my topcoat. As far as I could see, it was nothing more than a scrap of paper, all crumpled up, but it seemed to excite the inspector and his sergeant. After they had examined it, Inspector Needham said, “Well, that’s conclusive evidence, if ever I saw any,” and the sergeant started to take a pair of handcuffs out of his pocket. It was then I decided to make a bolt for it.

‘The bottom sash of the window was open to air the room. I’d smoked a cigar when I’d first got back to my lodgings and my landlady objects to the smell of tobacco smoke in the house. I knew the coal-shed roof was just below, so I made a dive round the end of the bed, jumped out of the window and made off across the garden. There’s a back gate that opens into an alley-way. I ran down there, cut across some waste-ground and eventually came out in Coldharbour Lane where I hailed a cab. I’d heard of you, sir. The chief accountant at Snellings and
Broadbent mentioned your name in connection with the Thisby fraud case. That’s why I came to you. If anyone can prove my innocence, it’s you, Mr Holmes!’

Holmes, who had listened to this account with the deepest attention, rose abruptly from his chair and took several turns up and down the room, plunged deep in thought, while Charlie Perrott watched him anxiously from his seat by the fire.

‘Will you take the case, Mr Holmes?’ he ventured at last.

‘Oh, there is no question of my failing to do that! My present concern is over the immediate conduct of the investigation.’ My old friend seemed to come to a decision for he suddenly exclaimed, ‘Fetch your hat and coat, Watson! We are leaving at once for Camberwell. You, too, Mr Perrott. No, no! Pray do not object, sir. If I am to take you on as my client, you must allow me to proceed with this inquiry in my own manner and, as I see it, there is no alternative. Do you wish to spend the rest of your life running away from the law? Of course you do not! You will therefore return with us to your uncle’s house where you will place yourself in the hands of Inspector Needham. On the way there, I shall further question you about your knowledge of this evening’s events.’

Although Baker Street was almost deserted at that time of night, we had no difficulty in finding a cab and, once Perrott had given the driver the address, Laurel Lodge, Woodside Drive, Camberwell, and we had started off, Holmes opened the interview with a quite unexpected question.

‘What do you know of poisons, Mr Perrott?’

‘Poisons?’ The man seemed utterly bewildered. ‘Nothing at all! Why do you ask?’

‘Yes, why, Holmes?’ I interjected, as astonished as young Perrott by the question.

‘Is it not obvious? Then let me explain. Your uncle has been murdered, Mr Perrott, presumably at home and at some time after you had left his house, subsequent to your visit. You are suspected of his murder but, as you were engaged with friends and therefore you have an alibi to cover the latter part of the evening, I assume the method of committing the crime was by some remote means, rather than in a personal confrontation
such as stabbing or strangulation. As Inspector Needham seemed to regard the piece of paper found in the pocket of your topcoat of great significance, I further assume that he must have considered that it played some part in your uncle’s death. Hence my query regarding poison, for what other means of murder could have been contained in so small a receptacle? Were you wearing the same topcoat when you visited your uncle earlier this evening?’

‘Yes, I was.’

‘And what did you do with it when you entered the house?’

‘I hung it on the coat-stand in the hall.’

‘You then proceeded to your uncle’s study where you both drank a glass of sherry. Who poured the wine?’

‘I did. But I don’t see …’

‘Pray allow me to continue, Mr Perrott. It will not be long before we arrive in Camberwell and I must acquaint myself with all the facts. I understand from your earlier remarks that you were familiar with the contents of your uncle’s will. Who else would have benefited at his death?’

‘There were some small legacies to three or four more distant relatives, several charitable bequests and sums of a few hundred pounds to each of the servants.’

‘Ah!’ said Holmes as if finding this information significant. ‘And who precisely are they?’

‘The cook, Mrs Williams, two maids, and the coachman. They were to receive three hundred pounds each. Miss Butler, my uncle’s housekeeper, was left five hundred pounds even though she has not been in the household as long as the others. It was in recognition of the care she’d taken in nursing my Aunt Vera before her death eighteen months ago. My uncle kept her on to run the house and to look after him as well. His own state of health hadn’t been too good. He suffered from aneurism and so had to take care he did not put any strain on his heart. Miss Butler was also to inherit any residue from the estate.’

‘Oh, really?’ Holmes remarked with a negligent air before passing on to his next question. ‘At what time did you leave the house, Mr Perrott?’

‘I can’t be sure but I think it must have been soon after seven.
I got to the Red Bull where we were to take supper about ten past and it’s a good five minutes’ walk.’

‘Where you met your friends? Very well. Now that accounts for your movements, but what of your uncle’s? Did he have a nightly routine? Elderly gentlemen often do.’

‘He dined every evening at half-past seven on the dot.’

‘Alone?’

‘No, usually in the company of Miss Butler.’

‘How was the meal served?’

‘I don’t quite follow you,’ Mr Perrott said. He seemed bewildered by this fusillade of questions.

With admirable patience, Holmes explained.

‘I mean was the food served at the table from dishes or carried in from the kitchen on plates?’

‘Oh, I see!’ Perrott exclaimed, his brow clearing. ‘No; it’s served by Letty, the parlourmaid, who always waits in the dining-room to clear away.’

‘Does Miss Butler have a role in this routine?’

‘She pours the wine and supervises the meal generally.’

‘Tell me about Miss Butler,’ Holmes said, leaning back and folding his arms.

‘I don’t know a great deal except that she came, as I said, about two years ago, before my aunt died, to nurse her in her last illness and look after the house. Before that she worked as a housekeeper for a widowed doctor in Leamington Spa but had to leave when he remarried. She arrived with excellent references and runs my uncle’s place like billyho.’

‘I see. Now to return to your uncle’s nightly habits. At what time would he retire for the night?’

‘Usually at ten o’ clock.’

‘And was this also a routine?’

‘Oh, yes. As soon as the clock struck ten, he’d say, “Time to climb the wooden hill to Bedfordshire.” My aunt used to tease him about it,’ Perrott replied, his bottom lip beginning to tremble like a schoolboy’s at this homely recollection.

Holmes glanced out of the cab window.

‘I see,’ said he, ‘that we are now in Camberwell and that we should soon be arriving at your late uncle’s house. There are no
more questions I wish to ask you, Mr Perrott. Rest assured that your case is safe in my hands and that, whatever evidence the official police may have against you, I shall do my utmost to prove your innocence.’

I, too, gazed out of the window at the familiar streets, partly to remind myself of the occasions when I had visited this same area on my first acquaintance with the young lady who was later to become my wife.
*
but also, I confess, to avoid looking at Perrott who was sat facing us and who, now that the time of his arrest drew near, had once more become exceedingly nervous, his youthful, rather naïve features the very picture of despair.