The Hudson Diaries (3 page)

A look of anxiety came over his face, and I feared that I had done wrong. “Was there nothing else there?” he asked, and I hung my head.

“Well, sir, as soon as I saw the boot and the shell, I ran back. I did not see anything else plainly. Forgive me—I was so surprised at your correct conjectures that I did not observe much else.”

“No, you did well, quite well,” he said quietly and sighed. A pregnant silence followed, and my own embarrassment and anxiety grew with it.

At last Mr. Holmes spoke again. “The man is a sharpshooter, a soldier. The gun is a rifle, and a long one at that.” Relief came over my person as he made these observations, for I had supposed that I had lost the case for my employer.

“But with the storm,” observed Dr. Watson, “it would be quite difficult indeed to see your target.”

“You are true as ever, Watson,” Mr. Holmes said, “That is exactly why he missed. He was aiming straight for the heart.”

A chill ran down my spine as he came to this conclusion. “Chandler?” I asked, directing my gaze to Mr. Holmes’s face. His expression was clouded, and not only by the tobacco smoke that covered the room.

“No, I do not believe it was him.”

“Who else could it be?” I went on, confused by my master’s reluctance. “He is the only man I can think of who would do such a thing, with or without a motive.”

“Chandler always has a motive,” Mr. Holmes said with some annoyance, “Besides, a move like this is unusual for him; he would slander or threaten before he would kill outright. And I can never imagine him using a gun like this in his entire dastardly career.”

“Might it be an associate?” Dr. Watson suggested.

“That is a definite possibility,” Mr. Holmes replied with a frustrated sigh, “but the only way to know for sure is to see the impression in the snow outside and make further inquires there.” He shot a heated glance at Dr. Watson, who held up his hands.

“Would you have preferred that I allow you to die when I could save you?”

“No.” He smiled weakly, and his face softened. “I only wish that my health would permit an investigation. I fear it may soon be too late to obtain the culprit.”

“You have Miss Beauregard and myself at your disposal,” Dr. Watson insisted. “Really, Holmes, you should have more faith in us.”

“Come now, Watson,” Mr. Holmes cried. “You know that I would use you if there were no possible danger to you or Martha. I fear there are games afoot that might catch you in the crossfire.”

“Do not fear, sir,” I said, hoping to sound more confident than I felt. “Fate thus far has been kind; let us hope for better things to come. We also need to get you to a safer spot, lest this man should return and win his objective.”

“I am all right here,” Mr. Holmes said with a shrug of his shoulders. “I do not think he shall come again so soon. After observing my fall yesterday, he most likely believes you are preparing for a funeral.”

I nodded and Dr. Watson followed me out the door. Arriving at the hedges, we discovered that the impression, though faded, had hardened. Pondering for a time, Dr. Watson placed his own foot inside the mold. The frozen impression was slightly longer, of which the doctor told me to take note, and then said, “Search for any queer signs or unnatural objects about.”

After some time searching in the cold, I saw some discoloration on the leaves of the hedge. “Will this be of service to us?”

I held up the leaves. Dr. Watson hesitated, and for a time did not speak. In deep concentration, he said at last, “Everything, even the smallest detail, is important somehow. Though I do not see a connection at present, I am sure our good friend will see one.” He then held up a bit of ragged cloth, and urged that we go back to the house before we catch our own deaths. It was in this somber mood that we entered the house, with Mr. Holmes anxiously awaiting our return.

“What have you brought me, old chap?” he asked. When he saw our faces, his own twitched.

“We believe we have found some fresh evidence, but can make nothing of it,” Dr. Watson said as he handed him the cloth and leaves. Mr. Holmes took up his glass and became intensely engrossed in his work. After a time, Mr. Holmes observed, “I am sure of one fact… It is not Chandler.”

“But sir,” I asked, frustrated, “How do you know—”

“By simple deduction, Miss Beauregard,” said Mr. Holmes dismissively. “If Watson’s measurements are correct, that would make Chandler much too short. Now, what’s this?”

He was holding the bit of cloth as if it were a precious jewel. Pulling away a few fibers, he scrutinized them carefully; a slight frown crept over his lips. As he drew the cloth under the microscope the frown grew deeper, and as he withdrew his eye it seemed as if a great weight suddenly appeared in an instant upon his shoulders.

“What is the matter, sir?”

“I am sure it is nothing of consequence,” he replied lightly, though I knew better than to believe him, for he did not leave his chair for an hour and a half thereafter.

A couple of days passed, and to my relief Mr. Holmes was making a rapid recovery. One morning after breakfast, he asked me if I would like to do some shopping with him.

“Surely. What is it you’re looking for, Mr. Holmes?”

“A coat. I find myself fancying a new one this year.”

“Very well. Shall I fetch Dr. Watson as well?”

“No. I do not believe we shall need him, and as he has told me his war comrades are in town, I let him take the day off from our company.”

When we had arrived at the nearest shop, Mr. Holmes went toward the back of the shop, where the summer jackets had been stowed for winter. He felt each one delicately on the shoulder.

After nearly twenty minutes of this odd behavior, I told him, “Mr. Holmes, these jackets are nowhere near long enough or thick enough to keep you warm.”

“Right…quite right.” he said absent-mindedly. He then let me lead the way to the proper winter coats.

At each shop we entered, he would repeat this eccentric study, and each time I reminded him what we were actually searching for. Finally, when all resources nearby were exhausted, we wandered home to Baker Street empty-handed. Mr. Holmes pondered the rest of the day, tobacco smoke filling the sitting room.

The next day, when Dr. Watson returned, I apprised him of the situation. “Sir,” I said carefully, “Mr. Holmes is acting a bit…odd of late.”

“And this surprises you?” Dr. Watson smiled; when my look of consternation met it, he coughed and attempted to be serious again.

“Yesterday he asked me to shop with him for a winter coat, but all he seemed interested in were the summer jackets.”

Dr. Watson’s brows knitted. “I’ll talk to him about it tonight before I leave for the war reunion.”

That night, as Dr. Watson was leaving to meet with his comrades, Mr. Holmes bid him farewell, then suddenly said, “What are you wearing?”

“Holmes,” Dr. Watson replied, “you know perfectly well that I was going to the war reunion tonight.”

“This is your uniform?” he replied with controlled nonchalance.

“Yes. May I leave now?”

“Certainly.” Mr. Holmes shook Dr. Watson’s hand.

“I’m not leaving forever, Holmes,” answered Dr. Watson, disconcerted.

“Don’t be silly. If you dawdle any longer you’ll be late.”

With that, Dr. Watson went out the door. Mr. Holmes spent the rest of the night in his study. The next morning, Mr. Holmes’s eyes were bright. He rubbed his hands together and paced impatiently, I suspect waiting for Dr. Watson to awaken. Once the three of us were assembled, Mr. Holmes proceeded to tell us his theory.

“The material you brought me some time ago has proved to be most elusive but, thanks to Dr. Watson wearing his uniform last night, I believe I have found the answer. It belongs to the sleeve of a hunting jacket issued by her majesty’s army, I presume for a campaign in Afghanistan or India. If we were to find the jacket, I am sure we would also find an army stitch much like Watson uses somewhere near the shoulder.”

“So that’s why you went rifling through all those jackets.” I nearly laughed aloud.

“Precisely,” he said feverishly. “But there is still more. Even as I rubbed the cloth to make certain I was correct, under the microscope the fibers were clearly not the same as the frayed cloth. When you brought the cloth to me, there was also another clue waiting for us. It was hair.”

“Hair?” Dr. Watson and I turned to each other, confused.

“I confess I should have told you sooner. You see, under a microscope, the thread had a specific weave, but hair has an entirely different molecular structure, and so they did not match when I looked. Now that we have made this discovery, it should narrow the field considerably.”

“But how?” Dr. Watson asked.

“The hair is red,” replied Mr. Holmes. “In the light you can see the hues. Red is not all that common among us, except among the Irish. Let us hope he is not one of them. Watson, do we happen to have the army volumes still in the library? Please retrieve them.”

“But what would those do for us, sir?” I asked, confused.

“They give not only the names, but also all the major work of the soldiers in the service from the last decade to the present day.”

When the volumes had been retrieved, we each took one in turn and took up the daunting task of reading each record thoroughly. Mr. Holmes left the room from time to time, taking notes or evidence with him. After nearly two hours of exhaustive study, Mr. Holmes cried out in exultation. “Aha, I believe I have found our man at last! Watson, please call on Inspector Lestrade for me. And keep your revolver ready.” As Dr. Watson left the sitting room, Mr. Holmes wrote a note and sent for a courier. After handing off the message, I asked Mr. Holmes what he knew, and he answered, “Wait but a little longer, Miss Beauregard, and I believe we shall have it out as I conjecture.”

“But to have a revolver ready? What can you possibly…” At last I understood his plan. “You’re not planning on having the man come
here
, are you sir?” He grinned, and I was suddenly filled with worry. “He will surely kill you where you stand!”

“Do not fear; I don’t believe he shall be so plucky as to try anything—and if he does, we shall be ready for him.”

Within the hour Inspector Lestrade had arrived, and by Mr. Holmes’s planning was hidden in the next room. Dr. Watson and I were also nearby to listen and to wait for an opportune time to intervene should the need arise. Within a few minutes, the man himself was upon the porch. Mr. Holmes went to receive him, and when the introductions were given, the man stepped into the room. He was tall and pale, with fiery hair and deep, brooding eyes. He said nothing, only stared suspiciously. Mr. Holmes met with the silence by inviting the visitor to a game of whist. My master also asked for tea, and while I went to prepare it, the distinct feeling of ill boding lingered. Dr. Watson sat with me in the kitchen, and while we said nothing, we both felt the tension coming to a head.

The conversation was light but careful; the bids were safe and ineffectual. Eventually, however, our visitor became more heated as the bids rose, while Mr. Holmes remained calm. Dr. Watson silently left the kitchen, watching intently. Flushed with anger, our visitor stood up suddenly and pointed a revolver at Mr. Holmes. He shouted, “You should have been dead the first time I shot you, but now you cannot escape!” Dr. Watson ran into the sitting room and a shot was fired. I heard a cry of pain and nearly fainted. Hearing scuffling, I ran into the sitting room. Fortunately, when I arrived upon the scene, Inspector Lestrade had the man subdued and in handcuffs. I uttered a prayer of thanks as I discovered Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson were unharmed. Our guest was taken away bleeding, and as we took in the triumph of the moment, I asked Mr. Holmes how he had known about the man.

“His name is Henry Bertram, obliged to leave the army over the inability to pay his debts. The rifle is a Lee-Metford, and he is also a writer.”

“A Lee-Metford?” asked Dr. Watson, confused. “But a Metford rifle is only issued to soldiers in the army. A soldier can keep the uniform, but never the gun.”

“Indeed… He most likely used a criminal contact to get it for him, and some careless citizen is now out of work.”

“But sir, how would you come to such separate conclusions?” I inquired.

“The war records from our library. The Lee-Metford also uses cordite, a substance that leaves little residue, but when burned has a bright yellow flame.”

“But what would be the motive?”

“As you yourself have seen, he has an inherently violent nature and, I conjecture, also an inherited strain to crime reinforced by the company he currently keeps. I also have many enemies; I have no doubt that they would pay handsomely to rid the world of me. When his first attempt failed, however, Bertram’s reward would most likely be revoked—knowing this, he had all the more reason to return to Baker Street and finish the job. ”

“And the cards?” Dr. Watson asked.

“An educated guess; I suspected that if he could not pay his debts, he might be somewhat of a gambler.”

“But what could you possibly do to provoke him in such a way?” I inquired nervously. “Surely you did not say anything within my hearing that put him in such anger.”

“I cheated,” said Mr. Holmes lightly.

“What? Cheating at a whist game and putting your life at the mercy of a murderer…” I shook my head in disgust. “Mr. Holmes, I would have thought you knew better.”

“There was nothing better I could have done, Martha,” he said easily, “Bertram is a cheat himself, but could not foresee someone playing him at his own game.”

“So, you brought him here to provoke him to attempt murder again, with Lestrade here to see to the official trouble of putting him behind bars,” Dr. Watson said.

“Exactly,” Mr. Holmes replied, smiling in his way, as if he had known all along. “By the way, Watson, I am glad you’re a very good shot with a revolver.”

Dr. Watson smiled, and there was a peaceful silence. One more question remained unanswered, and I decided to venture with it. “Do you believe this is the end of him, Mr. Holmes?”

He thought for a long moment, and then said, “It is not likely, but still possible that he could outwit the court. If Bertram escapes, he will certainly come, and next time with a stronger resolve.”