Sherlock Holmes: A String to his Bow

By Nigel Scott

In these eleven meticulously constructed cases written in the style of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, the intellectual prowess of Sherlock Holmes, the sleuth hound, is tested to the utmost. Once again, ably assisted by his friend and biographer, Dr John H Watson MD, an always welcome, steadying influence upon Holme’s often manic, dangerous tendencies, the reader shall be drawn into a Victorian England of steam railways, of hansoms, of gaslight, of dun-coloured fogs to witness London’s uniquely talented consulting detective solve some of his most extraordinary and baffling mysteries ever to appear in print.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Melrose Books
• Release date: Apr 19, 2018
• ISBN: 9781912026890

Book preview

The Affair of the Aluminium Crutch

Upon a bright, sunny spring morning at the end of May, Inspector Bradstreet came calling. One of Scotland Yard’s more talented, intelligent officers, Holmes appreciated his visits to 221B, knowing an interesting case would likely as not result from liaising as such – for Bradstreet seldom wasted my colleague’s time, always eager to learn and occasionally adopt his radical methods of detection, far in advance of most specialist criminal investigation departments then being introduced, I suppose the Yard being best equipped at this stage.

Peering out of the bay window, stuffing his pipe with tobacco, my colleague said good humouredly:

Inspector Bradstreet. He seldom visits our lodgings unless a serious misdemeanour is in the offing – a problem too far, as it were.

Sure enough, a sturdy footfall upon the stair and a knock at our rooms announced the congenial Scotland Yarder, wearing a double-breasted suit and billycock hat.

Smoking a proffered cigar, the inspector settled, at Holmes’ insistence, upon the sofa with a cup of coffee, and began to enlighten us regarding a recent police matter that had landed plumb on his desk.

"At dawn’s first light, the marines from Wapping were called out to assist the crew of a commercial steam tug, Noah, to dredge a drowned body from the water, Lambeth Bridge way. The River Police, it seems in two minds, suspect they may be dealing with a suicide, but cannot entirely rule out foul play. I’d value your opinion, Mr Holmes, and you too, Doctor Watson."

So, Bradstreet, said I, pouring myself another cup of coffee from the pot. A trip to the mortuary at Wapping Police Station is in the offing. In truth, I did not much fancy the idea of quitting our hearthside to reacquaint ourselves with river suicides and severely damaged body parts found after long submersion in Thames water.

I recall there is a fine little mortuary, kept clean and sparkling, where the River Police hold onto waterlogged bodies recovered from the Thames for a week, at least, while identification is carried out, Holmes remarked. The Home Office will carry out post mortems there. A very pleasant police surgeon, Doctor Frampton, is in charge, with whom I have had dealings in the past. I surmise we could spend a most rewarding and conducive hour or so soaking up the surroundings.

Of drowned souls, of horribly disfigured body parts? Really, anyone listening would think you were of a dangerously morbid turn – that you were a deviant, said I.

My companion yelled from his room, Your hat and stick, dear boy.

Purloining a cab, we headed east across London towards the river, eventually crossing the intersection of Commercial Road and Cable Street, and down Wapping Lane with its rows of tall, brick-built warehouses backing directly onto the river. The police station and jetty were situated here, the marine branch keeping their stock of steam launches and row boats moored by the riverside.

Why, Holmes, said the police surgeon, greeting us warmly in his office. The fellow likely as not drowned in the tidal flow. The marines, I can confirm, are of the strongest opinion he jumped off Lambeth Bridge. Past experience and records kept on file of this type of drowning – the position the bodies will eventually emerge, the locations and so forth – indicate this being the most likely scenario. The face is terribly destroyed.

I have come to view the body, Frampton. I shall not detain you long.

Of course, I should be honoured. It’s not every day a famous consulting detective visits our patch. Follow me, gentlemen. We passed through into a tiled room, set aside with the usual shelves, sink, cabinet, ducted table and drain. The sheeted remains were introduced to us by means of an attendant wheeling a trolley. No autopsy yet, I’m afraid Mr Holmes. His clothes are still in place, just as the marine branch of the police found him.

The body organs are of no consequence, just a brief scrutiny of the specimen is all I require, Frampton, answered my colleague with a note of impatience. Holmes leaned forward, his hawk-like features frowning and attentive. Under the supervision of the police surgeon the rubber sheeting on the trolley was withdrawn and the corpse exposed to the hissing gas lamp above. I should say, my colleague, in his eagerness, almost attacked the specimen, brandishing his most powerful magnifying lens and covering every inch of the laid-out body.

And pray, how were the River Police alerted? asked my friend, poised with his lens. Reacquaint me with the facts, Frampton.

Passing across Lambeth Bridge in the early hours of the morning were two constables on their beat, alerted by cries for assistance and frantic waving of arms from a nearby tug-boat. From past experience, Mr Holmes, it was obvious a body had been discovered, that stretch of river, needless to say, notorious for suicides.

Bear with me; my initial impressions tend to the view that the victim did not drown in the Thames as such. Oh, I know this will sound a tad unconventional, but I think it perfectly feasible he was, in fact, already dead. The body, I can be certain, was wrapped in newspaper. You will observe little bleaching of the skin, or trauma caused by paddles, propellers or the keels of river craft, so he was not immersed for any great length of time. However, I must draw your attention to slight bruising caused by keen pressure being applied to the shoulders, and of course the face has been eaten away by vitriol to hamper identification.

That’s a trifle presumptuous even for you, Mr Holmes, particularly as Doctor Frampton has yet to make an autopsy.

I’d say the victim was dumped over the side of a craft, wrapped from head to foot in newspaper by those acquainted with the ebb and flow of tidal currents on that side of the bridge. By use of powerful magnification, it is not hard to determine wafer thin slivers of newsprint clinging to the inside of the nostril, within the ears, adhering to buttons and the elasticated side of his Chelsea boots. What do you make of it? I should value your opinion, Watson. Attendant, be so good as to remove the wet clothes, would you?

Once the garments had been stripped away I was able to make a clearer assessment of the cause of death:

Beneath the lamp, the reclining figure is short and stocky, up close the horsey, large-boned face mostly mush. I concur the body seems not to have been submerged for any length of time. One of the legs is shrivelled, the muscular tissue limper than normal, indicating he did not have use of both legs and used a stick, a rubber-tipped cane, or perhaps got about with a crutch.

Well, if the fellow’s crippled in some way, that surely makes throwing himself off Lambeth Bridge a bit more tricky.

My colleague drew himself up to full height, his long gaunt face, the high cheekbones pronounced, pale with exertion. Yet his bright perceptive eyes glittered in triumph.

We can certainly rule out suicide, leaping from Lambeth Bridge, Inspector. I do not argue the point the victim was drowned, however, but favour he was suffocated by water inhalation whilst being held down, whether it be in a bath-tub, else a tank, but at another location entirely. By the by, I found this in one of his shabby suit pockets. Pray, what do you deduce from my damp stub of card?

The inspector snatched the item and remarked, It’s an omnibus ticket stub, Mr Holmes, a pale, insipid green – No. 184961. No shown destination. He travelled on public transport. What of it?

Fortunately, Bradstreet, the printing of these tickets involves the hefty punching of a press so each inked numeral and letter indented onto the card in such a way even the mighty River Thames failed to bleach the ink clean. I grant you that on referral at a London general omnibus company station this ticket half may be unimportant, yet could just provide an interesting lead.

* * *

I will be honest and confess that at noon, my mind was more turned toward the new cricket season and a match being played at the Oval, of which I had every intention of joining the crowds to watch. Any revelations concerning a half ticket stub that Holmes treasured in his wallet, almost in a miserly way, meant absolutely nothing. I cared not one jot and, lunch over, I was about to rush off to catch the horse-bus and head for the cricket ground at Kennington, my colleague welcome to spend the entire afternoon staring at that dratted ticket half with his magnifying lens for all I cared.

After traipsing across London to the omnibus depot, upon our return to our diggings, he had since been busy poring over his files and newspaper cuttings and barely eaten a thing. Well, I’m off, said I, grabbing my blazer. I shall be back around seven.

Watson, old fellow, he insisted, directing I should sit in the armchair. This really is a most singular and exciting possibility. Firstly, we have a drowned body, the obvious victim of a dubious murder; next I find this article that strikes one as most fortuitous; a newspaper headline from a fortnight ago. Let’s hear what you deduce – using my methods, of course.

My friend passed over the folded paper, the item ringed in red ink, the article’s gist I have reproduced here for the discerning reader’s perusal:

5th May 1886 – The Daily Sketch

Upper Norwood Bank Heist. Police contend a group on a disabled outing, old ladies confined to wheeled invalid chairs who successfully robbed a high street bank and vanished, leaving no traceable clues, snatching over five hundred pounds in cash sterling over the counter before gagging and locking bank employees securely inside the building to ensure an hour or so before the alarm was raised, assumed a clever means of escaping the long arm of the law for it later transpired the cheery group of the elderly, armed with shotguns, had synchronised their departure from the bank, alighting upon a parked charabanc round the corner up towards the church and driven off to London via Dulwich, without alerting suspicion. Earlier, they had visited Crystal Palace Park and spent a pleasurable, leisurely morning before the raid enjoying cream teas and ices being directed round by doting attendants, the six charming but entirely bogus old ladies fully exploiting their disabled status to the hilt.

The charabanc and twisted remains of invalid chairs were later found burnt out in a vacated building yard in Shoreditch. Inspector Lestrade, the policeman in charge of the case, commented: ‘We shall apprehend these villains, the public may rest assured. Yet the audacious bank heist required a good deal of nerve and planning, the ‘Ladies’ Disabled Outing’ a clever ruse. Why, they even, cool as a cucumber, rode all the way back to London in the charabanc and no one was any the wiser.’

I coughed gruffly. Well, Holmes, we have mention of a disabled outing at any rate. Is that any use?

Could be, old chap. Anything of further note? Take your time.

Great heavens! I exclaimed. The date of the robbery is surely significant; the fifth of the month.

Good old Watson, you’ve bagged it at long last. The ticket stub is part of a return, punched by the conductor, issued for the fifth of May – Brixton to Crystal Palace Parade and back, a No. 157 omnibus. You will recall Mr Sims, the clerk at the London General Omnibus Company’s carriage yard in Hackney, proved most efficacious when checking the ticket stub. But, forgive me, Watson. Do you recall Bill Peach, once leader of the notorious South London razor gang. ‘The Cut Throat King’, a tough, disabled character noted for using an aluminium crutch, he once purportedly beat a man to death with that same implement, a gangland boss at some seedy club. Peach managed to avoid prison and, forsaking his more humble origins of violent theft and extortion, began his own betting shop situated along Brixton High Street near Bon Marche.

Bill Peach… I remarked, knocking out my pipe in the ashtray. You know, I believe I ventured into his concern on a couple of occasions to place bets. Fella’s known in all the pubs for that aluminium crutch of his.

Not averse on occasions to embracing his old ways either, Watson. Peach is believed to be behind a number of robberies, remaining detached from the actual grubby business; more of an overseer, a planner.

Yes, I catch your drift. A sort of low-life Moriarty. Well, Holmes, Peach is most likely our river victim. Your theory is sound – first-rate. You must inform Bradstreet right away. Send a telegraph, wire him now.

Thus it was I put off my visit to the Oval for the Middlesex versus Yorkshire tussle until the following day, smoking many a pipe, desirous to assist my ingenious friend sort through ever more files and indices, accompanying him to the post office telegraph counter on three separate occasions.

That night, supper finished and the plates cleared, I had barely taken my place in my favourite armchair before the hearth, when Mrs Hudson burst into our rooms waving a telegram envelope. This arrived earlier, she said, leaving a tray of coffee things. I have had rather a lot on, what with Mrs Whitworth visiting, and it completely slipped my mind. Four o’clock it was delivered, Mr Holmes.

No matter, Mrs Hudson, I have a fairly good idea of what the contents entail: a communication from Wapping police station, no less, said he, ripping open the envelope. "Ah, Frampton does himself credit. His colleagues of the river police inform us the tugboat Noah is permanently moored east of the Tower of London at St Katherine’s Dock, quite close to Wapping in fact, with an associate warehouse beside. The tug is operated by a family."

As indeed are many such vessels working the Thames, said I, lighting my pipe. What has a blasted tugboat got to do with all this?

Jerroldson & Co., being the name fronting the business, is primarily concerned with, as one would expect, towing large barges up and down the river. Well, well, there is no time like the present; with luck, the wharf system shall be alive and busy, cargo ships loading and unloading throughout the night, and we thereby, my dear Watson, suitably inconspicuous.

And thus it was, before even I had a chance to smoke my pipe, we were set squarely on track for the East End. After procuring a Hansom, the cab took us to East Smithfield’s and thence along gas-lit St Katherine’s Way, where we encountered a row of vertiginous warehouses, the dock basin full of the noise of ships being loaded and unloaded of cargo. The West Dock was crowded with shipping and our task made that much easier by constant activity, the principal entrance being at the northwest angle of the warehouse, the vast interiors capable of storing 110,000 tons of goods.

A steam tugboat, ‘Noah’ painted upon her stern, loomed ahead, the hull part submerged in gently slopping, oily black water. Securely tethered, the vessel was lamped but deserted of crew. According to our hastily scribbled plan, here upon the wharf was the Jerroldson & Co. warehouse, a small unobtrusive side door seen just down a short alley. We were seemingly unobserved amongst the continuous scuttling activity of the dockyard. A strong scent of spices from the Orient and stores of maturing wine casks filled the air, crates of live turtles stacked close by. I struck a match to the wick of a small oil lamp, and being careful to adapt the hinged shade, we proceeded very slowly and cautiously along the middle aisle. Upon every side loomed tall constructed levels of shelving stacked full of various cargoes. By the glow from the lamp as Holmes crept forward, directing the beam to our right, was revealed a glass partition behind which was situated an office with all the normal clutter of metal filing cabinets, desks and shelving. But there was additionally a large and commodious water tank set upon raised concrete.

Barely had we a chance to step round and study the riveted cast iron container equipped with side ladder, considering the force employed to successfully drown a man, submerge his head into its depths, a short stocky fellow such as Bill Peach, for instance – when a woman’s friendly, unconcerned voice, in no way raised in anger, alerted us to the fact we had never actually been alone in the vast warehouse. A row of shaded lamps came on above.

"What, might I presume, is a nice couple of gentlemen such as yourselves doin’, nosin’ about? Mind my asking, but it is out of bounds to all but my warehousemen, and the wine casks alone are very valuable."

Ah, answered Holmes, assessing the weapon trained upon us, for we were staring down twin barrels of a shotgun. "I learn you are grandmother to the strapping lad, Alfie Suggs, who captains the tugboat Noah presently berthed beside the wharf, yourself, of course, owner and manager of the Thames-side business based here at the West Dock."

The plump, rosy-cheeked matron wearing a work coat, aged, I should say, two and seventy, her silver hair adorned by a tweed cloth cap jauntily set to one side, possessed a genial, open-faced countenance. She lowered the double-barrelled shotgun she held firmly and expertly approaching out of the shadows. I am normally very strict about prowlers, but in this instance I’ll make an exception. Mister Sherlock Holmes, isn’t it? I recognise you from the papers. Step into my office, the pair of you. I’ll brew a pot of tea while you explain yourselves.

* * *

I am here upon a Brixton errand of sorts, said my colleague in an honest, fearless way. "A local character, a betting shop proprietor, Bill Peach, was, I’ll be bound, drowned senseless in that industrial tank, held down until, squirming, he breathed his last. After the face was liberally splashed with vitriol, the body was then wrapped in newspaper and loaded onto the tug out there. Your company-owned steam craft chugged up the Thames to Lambeth Bridge. As agreed, Peach’s corpse considerably weighted down, I might suggest thrown overboard. Alas for your family enterprise, the late betting shop owner, somehow detached from his weights, floated free, bobbing up to the surface again, most of the soggy layers of newsprint wrapping the body having dissolved. I put it to you, Mrs Jerroldson, at this juncture someone alert in the tugboat’s wheelhouse realised a pair of beat officers were approaching, patrolling across the bridge in easy sight of the vessel loitering some distance from the arches, the river at that point well illuminated by ornate cast iron gas lamps placed at intervals across the bridge’s span. Remaining buoyant, Peach’s body just would not sink, and clearly in view of the constables. Thus, keeping a cool head, avoiding rash panic, your grandson and members of the crew cleverly, but out of necessity, began a charade that involved waving arms in the air, shouting, calling out to the police, pretending to be the conscientious crew of the steam tugboat Noah trying to retrieve a body from the water, when in truth they had been in the act of getting rid of Peach, who they had killed back at St Katherine’s warehouse."

Interesting you say that, said she while the kettle boiled with a blue flame upon a little portable methylated stove. The elderly business woman passed around a tin of assorted biscuits. Will my boys hang – that’s what I really want to know. We are an established East End crime family after all and ’ave, in the past, done very nicely out of our endeavours to outwit the police. But, you never know, enormous risk is involved. I’ll ’ave to get Ronnie Smith, my clever solicitor, on the job.

A number of arrests will have been made, certainly. The evidence mounts against your crime family, something of an East End institution, your husband, Freddy, having attained the all-time record with the street turn-out for his funeral procession some years back. I have at my disposal the full gravity of the official force, the Metropolitan River Police and Inspector Bradstreet of the Yard, who by telegraph was kept updated. One must on no account be too disheartened, Madam, too surprised. Your grandson and the others participated in the Upper Norwood bank heist and stole a great deal of cash, my colleague emphasised.

Mrs Jerroldson, pouring tea into cups, admitted as much, seemingly proud of her siblings’ dubious achievements. Was they involved, sir? I ain’t tellin’, though they might ’ave been. P’raps they were! Bill Peach, though, turned out more of a gall stone, a real pain. He was originally to take his share. Rightly, for Billy conceived the whole raid – give him that! However, gentlemen, unbeknown to us, his betting shop business had gone bust and he owed money, a lot of money, which was making life in South London too hot. The carpet bag of loot was seamlessly passed over to him in Upper Norwood before the disabled party joined the charabanc and, as agreed, he simply hobbled off and caught the horse-bus from the parade to Brixton where we had agreed to meet at the Bon Marche department store luncheon rooms to share out the substantial cash haul in a friendly and civilised manner.

But presumably Bill Peach never showed? said I, stirring my Lipton’s strongest. Furthermore, Billy and his famous aluminium crutch had no intention of so doing.

Correct, sir – but I should qualify this by saying that from managing a business over a number of years I have learnt to keep my options open. He made a grave error attempting to double cross me and scarper with all the loot. I had one of my warehousemen posted, watching comings and goings at his flat above the shop. We picked him up about to board a train for Victoria and the continent. He lashed out with that aluminium crutch of his, but he got clobbered before being bundled into the back of my good mate Silvano’s ice cream vendor’s cart.

Implementing her desire to be friendly with my colleague, and understanding she would soon be making an appearance at the Old Bailey with the rest, Mrs Jerroldson showed great fortitude, stretching her arm behind a battered old metal filing cabinet. Do you want this, perchance, Mr Holmes? No use to me, honest.

In her podgy hand was proffered an aluminium crutch. Got history for Bill Peach, apparently done a fella in with this. Charlie Gibbs, a gangland boss at a club in Penge. Beat ’is ’ead to pulp by all accounts. Got away with it, too.

Admiring our genial business woman and grandmother immensely, this matriarch of one of the largest crime families in the East End, Holmes considered her offer respectfully, but refused on a point of principle, for the unusual crutch would be used as evidence at the trial.

I’d rather pass, if you don’t mind, Mrs Jerroldson, said he, handing out a tin of cigarettes. Although, Scotland Yard do have a black museum I hear, and you never know – they might be interested one day.

The Albert Hall Robbery

Despite the fogs that at this time of year invariably plagued the capital, I was out and about and, upon returning to our digs one morning after purchasing tins of cigarettes and pipe tobacco from our retailer, Bradleys in Oxford Street, found my dear friend sat in his preferred fireside chair behind a spread-out newspaper perusing a copy of The Times.

Have you perchance delved into this morning’s headlines yet, Watson? said he, glancing up from his reading.

No, I have not. To be honest, after quitting the breakfast table, I was more preoccupied with boarding the omnibus and paid no heed to newsstands.

A most curious and intriguing crime dominates the front pages.

Really?

Before languidly reaching for his long pipe from the rack he slung over the paper.

After giving the fire a poke I lit a cigarette and, slumping back in my own chair to the left of the hearth, immediately understood a promising investigation beckoned.

ROBBERY – THE ROYAL ALBERT HALL

Princess Eva of Norway, King Haakon’s youngest daughter, her mother belonging to the Weal-Jarlsbergs, one of the few Norwegian aristocratic families, while sat