‘But Montague says he saw his brother leave and then re-enter his home!’ I protested.
‘That is certainly what he was supposed to have seen. Remember, however, that the air that morning was thick with mist and drizzle and that James Phillimore was partly obscured by his own protective clothing. Even his own brother would assume that the illusion of his presence was, in fact, reality. A skilled actor, which Jarvis surely was, would have had no great difficulty in removing the disguise before Montague could gain entry to the house, and then being able to convince him of the subterfuge. You will no doubt recall from Montague’s statement that it took Jarvis two to three minutes to open the front door, this despite the urgency of Montague’s tugging at the bell pull. Of course the disappearance of Jarvis, or to use his theatrical name Terence Middleton, a short while afterwards was the final nail in Montague’s coffin.’
‘Now I understand,’ I said, ‘and when you referred to the wrong type of agency you meant that you should have enquired at theatrical agencies.’
‘My early enquiries caused me to doubt the validity of my theory, but then, at the offices of Casper and Engles, I discovered that this Middleton had been given a private assignment at Phillimore’s address, just two weeks before he was to give his most convincing performance. We know, of course, from Montague’s own testimony, that Jarvis had only been in the employ of James Phillimore but a short time and, therefore, I now had my case.’
‘Your reasoning and deduction are, as ever, impeccable.’
‘Though tragically belated, you might have added,’ Holmes responded ruefully. ‘Although I am certain that so singular an occurrence as James Phillimore’s disappearance will one day find its way into your published annals of my cases, I must confess that I shall derive no great pleasure from reading it. However, on reflection, the humbling experience of reading one’s own shortcomings might yet have a beneficial effect.’
With that, Holmes rose, and after selecting a cherrywood, his more meditative pipe, he moved towards the window. He then turned his silent and reflective gaze once more towards his beloved Baker Street.
THE AFFAIR OF THE ALUMINIUM CRUTCH
…. and the singular affair of the aluminium crutch, …’
(The Musgrave Ritual by A. Conan Doyle)
My more enduring and steadfast readers might recall, with some nostalgia, my first encounter with Sherlock Holmes in my narration of the tale entitled ‘A Study in Scarlet’. They might also recall that we only came to each other’s acquaintance by virtue of our mutual need for decent yet affordable lodgings. The intermediary in bringing these three elements together, was a colleague of mine, from my time at medical school, called Stamford.
I could not, in all honesty, regard him as a close friend, indeed it never even occurred to me to enquire as to his forename, nor him as to mine. However, I still think of him fondly as being the only familiar face that I had encountered during my lonely sojourn in London immediately following my return home from the Afghan campaign.
Throughout the long years that had passed since that first auspicious meeting, Stamford and I had met only sporadically, at our old haunt the Holborn for convivial lunches over which we would reacquaint the other with the progress of our lives. At this time, although I am ashamed to admit as much, I could not even recall the last time that one of these lunches had taken place. Therefore my surprise at receiving an urgent summons out of the blue to meet him at said watering hole, might be well understood. However, my practice had been quiet of late and my enigmatic friend, Sherlock Holmes, had not been seen at his rooms for the best part of a week, so I decided to reply to this summons with my presence. I repeat the use of the word summons because his note was not worded in the tones of an idle invitation to lunch.
There was an air of urgency about it that left me feeling somewhat uneasy, a feeling that had by no means abated by the time that I found myself staring up at the austere portal that was the entrance to the Holborn. Nothing had changed about the place since our last meeting, nor, I am certain, since the place had first opened, close to a hundred years before, save, of course, for the laying on of gas. I arrived a few minutes later than the suggested time and a venerable old footman showed me through to a secluded private booth that Stamford had reserved for us, which was at the rear of the main dining area.
The aged servant left me at the closed door with the assurance that he would return shortly to take our orders for aperitifs. The whole place seemed somewhat darker than I remembered and the single lamp and small fire did little to illuminate our booth.
‘Good afternoon, Charles,’ was how I cheerily announced my arrival. Prior to leaving my rooms I had dived into my Lancet in an effort to discover Stamford’s forename and I was keen to surprise him with its use. His chair had been turned away from the door and towards the fire, so therefore, when he failed to respond to this greeting, I reasonably assumed that its warmth had lulled him to sleep. I now repeated my greeting whilst raising my voice. To my consternation there was still no response from Stamford and so I raced around the table and there found his lifeless form slumped in his chair, softly lit by the glow of the flickering flames.
It was in vain that I called his name once more and I stood before him, demanding a display of life. There would be none. I remained still, as if frozen to the spot, in a state of utter incomprehension. Thankfully my years of professional training and experience then overcame my initial shock and I checked his pulse and searched for the cause of death. This was not hard to find, for the crown of his head had received a massive blow from a large blunt object which had cracked the skull, caused internal bleeding and, therefore, instantaneous death.
Before raising the alarm I decided to rationalize this calamitous event in my mind, perhaps employing Holmes’s method in my own inadequate fashion.
The blood that rimmed the gaping wound was still moist, so I deduced that the ghastly deed had occurred shortly before my arrival. Evidently all had been well when the footman had settled Stamford into the booth, so therefore I assumed that the murderer must have acted on impulse without having prior knowledge of when we were scheduled to meet. As to whether the murderer had intended to implicate me I could not tell, nor would I be able to until I had questioned the footman. I summoned him at once and noted that he was at least as shocked as I had been at this awful discovery. I asked him how long Stamford had been waiting for me, and when he informed me that it had been for no more than ten minutes I realized just how bold the murderer had been.
I dispatched the aged servant to summon the police and then froze at the thought of how Lestrade or perhaps Bradstreet would view me in a situation so compromised. While I awaited the arrival of the authorities, I speculated that the murderer was undoubtedly a club member as I knew, only too well, how rigidly the Holborn managed their membership. The footman then returned to inform me that the arrival of the police was imminent and I thought it prudent to ensure that no one was allowed to leave the building before they came. My pulse quickened when he also informed me that there were no more than a dozen members taking lunch there that day and that none had departed since Stamford’s arrival. The culprit was still in the building!
A few moments later the detective who had been put in charge of the investigation strode into the room, flanked by two constables. My relief upon realizing that the investigation was to be undertaken by neither Lestrade nor Bradstreet was to be short-lived. Inspector Daley spoke with a broad Ulster accent and was evidently recently arrived from a rural constabulary, for his attire had not yet been urbanized.