The Daughter of Sherlock Holmes Read online

“You are certain?”

  “Positive, sir.”

  “Then we shall look into this matter,” my father said with authority. “We shall investigate every aspect of this tragic happening for you.”

  “Oh, thank you,” she said gratefully. “I feel as if a great weight has been lifted from my shoulders.” She extended her hand and my father assisted her to her feet. Walking to the door, she asked a final question. “Where will you begin?”

  “With the witnesses.”

  “Then you must avoid one Inspector Lestrade. It was he who insisted that Mrs. Blalock and the gardener not be bothered again.”

  “That is where the case starts. That is where we will go,” my father said, undeterred.

  “If there are any expenses incurred, I will—”

  My father waved away the offer. “We shall keep you informed.”

  Mary Harrelston quickly left the room, taking with her what little hope my father could provide.

  Once she departed, I noted that my father’s entire demeanor had changed. He rubbed his hands gleefully together while he paced, his posture upright and straight, a decided bounce to his step.

  “What is the reason for the sudden joy and excitement I see in you, Father?” I inquired.

  “Because, my dear John,” he answered, refilling his pipe, “the game is now afoot!”

  2

  Joanna Blalock

  The next morning my father and I found ourselves in the library of Sir Henry Blalock’s magnificent house in Belgravia. The library was most generous in size with a large, brick fireplace and well-polished mahogany furniture. All of its walls were lined ceiling to floor with countless numbers of leather-bound volumes. There were rich Italian tapestries hanging near a bay window that overlooked a fine garden. I thought the room reflected the qualities of the man—elegant and dignified, yet formidable—for Sir Henry was an esteemed statesman who had once held the offices of Chancellor of the Exchequer and Home Secretary. As the morning air held a chill to it, we gathered around a crackling fire and warmed our hands. Sir Henry, like most Londoners, wished to talk of my father’s past adventures with Sherlock Holmes, but Father deftly guided the conversation to the purpose of our visit.

  “We are grateful, Sir Henry, for allowing us to visit on such short notice,” my father said. “We know this must be an inconvenience.”

  “Not at all,” Sir Henry said. “I only hope that we can be of some assistance in this dreadful matter. The poor Harrelstons are absolutely devastated by their son’s death. And it could not have happened at a worse time.”

  “How so?”

  “They are a storied and distinguished family, Dr. Watson, with a line of descendants that would make any man proud. But now they have suffered severe financial reverses that threaten all of their holdings.”

  “So their misery is multiplied.”

  “Many times over,” Sir Henry said. “Let us pray that your investigation brings them some comfort.”

  “I hope that your daughter-in-law can give us much-needed insight into this matter.” My father reached for his cherrywood pipe and struck a match. “Do you mind?”

  Sir Henry gestured his permission. “I am certain that Joanna will be more than pleased to aid your investigation.”

  “As you have no doubt surmised, the details in this death are quite gruesome, so I shall try to be brief and not unnecessarily graphic when speaking to Mrs. Blalock. I suspect the event has been quite upsetting to her.”

  Sir Henry smiled, which for the moment seemed out of place. “There is no need to be brief or delicate with Joanna. My daughter-in-law is looking forward to your interview, for she is fascinated by such events. As a matter of fact, she has delved deeply into the subject of suicide for the past several days and has read every book, text, and monograph she could find that deals with this unpleasant act.”

  “Reading about a mangled body and looking at one are two different things, Sir Henry.”

  “Not to worry,” Sir Henry said easily. “Joanna was once a practicing nurse, you see.”

  “But I must question your grandson as well,” my father informed him. “Here I must carefully craft my words so as not to upset the lad. Surely you would agree with that, do you not?”

  A smile again crossed Sir Henry’s face. “You are about to be greatly surprised, Dr. Watson.”

  We turned as the door to the library opened.

  “Ah,” Sir Henry said. “Here is my daughter-in-law.”

  Sir Henry made the introductions, but I was so captivated by the woman’s lovely appearance that I barely heard his words. Joanna Blalock was tall, only a few inches shorter than I, with soft patrician features and sandy-blond hair that was pulled back severely and held in place by a silver barrette. She had inquisitive deep brown eyes that seemed to study rather than just look at you. Her figure was quite trim beneath a long black dress, which had a white collar that came up to her chin.

  Looking directly at me she said, “I have admired your skills at St. Bartholomew’s, Dr. Watson.”

  I was caught entirely off guard. “You were in the pathology department?”

  “Only when a patient I had served died,” she replied. “I would attend the autopsy in hopes of learning the exact cause of death. I was a great admirer of yours, as was my deceased husband, Dr. John Blalock.”

  “I remember your husband,” I said, thinking back. “He was considered the very finest of surgeons. What a shame that he was struck down in his prime by King Cholera.”

  Joanna Blalock glanced away, as if to control her composure. “And we tried so to prevent it. We did all the right things and took every precaution. All the drapes and curtains were covered with lime, and we even placed some on the windowsills, but still the cholera came.”

  “A tragic loss,” I consoled.

  “In more ways than I can count,” Joanna Blalock said softly, then turned to my father. “But my loss is not the purpose of your visit, is it?”

  “Indeed it is not,” my father replied. “We are here on a somewhat delicate matter.”

  “You are here to investigate the murder of Charles Harrelston,” she said straightforwardly.

  My father parted his lips in a thin smile. “What brings you to that conclusion?”

  “Because you are here, and the famous associate of Sherlock Holmes would have little interest in suicides. As you no doubt know, there are only four general causes of death, Dr. Watson. Natural, accidental, suicidal, and murder. Charles Harrelston’s death was obviously not natural, nor could one envision him tripping over himself and falling three stories to his death. Which leaves us with suicide or murder. Since you are here, I think it fair to assume that you are not at all convinced the man committed suicide. And that leaves us with murder. And you are here in an attempt to prove it.”

  “What do you believe is the case?” my father asked.

  “Only what the facts will allow. So pray ask your questions and let us see where it takes us.”

  Sir Henry sighed resignedly. “Dr. Watson, I am afraid my dear daughter-in-law has spent too much time around the dead and dying, and far too much time reading detective mysteries. You will have to forgive her.”

  “There is no need.” My father quickly waved away any apology. “Tell me, Mrs. Blalock, which detective stories do you favor?”

  “I particularly enjoy the ones by Edgar Allan Poe that feature the very clever C. Auguste Dupin.”

  “Have you read the Sherlock Holmes mysteries that I chronicled some years ago?”

  “I have.”

  “And what do you think of Holmes’s methods?”

  “They have some merit.”

  Sir Henry rolled his eyes toward the ceiling while my father and I suppressed our grins.

  My father looked at Joanna Blalock admiringly and inquired, “Are you as observant as you are quick?”

  “I think so,” Joanna Blalock said, without even a hint of modesty.

  “Then tell me exactly what you saw two afterno
ons ago on Curzon Street. I want every detail. Leave out nothing.”

  “It might be best for you to start with my son,” she suggested. “It was he who first saw the man and brought him to my attention. I witnessed only the landing.”

  “Very well.”

  Joanna Blalock rose and said, “I shall go fetch Johnnie.”

  As she departed, my father turned to Sir Henry and quickly asked, “How old is your grandson?”

  “He will be ten next month.”

  “Is he mature for his age?”

  “Quite.”

  “Does he have a keen eye?”

  “Remarkably so.”

  “And you are certain he will not be disturbed by the gruesome features in this case?”

  “He is like his mother,” Sir Henry said, with obvious pride. “Need I say more?”

  “He does not sound like a lad of ten.”

  “I am reminded of that on a daily basis,” Sir Henry went on. “Only yesterday I found him studying a text on human anatomy and asked him why. He told me he was trying to find the name of the skull bone that had been so badly disfigured in Harrelston’s fall.”

  “Did he identify the bone?”

  Sir Henry nodded. “It was the occipital. He wrote down the name a dozen times so he would not forget it.”

  “Well, well! We are dealing with something very special here.”

  Sir Henry nodded again. “Like mother, like son.”

  The door to the library opened and Joanna Blalock returned with her son. The lad was tall for his age, with a handsome, narrow face and a jutting jaw. His dark brown hair was long and tousled, but not overly so. Yet it was his eyes that caught your attention. They were half-lidded and gave him a serious, studious expression. If there was any uneasiness caused by our presence, he did not show it.

  As Joanna made the introductions, I saw my father’s complexion go pale. His mouth was agape, as if he were suddenly stunned. I rushed to his side and asked in a whisper, “Are you in distress, Father?”

  His quiet words came slowly. “There is no distress.”

  “But you do not look well.”

  “I assure you I am,” my father said as color returned to his face. “I—I was momentarily startled by the unexpected.”

  “What was so unexpected?”

  “Later,” my father replied mysteriously, and composing himself, began to interview the lad. “Johnnie, I hear that you have been studying anatomy.”

  “Yes, sir,” Johnnie answered.

  “Your grandfather informed us that you were particularly interested in the occipital bone,” my father said. “Could you please refresh my memory and tell me where that bone is located?”

  Johnnie’s eyelids went up, as if letting the question into his brain and allowing it to register. In an instant he responded, “It occupies the entire back of the skull, sir.”

  “Very good! Thank you,” my father said, and ran a hand through the lad’s tousled hair, which put the boy at ease. “I have just a few more questions. Would you agree to answer them for me?”

  “If you wish,” Johnnie said, then glanced up at his mother who nodded back her approval.

  Joanna Blalock seated herself in a high-backed leather chair, with her son at her side. “If you ask your questions in an adult fashion, he will reply in a like fashion.”

  My father pulled up a cushioned ottoman and sat leaning forward so that his eyes were on the same level as the lad’s. “Now tell me, my good fellow, what did you see the other day when the man fell?”

  Johnnie licked his lips and thought back. “The man fell from the roof.”

  My father’s eyes narrowed noticeably. “From the roof, you say?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Could he have fallen from the window?”

  “The roof,” the boy insisted.

  “Was he by himself?”

  Johnnie stared at my father, not understanding.

  My father rephrased the question. “Did you see anyone else up on the roof with him?”

  Johnnie shook his head. “Just the man.”

  “Then he fell and struck the ground. Correct?”

  Johnnie nodded. “And bounced.”

  “How many times?”

  Johnnie held up one finger. His expression stayed placid, his voice even. He appeared to be totally unfazed by the memory of the event.

  “Did he cry out while he fell?” my father asked.

  Johnnie hesitated, not sure.

  “There was no cry,” Joanna Blalock said. “He made no sound at all.”

  “He made a thud when he hit the street, Mummy,” the lad recalled.

  “Yes,” Joanna Blalock said and smiled at her son. “Indeed he did.”

  My father leaned back and furrowed his brow as he digested the new information. “How far were you away from the man?”

  “Thirty feet at the most,” Joanna Blalock answered.

  “That was close.”

  “Quite.”

  “And you are certain he made no sound at all?”

  “None.”

  “Could his cries have been obscured by the noise of traffic on the street?” I ventured.

  “I do not think so,” Joanna Blalock answered at once. “Only moments earlier I had commented to my son how clearly we could hear the chirping of nearby birds.”

  It appeared the lad was becoming bored or fatigued with the questioning and brought a hand up to stifle a yawn. My father’s eyes widened as he pointed to a small star-shaped birthmark on the lad’s wrist. “What a curious thing,” he remarked. “It has the appearance of a star. It is so perfectly formed that it could be mistaken for a tattoo.”

  “Oh, no,” Joanna Blalock answered. “It is a birthmark. Even when he was an infant, I could see its most unusual shape.”

  “How distinctive.”

  “Mummy says it will bring me good fortune,” the lad said.

  “Let us hope it does.” My father gazed at the strange birthmark once more and for a brief moment I thought I saw a smile come to his face. Then his expression returned to the sordid business at hand. “I have one final question, Johnnie. What was the position of the man as he fell?”

  Johnnie glanced up at his mother, confused by the question.

  Joanna Blalock simplified the query. “When the man was falling, did it appear as if he was diving into a pool of water? Or did he look like he was jumping off a bed onto the floor?”

  “He was on his side, Mummy,” Johnnie replied.

  Joanna thought back for a moment, then nodded. “He was definitely on his side, with his head a bit lower than the rest of him. I believe his head took most of the force because it was terribly disfigured.”

  “Did you—”

  “And there was one other thing,” Joanna Blalock continued on. “Despite the massive injury to his head, there was very little bleeding. I found that rather strange.”

  “Strange indeed,” my father agreed and looked over to me. We exchanged knowing glances. It is a cardinal rule of pathology that dead men bleed very little, even after massive trauma.

  Then my father came back to Joanna Blalock. “We briefly visited Curzon Street this morning, but unfortunately the street cleaners had already been there and scrubbed everything away. We could not re-create the prior event that had occurred there, which could be of utmost importance in our investigation. I wonder if you would be so kind as to accompany us to Curzon Street now and point out the critical landmarks at the death scene. We would be most grateful for your assistance.”

  “I should be glad to,” Joanna Blalock said, and looked over to her father-in-law who gestured his approval. “Father, would you be good enough to look after Johnnie until the tutor arrives?”

  “Oh, I believe I can manage.”

  Joanna Blalock affectionately ruffled her son’s long hair before patting it back in place. “Then I shall fetch my coat.”

  As the library door closed, my father brought his attention back to Johnnie. “There is one more
question I have. Do you think you might help me with it?”

  “I shall try, sir,” Johnnie said.

  “Good.” My father flattened his hand and held it up, then slowly let it descend. “As the man fell, did he move his arms and legs?”

  “No, sir,” Johnnie replied. “He was quite still.”

  “Thank you,” my father said, and watched the lad run to the far side of the library where he began to spin a giant globe. “Observant little boy,” he commented.

  “And bright,” Sir Henry added. “In many ways just like his mother.”

  “I hope you will forgive me for not seeking your permission before asking your daughter-in-law to accompany us,” my father said formally. “I am afraid my mind is somewhat preoccupied this morning.”

  “No apology is needed,” Sir Henry responded. “As a matter of fact, I’m delighted you have asked her to join you. You see, Dr. Watson, my daughter-in-law has been in the doldrums since the death of her husband two years ago. Her spirits have been rather low and she rarely goes out.”

  “A natural response to grief,” I said in a clinical tone.

  Sir Henry nodded. “I know. But it still hurts to see.”

  My father inquired, “You say she rarely goes out, yet she left the house a few days ago, did she not?”

  “Only to visit an ill friend, Lady Jane Hamilton. Were it not for that, she would have remained at home here in Belgravia.”

  “And she goes out on a lovely day,” I thought aloud, “only to see a most dreadful sight. She must have been distressed on returning home.”

  “Not in the least,” Sir Henry said. “You must remember that Joanna was a highly trained surgical nurse, and during her time at St. Bartholomew’s had no doubt seen far worse.”

  “Indeed,” I concurred.

  My father asked, “Please forgive my curiosity, Sir Henry, but is it not unusual for a woman of your daughter-in-law’s standing to continue being a nurse once she has married?”

  Sir Henry sighed deeply. “There is nothing usual about my daughter-in-law, Dr. Watson. She is bright, headstrong, and does exactly as she pleases.”

  “So you had no objections?”

  “Oh, I had objections,” Sir Henry said. “But I also understand Joanna. She is very smart, ten times smarter than most men, with a mind that works like a steel trap. Once a fact enters, it never leaves. Now tell me, what would you do if she were your daughter?”