The Daughter of Sherlock Holmes Page 3

  Sir Henry didn’t wait for my father’s response before answering his own question. “My daughter-in-law has an extraordinary mind that needs to be occupied and challenged. Otherwise her spirits seem to sink and she becomes moody. Nursing was the one profession open to her that could keep her mind in high gear. It was perfect for Joanna, so I agreed with her wishes. Her husband was strongly in favor as well, for he knew of Joanna’s skills in the operating room. He actually encouraged her to stay on.”

  “A wise decision,” my father remarked.

  Sir Henry sighed again, this time unhappily. “I think her very best moments were when she was working next to my son at St. Bartholomew’s. Of course, King Cholera ended all that.”

  “Your daughter-in-law was fortunate to escape the dreadful disease,” I said.

  “She did not escape,” Sir Henry said. “She survived it. Joanna, you see, has a strong body to go along with her strong brain.”

  The library door opened and Joanna Blalock entered, now wearing a bonnet and cape. “I am ready,” she announced.

  After giving her son an affectionate hug, she led the way to the front entrance where a butler held the door.

  Outside the day was gray and crisp, with a definite hint of rain in the air. We climbed into a waiting carriage and started off on the ride from Belgravia to Curzon Street. Traffic was light so we made good time.

  “I should like to thank you for coming along to assist us,” my father said cordially.

  Joanna Blalock gave my father a thin smile. “If I am to assist you, Dr. Watson, then you must fill in the blanks for me.”

  My father’s eyelids came up. “Which blanks?”

  “The ones you left unsaid.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as the reasons you knew this was murder and no suicide before you even walked into the Blalock home.”

  My father glanced over to me as his lip curled in amusement. “This is not a woman to be trifled with.”

  “Perhaps she is only guessing,” I suggested. “After all, the nature of your questions would indicate something sinister.”

  “It was not so much the nature of Dr. Watson’s questions,” Joanna Blalock explained. “It was the manner in which he asked them. He was a man looking to confirm that which he already knew.”

  My father chuckled briefly at me. “I warned you.”

  “So please be so kind as to fill in the blanks, Dr. Watson,” she persisted.

  My father took out his cherrywood pipe and nibbled on it without lighting it. “What I am about to tell you comes from the newspapers and from an informant at Scotland Yard who owes me a favor or two. First, let me give you what is known. The victim here is Charles Harrelston, the eldest child of Lord Harrelston. He was educated at Eton and Cambridge and accustomed to wealth and privilege. He moved in the right circles and belonged to the right clubs. At this point in his life, his record was unblemished. Then he volunteered and served with distinction in the Second Afghan War. When he returned he was a changed man. He became a womanizer and was heavily into drink and gambling. Then he straightened up and became solid again, except for excessive gambling. And that may have cost him his life.”

  “He found himself deeply in debt,” Joanna Blalock surmised.

  “Exactly,” my father went on. “To the tune of a thousand pounds, which is a considerable sum, particularly to the Harrelston family that currently has overwhelming financial woes. Like all compulsive gamblers, Charles Harrelston thought he could gamble his way out of debt. So he visited the man he was indebted to, who happened to live on Curzon Street. Once there, he played a single hand of poker for a thousand pounds. If Harrelston had won, he would have been debt-free. If he lost he’d have owed two thousand pounds. Unfortunately, Charles Harrelston lost. The man he was playing poker with left the room briefly. When he came back the window was open and Charles Harrelston was nowhere to be found. The rest of the story you know.”

  “But my son distinctly told us the man fell from the roof,” Joanna Blalock argued.

  My father’s eyes twinkled. “Yes. I do believe he did.”

  “And the man fell sideways, which is not the position a man jumping to his death would assume.”

  “That too.”

  “And he made no cry as he fell,” Joanna Blalock recalled.

  “Not a peep.”

  “My, my!” Joanna Blalock said. “Things are not fitting together well at all, are they?”

  “And there is more,” my father said. “Your son told us the man did not move his arms or legs as he dropped down.”

  Joanna Blalock gave my father a stern look. “I do not remember you asking my son that question.”

  “He volunteered the information,” my father lied.

  Joanna waved her hand, dismissing the explanation. “You asked the question in my absence so I could not prompt his answer.”

  “I confess,” my father said with no remorse. “But you see how important his answer was.”

  “Quite,” Joanna Blalock said before concluding, “So we have a man who falls through the air sideways, makes no cry, and does not move his arms or legs. Which means our falling man was either unconscious or dead.”

  She wet her lips, then continued on. “And neither unconscious nor dead men are known to leap from windows, are they, Dr. Watson?”

  “Hardly,” my father answered. “Assuming your son’s observations are correct, Charles Harrelston did not jump to his death; he was pushed to it.”

  “My son’s observations were correct,” Joanna Blalock insisted. “Charles Harrelston was pushed to his death. There is no other explanation for the facts we have.”

  “But who would do such a foul deed?” I asked.

  “Let us determine why,” Joanna Blalock replied. “That will tell us who.”

  3

  The Nearsighted Gardener

  At noon our carriage arrived at the curb in front of a fashionable three-story house on Curzon Street. At the door stood a uniformed police officer who intently watched our every move, with an expression that said we were not welcome. He directed a particularly long look at Mrs. Blalock who returned it in like.

  Helping my father down from the carriage, I asked, “If Scotland Yard is so convinced this is a suicide, why have they posted a bobby?”

  “To discourage the curious, I would guess,” he replied, and gazed up to the third-floor window, then brought his eyes down to the sidewalk directly beneath it. “Mrs. Blalock, please be so kind as to show us your exact position when you saw the man falling.”

  “If you wish,” Joanna Blalock said. “But might I suggest we begin with the gardener, who gave such a vivid description of the fall?”

  “We questioned him earlier this morning,” my father informed her. “And he stood firmly by his account of the event.”

  “Then he will not mind telling it once more.”

  My father hesitated. “I must warn you that the gardener is a rather surly fellow. He will not take kindly to being questioned yet again.”

  “He may well refuse altogether,” I interjected. “The man is that hostile.”

  “Yes, yes,” Joanna Blalock said, not the least bit deterred. “But he is either a liar or has a colorful imagination.”

  “You will have to prove it beyond a reasonable doubt,” my father said.

  “That is my intent,” Joanna Blalock told him. “Now please lead the way.”

  We walked nearly the length of the block before approaching a well-kept garden in front of a stately house. With each step I noticed Joanna Blalock moving her lips as she counted to herself.

  “Why the counting?” I asked in a quiet voice.

  “For distance,” she answered. “I have a stride that measures just under two feet. Thus, I calculate the garden to be forty meters away from the crime scene.”

  “What is the significance of that?”

  “Either everything or nothing.”

  Ahead we watched the gardener carefully clipping away at th
e top of a waist-high hedge. Deep-chested and bald, he had a ruddy complexion and a protuberant stomach that drooped over his beltline. Despite the coolness of the day, he perspired freely.

  When he saw our approach, his face hardened. “Not you again! I have told my story to the coppers and to you and to the newspapers, and I will not tell it more. So go away and let me work. A working man, I am, and I will not waste my time further.”

  The gardener turned away from us and returned to trimming the tall hedge. He kept its top smooth and perfectly even, and did so by eyesight alone. If there was a leveling instrument on hand, I could not see it. The gardener ignored us, as if we had suddenly disappeared.

  “With your shaping of the hedge, will you not harm the surrounding flowers?” Joanna Blalock asked.

  The gardener let out a most exasperated growl. “I have been at this for nigh on thirty years, madam. I can assure you I know my work and can trim without harming any flowers whatsoever. Now, that is the last question I shall answer for you. So go away and leave me be.”

  “Surely you can spare a few minutes,” Joanna Blalock persisted.

  “Madam! How many times must I repeat myself?” the gardener bellowed. “Time is like money to me, and I will not waste a farthing on your questions.”

  “And well you shouldn’t.” Joanna Blalock reached into her purse for a half crown and pressed the coin into the gardener’s hand. “This will compensate you for your time.”

  “Oh, it will, madam! It will!” the gardener said excitedly. He was clearly astonished by Joanna Blalock’s generosity and studied the coin at length to confirm it was genuine. Satisfied, he placed the half crown in a weathered wallet, then appeared to groom himself for his presentation. He opened his coat and dug into an inner pocket for a balled-up, soiled handkerchief. While extracting the handkerchief, he dislodged a set of spectacles that nearly fell from his pocket. He secured the spectacles, then went about mopping the perspiration from his head.

  Joanna Blalock watched each and every move the gardener made. Her eyes stayed focused on the man’s callused hands. She seemed to be studying his motions, but they had little meaning to me.

  “Where should I start, madam?” the gardener asked, his tone now subservient.

  “At the beginning,” Joanna Blalock replied. “I would like you to show us where you were standing when you saw the man fall. Mind you, it has to be the precise spot.”

  The gardener moved to the side of an adjacent hedge and faced the length of Curzon Street. It afforded him an unobstructed view of the house where Charles Harrelston had gambled and lost. “Right here, madam.”

  “What were you doing at the time?”

  “Finishing up on this hedge,” the gardener recalled. “I was making sure there were no rough areas at its top.”

  “So you were paying close attention to this task?”

  The gardener nodded. “It had to be ever so even. Otherwise it’s not a good job I’ve done and I’ve not earned my pay. Not a twig was out of place, I can tell you.”

  “Well put.” Joanna Blalock seemed to approve. “That is exactly what you indicated in your earlier testimony.”

  “Indeed it is, madam. And I will not change a word, for everything I have told you is the truth,” the gardener said. “I was just finishing the trimming when I glanced up and saw the man jumping from the window’s ledge. It happened in a flash, but there he was, clear as day.”

  “So you actually witnessed his jump?”

  “He took a leap, madam,” the gardener said, nodding firmly several times. “The moment I looked up he jumped into thin air. I could not believe my eyes.”

  “Did he fall feet first?”

  “Oh, yes, madam. Feet first, to be sure.”

  “Was he moving his arms and legs as he fell?”

  “Like a wild man, he was.”

  “Dreadful,” Joanna Blalock commented.

  “Exactly so, madam. I ran to see if I could be of assistance, but I could tell there was no life left in him.”

  “How strange that such a well-to-do man would choose to end his life that way.”

  “It is far beyond strange, madam. A man has everything in the world and does that.”

  “And certainly the address of 28 Curzon Street would indicate a man of considerable means.”

  “So it would,” the gardener agreed. “You were correct with that, but not with the address. The house he jumped from was 26 Curzon Street.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “Yes, madam. I know this street up and down and every house on it, like the back of my hand.”

  “Then the article I clipped from the newspaper must be incorrect,” Joanna Blalock said and opened her purse. She removed the clipping and pointed to the title of the article, which read SUICIDE IN MAYFAIR. “See, the first line states the address to be 28—”

  “No, no, madam.” The gardener interrupted and placed a dirty finger on the printed address. “It says that the address is 26 Curzon Street, not 28.”

  “Ah, you are correct. I misread the small print,” Joanna Blalock admitted. “Thank you for making me aware.”

  “You are very welcome,” the gardener said and straightened up, posturing like a man who had accomplished an important deed. “I shall never forget that address and the sight I witnessed there.”

  “I would wager you did not sleep well that night.”

  “I tossed and turned and never really closed my eyes.”

  “Well, let us hope the horrific memory fades.”

  “It cannot happen soon enough.”

  “Perhaps a pint or two after work might help.”

  The gardener smiled broadly. “It just might, madam.”

  “You look like a Guinness half and half man to me.”

  “It is my favorite,” he replied, and licked his lips at the thought of the common beer served in pubs.

  Amazing! I thought to myself. In a matter of minutes Joanna Blalock had converted this sour, rude gardener into a gentle, talkative man. They appeared now to be having a friendly conversation, both totally at ease, with the man readily answering every question in an unrehearsed fashion.

  The gardener was pointing down Curzon Street, directing our attention to the cursed house. He made no secret of how much the event that occurred there had disturbed him. “I am afraid the terrible memory will stir every time I walk by number 26.”

  “It will pass,” Joanna Blalock assured him, and followed his line of sight down the wide street. Raising a hand, she shaded her eyes against the sun, which was now breaking through the mist. “Oh! I believe our driver is motioning to us, but I cannot be sure. My vision does not allow it.”

  The gardener quickly reached for his spectacles and squinted at the carriage in the distance. “Yes, madam. He seems to be waving.”

  “Perhaps he is beckoning us,” Joanna Blalock said, and thanked the gardener for his time and information.

  “I hope I was of some help, madam,” the gardener said, with a half bow.

  “You were of great assistance,” Joanna Blalock told him. “You have made things quite clear for us.”

  We walked away in silence until we were well out of the gardener’s earshot. Even then I spoke to Joanna Blalock in a low voice. “Our driver was not waving. He was sitting motionless with his back to us.”

  “I know,” she said.

  “What does this signify?”

  “It signifies that the gardener is a liar.”

  “Not so quick,” my father cautioned. “Simply because he could not describe what the driver did or did not do does not invalidate his witnessing Charles Harrelston’s fall. At that distance he might not be able to see the driver’s arm, but he could surely make out a full-grown man in flight.”

  “Not without his spectacles,” Joanna Blalock countered. “The gardener is nearsighted and that is why he could easily read the fine print of the newspaper article. But he cannot see at a distance and that is why he carries such thick spectacles. You must hav
e noticed that he had to put on his spectacles only to make out our driver’s image, and even then he could not tell us what the driver was doing.”

  “Perhaps the gardener had his spectacles on when Charles Harrelston fell,” I argued. “Then he could have seen the man about to take flight.”

  “That does not fit with the story he told us,” Joanna Blalock continued. “Remember his exact words. He was finishing the trimming of a hedge and making certain its top was smooth and even. Now we know his near vision is excellent. That is why he was not wearing his spectacles when we approached him a few minutes ago and why he did not have them on while trimming a hedge several days earlier. He only uses his spectacles for far vision and thus did not have them on at the moment Charles Harrelston fell.”

  “Could he have seen a figure on the ledge a moment before the fall and rapidly put on his spectacles?” I inquired.

  “Impossible,” Joanna Blalock said at once. “An object falling through space drops at a speed of thirty-two feet per second. Since that is the approximate height of a three-story building, the gardener would have been required to glance up from his work and see a man on the ledge, then put on his spectacles and focus his vision, all in one second. It cannot be done. Allow me to demonstrate.” She turned to my father. “Do you have your reading glasses with you, Dr. Watson?”

  “I do,” my father replied.

  “Excellent,” Joanna Blalock went on. “On my request, I would like for you to glance up at the building, then reach for your spectacles and place them on and look back at the building. Your son will be our timer.” She waited for me to take out my timepiece. “Everyone prepared?”

  My father and I nodded.

  “All right, then,” she said. “On my signal.”

  I readied myself.

  “Now!” Joanna Blalock called out.

  In all haste my father glanced up at the building, reached for his reading glasses and placed them on, then looked back at the building.

  “Done!” Joanna Blalock shouted, then turned to me. “How much time passed, please?”