18. THE CASE OF THE STOLEN ARM

A notice in a newspaper and what looks like a burn-blackened corpse come together....

It was a quiet time of the year, summer being upon us and crime being low. Holmes was racking his brain over a notice in the Times, of a grave at the church cemetery being dug in the night and robbed of an arm and why that should be important, when Lestrade arrived unannounced.

“It’s one of the worst scenes I’ve ever witnessed,” growled Inspector Lestrade as he paced back and forth in the front room of 221b Baker Street.

“Sit down, man, and tell me all about it,” said Holmes irritably. “I can do or say nothing to help if I’m in total ignorance. You might as well be talking about a muddy pool in East Grinstead for all I know.”

“A murder,” breathed the almost shaking inspector. “And not just any murder...”

“I see,” replied Holmes. “Who was murdered, and why?”

“The best I can tell you is it’s a woman,” replied Lestrade. “and the only reason I can tell you that is because her feather hat was untouched by the fire and still next to her charred head. A tank in which fish were swimming around must have tipped over in the struggle and soaked the feathers.”

“So the victim was burned to death,” murmured Holmes. “Nasty!”

“Most unpleasant,” I interjected.

“And what of the rest of the scene?” asked Holmes.

“It’s been left exactly as it was found, and guarded by a constable whilst I came to consult you on the matter,” said Lestrade. “I know how particular you are to examine crime scenes before they’re interfered with by my men. And although I’m more than competent when it comes to solving most cases I may need some of your specialist skills with this one.”

“Then we are with you, Lestrade,” barked Holmes, “Watson, your coat and my hat if your please. Lead on Inspector. I am at your service.”

We were taken in a police wagon to the outskirts of town where a large stone house was surrounded by police officers. At first glance there was little to mark it as different to any other large stone house in a street of such buildings, but on closer inspection there was evidence of fire damage, in particular to the windows of one of the rooms on the first floor. The windows had obviously been shattered, probably by the heat, and the shards that remained were blackened by smoke and tar.

“Come,” ordered Holmes, and he walked swiftly towards the front door, which was swinging open. A police officer tried to intercept him, but at a word from Lestrade we were allowed to pass.

Inside, the house had a neglected feel to it, as though furnishings and the like were being used long beyond their useful life, and when worn, not repaired or attended to but made to linger on, untidily. I concluded that this was a house in which the rewards for honest toil were far from adequate.

A maid servant was in a parlour as we passed by, and I wondered as I glanced through the door why the household employed a woman who appeared to be dressed in a considerably ill-fitting uniform, for though she was slight and petite of build the dress she was wearing, and the apron, were clearly for a much larger person. Once again I wondered if there were financial problems within the household to explain the provision of inadequate attire.

Holmes grunted, and we climbed the stairs.

The room that had been devastated by fire was filthy with the remnants of that fire, with black dust smeared on and coating everything. And the smell in the air, it reminded me of the concentrated stench of roasting meat mixed with toxic smoke.

But that wasn’t what made me gasp in horror. On the floor, lying on what until recently must have been polished floorboards, was the unmistakable shape of a human body, blackened beyond recognition and smelling of the same smoke that had made the whole room stink. Incongruously, the large white feathers of a fashionable piece of female headgear lay next to the shattered remains of a fish tank and two dead fish lay next to them like Piscean signposts to a nether kingdom in which the dead live again.

The room was generally damaged. A cocktail cabinet complete with glasses, decanters and a couple of bottles, stood testament to a kind of normality. Next to the bottles was the barely legible brochure to a seaside resort, Scarborough I believe, though it was almost burnt to an illegible crisp.

Holmes became his usual analytical self as he moved around the body, peering close now and then before standing back and briefly taking in the whole scene, and then touching the black charred remains of charcoal flesh and what may once have been fine worsted clothing with a gloved finger.

“Interesting, Watson,” he murmured. “What do you make of it?”

“She’s dead,” I told him, “of that there can be no doubt.”

“You’re right about the dead part, but I would challenge the she,” he rejoined.

“There can be little doubt, Holmes, “I said, “No man would be seen out and about wearing a hat like that! Feathers ill-become the male sex!”

“Ah, but look closely, Watson … and you, Lestrade. “The feathers are unburned. They’re not even scorched, and we are being led to believe that water from a fish tank accidentally extinguished any flames and prevented damage from further conflagration when feathers are amongst the most combustible things on Earth? Now, if you please, observe what we are meant to think of as the sad individual’s right hand. What do you see?”

I looked, curious in case I had missed anything, but nothing looked to be amiss to me. The withered, not quite totally consumed arm and hand lay in a natural position, gripping a walking cane as if about to take another step, and a fleeting image of an imagined other world sprang into my mind.

“The deceased is holding a walking cane,” pointed out Holmes, “and not any old walking cane but one with a silver handle and worn ferrule. This was an expensive cane when it was new, but one that has seen better days as can be determined by the wear on its tip, and from a casual examination, bearing in mind its dimensions, the length of its shaft and so on, it must have belonged to a male of around six feet in height. A woman needing a cane would, if she could afford it, have a delicate stick, one manufactured for the lighter frame of a female. And whoever afforded this cane could most certainly have afforded the very best and most suitable and if the deceased was a woman would almost certainly have used a lady’s model.”

“I see, Mr Holmes,” murmured Lestrade. “That makes sense.”

“So I conclude that the corpse before us, though burnt beyond any kind of recognition, is possibly that of a man,” continued Holmes, “and that the fish tank and its contents were used by the killer (if killer there was) to confuse us, for the presence of the hat indicates that at least somebody might be lying on the floor in front of us.”

“How can you say that, Holmes?” I asked. “It’s a man, I’d swear it!”

“You will observe,” said Holmes, “that there is so little remaining of identification that even a doctor of pathology would struggle to find any trace of who the fellow was? Is that not true, Watson?”

I nodded. It is impossible to put an identity to charcoal unless there is other evidence present.

“I believe,” said Holmes with a smile lurking on the corners of his lips, “that you will find that lump of charcoal is meant to be the master of the house who has has tragically spontaneously combusted. I further believe that it will be shown that he was a heavy drinker of spirits, which can be used as a possible cause of his sudden combustion. After all, gin burns with a hot and consuming flame.

“I read it like this. We are led down a path. We see a pile of charcoal and assume that a man was incapacitated by drink, possibly from constant worries about debt, and the cheap gin was draining any wealth he had. His problems were driving him insane and consequently to the forgetfulness of strong liquor.

“You will find his wife in a parlour downstairs, disguised as a maid servant because her own clothes were possibly red with a great deal of blood and gore discolouring them.”

“So she killed him?” I could see that Lestrade was confused.

“Nobody was killed,” announced Holmes. “Haven’t you been following me, Lestrade?”

“Then what…?” he stammered.

“This black shape, still smoking from the flames, was never a man,” said Holmes.

“Then it was a woman?” suggested Lestrade.

“Pig, maybe, or offal stuffed into an old suit,” mused Holmes. “But not a man or a woman.”

“But why…?” asked a totally befuddled Lestrade.

Holmes smirked. “I’ve no doubt that when the coroner has finished with his task of deciding the manner of death the maid downstairs will emerge from her ill-fitting uniform, don a fresh disguise as either herself or her own husband depending on who the coroner decides is dead, and claim a handsome insurance payout on a tragic death before joining her husband elsewhere, possible, I believe, in Scarborough.”

“So it’s just fraud?” demanded Lestrade.

“But the fellow’s arm, Holmes,” I interjected, “it might be scorched badly, burned even, converted into ashes, but I’d swear it was a human arm!”

“Remember, Watson,” he said, “I think there’s a little notice in The Times of a freshly dug corpse minus one right arm… It might be interesting to look into that, don’t you think?”

© Peter Rogerson 05.08.17

Reviews

[barleygirl]

Yours are the best detective stories I've read! I wasn't even into this genre, but I always enjoy your stories when I come upon another one! *smile* I like the way you use a good amount of detail, but not so much expository that it slows down the overall action of each story. The snarky attitude of Holmes is dripping nicely along here & your details are duly crisp & unemotional. Nice work!

[Peter Rogerson]

You are much too kind! My fondness for the great Sherlock Holmes goes back to the 1950s when I was in my teens and anxious to progress from children's books. There are 28 in the present little group because I find myself writing one a day, though I may switch to another genre when the mood takes me.