The Devil’s Due. Bonnie Macbird
to be sleeping late when there are such doings afoot.’
Mrs Hudson entered with a tray of sandwiches. ‘Mr Holmes has been in his bed for less than two hours, Doctor.’ Turning to her lodger, she remonstrated, ‘You endanger your health, Mr Holmes, with all this gallivanting about at night.’
She poured me a coffee without asking. Handing it to me, she added, ‘Just see how tired he is!’
Holmes sighed. ‘I located the villain and communicated his whereabouts to Inspector Lestrade some four hours ago. This worthy endeavour involved a rather dangerous chase at the docks, and a visit to a brothel in the guise of a doctor.’
‘Remarkable! I take back my remonstrance. Apologies, Holmes.’
He smiled, but the smile dropped as he added, ‘I have had to proceed unofficially, as I was blocked from the case by this new man, Billings. But Lestrade has the facts in hand now, and no doubt the murderer as well. I am confident he will see things through to conviction.’
Once more my friend had brought justice to bear, while giving all credit to the local police. His selflessness was one of the things about him I most admired.
‘Holmes, what a remarkable night’s work. You are to be congratulated! Perhaps you may want to rest. If so, I am happy to stay and read until you arise. We might enjoy a meal out later?’
‘If you wish, Watson. But I shall first pay a visit to the murderer’s rather delicate wife. Constance Danforth will surely be relieved at her husband’s capture. I interviewed them both, separately of course, and perceived that she was terrified of him. Although she would not admit it, I saw evidence of burns along her arms, as if from a cigarette.’
‘Good God!’
Holmes got up and began to stir the embers of the fire, which had nearly gone out.
‘While one cannot resurrect her late father-in-law, I am convinced that this investigation will at least serve to save the life of that innocent young woman. How much time have you free?’
‘A fortnight. Mary has gone—’
‘Splendid! Your room is vacant, should you care to stay.’
He began to add coals to the dwindling fire. I found myself uncommonly pleased and surprised at the extremity of my emotion.
‘I shall retrieve my luggage, then—’ I began, when a sudden bang drew my eyes to the door, and a heavyset, muscular man of about thirty-five exploded into the room.
My first impression was of a whirling black coat and silk hat, and a silver-tipped walking stick. But it was the man’s reddened face – wild-eyed with fury and venom, his eyes nearly popping – that froze me in alarm. Spotting my friend kneeling by the fire, the intruder crossed the room in three bounding steps, stick raised to strike.
I had only time to cry out, ‘Holmes!’
Just as the fiend was about to smite my friend with what threatened to be a fatal blow, Holmes leapt up, and with the grace of the fencing master he was, whirled and blocked the descending stick with the fireplace poker in his left hand. It clanged like a church bell. In one continuous move, Holmes dealt a hard right to the man’s jaw. There was a sharp crack as his fist connected, and the strapping fellow dropped like a stone onto the bear rug in front of the fire. There he lay still, face down and pressed against the great beast’s grinning countenance.
It was as if Holmes had eyes in the back of his own head, so smooth had been his remarkable defence. He now stood, gazing calmly at his attacker. With one slippered foot, he nudged the shoulder of the unconscious man, rolling him onto his back.
‘Charles Danforth,’ he remarked, as though commenting on some fruit selection at an outdoor market. ‘Truly one of the most vicious murderers London has seen in some time.’ Holmes looked up at me. ‘It took tremendous strength and rage to kill his father with a dull letter opener, Watson. A ghastly way to bring about an end.’ He rubbed his forehead tiredly. ‘Though I did think Lestrade would have had him in custody by now.’
Just then the wiry little police detective and two constables burst through the door, Mrs Hudson behind them.
‘Mr Holmes! Are you all right?’ cried Lestrade. Spotting the man on the floor, the policeman exhaled in relief. ‘Well, of course you are, sir. He slipped us once, but we got onto his intentions, and it was a race to your house. If only I had come in time!’
‘Yes, well, you are here now,’ said Holmes. ‘This man’s intemperate attack, Lestrade, can only bolster your case.’
‘Oh yes, Mr Holmes. No question. Take him away, boys.’
Lestrade’s constables hoisted the unconscious form of Charles Danforth and conveyed him out the door.
Lestrade turned to Holmes. ‘Excellent work, Mr Holmes, and once again the Yard is grateful to you. And between us, sir, I am pleased that you, rather than Mr Billings, have brought the villain to heel. I will make sure that everyone knows.’
‘Please do not do so, Lestrade. I wish you to take the credit.’
‘But Mr Holmes, I—’
‘I must insist.’
Lestrade looked relieved. ‘As you see fit, Mr Holmes. You were right about it all, including his poor wife, may she rest in peace. True about the burns on her arms. Cigarette, I would say. Oh … Charles Danforth is a beast!’
Holmes had frozen in horror. ‘His wife? Dead?’
Lestrade nodded wearily.
My friend was galvanized. ‘How did she die? I advised you to post a guard to Constance Danforth’s house the moment I heard of this man’s release! Did you fail to do so?’
Lestrade shook his head. ‘We followed your instructions, Mr Holmes, and posted a guard directly. She was alive when we did so. ’Tweren’t her husband, though. She killed herself, the poor little dear, thinking her husband had gotten away with murder and would be back.’
‘When? How?’
‘Naught we could have done. Found by her maid last night. I was informed just after I saw you a few hours ago. That would make it perhaps around midnight?’
‘How, I ask?’
‘Poison. There was a note.’
‘I must see it.’
‘I’ll have it brought to you straight away.’
In a moment, the police had departed with the unconscious criminal. I closed the door behind them and turned my attention to my friend. Holmes had sunk motionless in the basket chair, head in his hands.
This reaction was far more than the sudden collapse of energy I had witnessed often at the end of a challenging case. The woman’s suicide had hit him hard; clearly he had been unprepared for it.
I sat opposite him and waited.
‘Holmes?’ I whispered after some minutes had passed. ‘You asked for her to be guarded. What more could you have done? Surely she felt safe with police protection.’
‘I should have gone there myself.’
‘You could not have predicted.’
‘She was delicate. Frightened. Despairing. She had loved her father-in-law deeply, and he had been, I inferred, her protector.’
‘You are a detective, not an alienist. Or a fortune-teller. How could you have foreseen a suicide?’
Holmes did not answer.
‘Instead,