Paul Gilbert - The Chronicles of Sherlock Holmes

As a medical man I was loath to admit that I had not thought of these as being worthy of note. ‘Carry on.’ I suggested.

‘I thought as much. Similarly I am certain that you did not notice that the rubber support, at its base, was screwed into place for easy removal and was not a permanent fixture. Your expression tells me that you find this detail of no account, however you were not privy to a minute discovery that I made on the floor of the booth.’

‘Ah, the contents of your envelope!’ I exclaimed, now hanging on to every one of Holmes’s words. Holmes carefully extracted the envelope from his inside pocket and slowly emptied its contents into the palm of his hand.

‘Come now, Holmes! You go too far. What relevance could a single tiny pellet such as this possibly have?’

‘None at all,’ Holmes calmly replied. ‘At least, not in isolation. But when you consider that this pellet is one of hundreds found inside a four-bore shotgun shell, then it acquires a greater significance.’ Before continuing Holmes studied my countenance for any signs of my comprehending. Upon observing, quite correctly, that there was none, he continued:

‘These shells are quite simple to open and to empty and the combined weight of the contents of only a few shells would be sufficient to render the base of the crutch solid enough to cause great damage.’

I shook my head in astonishment. ‘My goodness, Holmes, the things that you know! I understand now. The screw base leaves the crutch equally simple to empty afterwards.’ Then after further consideration, I added: ‘Of course, the bloodstain was only visible close to the base of the crutch!’

‘Watson, Watson, it does take a while for the pennies to drop, but when they do there is a veritable cascade.’

Ignoring Holmes’s sarcastic response I reminded him of the other notable point of reference that he had previously mentioned.

‘This point will be far easier for you to digest, because there was not one club member whose writing corresponded to that of the note, including that of its supposed author, our old friend Stamford! Therefore, we shall have to look elsewhere if we are to discover the identity of our killer. Now, I think we are close to our destination. A few discreet enquiries at this most reputable of institutions will, I think present our provincial inspector with his first case at the Yard.’

I seemed to be remembered by the officials at the entrance to St Barts and, as a consequence, we were soon traversing those hallowed corridors towards Stamford’s chambers. A colleague of Stamford’s, obviously ignorant of the events at the Holborn informed us of Stamford’s absence, but made no objections to our awaiting his return in his consulting room.

Upon gaining entrance to Stamford’s rooms Holmes gestured for me to stand vigil by the heavy oak door while he began an urgent, albeit most thorough, search through the various papers contained in the drawers of Stamford’s desk.

I kept my ear close to the door, so that I could alert Holmes to the sound of someone approaching, all the while glancing furtively in Holmes’s direction. Every so often he emitted a grunt of frustration and each utterance being followed with an increase in the intensity of his search.

‘In heaven’s name, Holmes! What can you possibly be looking for?’ I whispered hoarsely, out of frustration. When no reply came I glanced back towards him, to find him beaming contentedly while clutching a maroon leatherbound volume in one hand and a rather official-looking document in the other. Before I could ask him what these were Holmes had tucked them inside his coat. Then he nodded to me to open the door.

Having calmed ourselves, we returned to the corridor outside.

‘We shall return at a more convenient time!’ Holmes called cheerily to the fellow who had directed us to Stamford’s room. We doffed our hats towards the doorkeeper then made off in search of a cab.

I had expected Holmes to direct the driver towards the Holborn, so I was somewhat surprised to hear him give Baker Street as our next destination. However, upon reaching our rooms he explained that he wanted to examine the items that he had taken from Stamford’s desk, before presenting his findings to Inspector Daley.

He poured out a substantial Cognac for us both and offered me a cigar from the coal scuttle, before spreading the papers out on the table under the illumination of a small oil lamp.

‘Let us study these in silence for a moment, before voicing our conclusions.’ Holmes suggested. I nodded my agreement and was most careful in placing my cigar in a large glass ashtray, well away from the papers.

The book turned out to be Stamford’s diary and the document none other than the patent for the unique spring hinges, employed in ensuring that the aluminium crutch was more comfortable than any other of its type. We had hoped that the diary would reveal some of Stamford’s innermost thoughts and thereby furnish us with a clue as to the motive behind his horrendous demise. However, this proved to be a purely professional journal, providing brief notes as to his day-to-day activities. My disappointment at making this discovery was tempered somewhat by Holmes’s excitement. He hurriedly removed the note that I had received from Stamford and laid it out next to the page in the diary that had so excited him.

‘See here, Watson!’ he said, breaking our silence while pointing at the note.

I compared the two and immediately understood the implications of Holmes’s discovery.

‘Again, there is no similarity between the two. I say!’ I suddenly exclaimed. ‘Whoever did send the note used his knowledge of my association with Stamford as a means to camouflage his crime. This is intolerable!’

‘Calm yourself, Watson, there are graver implications here than your personal indignation. Read some of Stamford’s diary entries. Here, on the fourth of last month: Have agreed to increase Paulsen’s share of the proceeds from the crutch to forty per cent. I fear that this may still not be enough to satisfy him .’

‘Now read this entry of but a week later. Paulsen’s manner has become most threatening. I fear that I may soon be compelled to get in touch with my old friend Watson. His colleague Sherlock Holmes may be my only hope . This entry certainly explains your involvement, eh, Watson?’

‘Certainly it does. Yet how did this Paulsen have access to Stamford’s diary? How did he know of my friendship with Stamford and our penchant for the Holborn?’

Holmes suddenly got up from the table and lit his cigar, using an ember with the tongs from the fireplace.

‘For the answers to your questions I would suggest that you need to look no further than to the foot of the final page of these patent papers and to the very last entry in the diary,’ Holmes replied gravely.

I followed Holmes’s instructions and then, having done so, laid the documents on to the table again.

‘Phew! So this fellow Paulsen was none other than Stamford’s partner in the invention of the aluminium crutch. As is often the case, greed has proved to be the motive for the taking of a life.’

‘Quite so, old fellow. Too often I fear that the satisfaction I receive from my chosen profession is tempered by the humility born of witnessing the good being extinguished by the evil. Now call for Mrs Hudson. We must send a wire with all speed to Daley at the Holborn. Instruct him to arrest the footman at once and inform him that I will provide him with the details of the case early tomorrow morning. I think that we have delayed the remainder of the staff there for long enough.

‘Oh, and be so kind as to suggest that he might search through the footman’s belongings, or should I now refer to him as Paulsen? For that is surely his masquerade. I would not be a bit surprised if Daley were to discover that Paulsen possesses a “Gladstone” full of the pellets from some shotgun shells!’