Sherlock Holmes by The Davies Brothers

Author:The Davies Brothers
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: GNP Press
Published: 2022-05-01T00:00:00+00:00

III. The Silk Scarf

‘What do you make of it all?’ Jones asked me after the widow Cathcart had left the room.

‘Well, my initial hypothesis appears correct. A man of money and learning. We now know his usual departure point and destination. If he is within the height range that I suggested, then I do believe we’ve got our man. He may even have kept the red silk scarf he used for suffocating Jim Cathcart.’

‘That’s all well and good, Mr Thorne,’ said Inspector Jones, ‘but it’s still slim pickings. Down Whitechapel way, there are at least a couple of dozen... umm, gentlemen’s rest houses. And there must be hundreds of bankers who enjoy an evening in the West End.’ Jones sighed dejectedly. ‘It’s hopeless!’

I lost my temper at this point. Not many things escape my ken, yet it always baffles me how the police force in this country somehow manages to find the slowest-witted of the populace to fill its numbers. Surely, just on the law of averages, they could have turned up someone better suited to deduction and investigation than the likes of Athelney Jones!

‘Damn your eyes, Jones,’ I shouted, my voice reverberating off those walls so close to us on every side. ‘Half an hour ago, we had nothing but a murdered cabbie, with a million potential killers. Now we have an occupation for the perpetrator, a height, a weapon, and an area to search. We even know the suspect’s night-time habits.’

‘Well, he’s unlikely to follow the same routine now, is he, Thorne? When you’ve been chasing villains as long as I have, you’ll come to understand–’

‘Think, man! The murder was almost certainly a crime of passion, a flash of anger. We know that the suspect partook in opium and God knows what else at the brothel, so he may not even remember his crime. What’s more, he would believe that he is utterly untraceable, with no one but the unfortunate Cathcart aware of his habits... if the search is left to Scotland Yard, that is.’ It was a needless barb, but I confess that I liked watching Jones slowly come to realise that he was being insulted. Before he could form a response, I stood up. ‘Now, where is Cathcart’s brougham now? I wish to inspect it.’

The police stable was only half a mile away, hidden from view behind, of all things, a bakery specialising in ‘Cakes for Auspicious Occasions’. This stable was one of many dotted around London, but, according to Jones, it was the largest, housing almost a hundred horses at any given time, as well as the various traps and carriages that the Metropolitan Police required for transporting equipment, officers and prisoners about our great city. It also served as a penitentiary of sorts for vehicles and horses involved in crimes.

A robust, whiskered fellow in thick overalls led Athelney Jones and me to the corner stall, where we found the black brougham carriage, with two horses grazing forlornly on piles of hay in the yard in front.

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