I woke one morning in the February of 1889 to find London enveloped in the thickest fog of the winter. Pedestrians were glimpsed as mere phantoms slipping in and out of grey dense eddies, while ghostly unseen cabs clip-clopped eerily down Baker Street.
‘Pickpockets’ weather,’ observed Holmes from the breakfast table, as I gazed out of our sitting-room window at the seething fog without.
‘Even those villains may have difficulty seeing which pocket to pick in this stuff’, I said, joining my friend.
He gave me wry grin. ‘Fog is unpredictable and so is only of use to the petty criminal. No notable villain would rely on it and therefore it is bad for business. No only does it hold up the important crime from being committed, but it prevents the client from reaching our door.’
As if providing an ironic counterpoint to Holmes’ statement, the doorbell rang downstairs. ‘And then again,’ he continued with a sardonic lift of the eyebrow, ‘I could be wrong’.
He was indeed wrong and within minutes we had a client sitting by our cheery fire, sharing a cup of hot coffee with us and telling us his tale. He was a smartly dressed youth, with dark good looks, a broad, open face and brown, sensitive eyes.
‘My name is Matthew Whitrow,’ he began in a clear but hesitant voice. ‘I hold a position in the family firm of brewers. I live with my Uncle Godfrey Whitrow. He is in essence my guardian until I reach the age of twenty-one in two months’ time. My mother died in childbirth and my father was carried off by enteric fever while on a trip to India three years after I was born. My Uncle Godfrey, who was my father’s partner in business ‒ The Whitrow Brewery ‒ took me in and brought me up as if I were his own. Oh, Mr Holmes, I shall be eternally grateful to him for his generosity and his kindness over the years. It has not been easy for him, running the business, educating his nephew and maintaining The Grange, a large house in Pinner.’
‘Your uncle is not married?’ asked Holmes.
The youth afforded himself a little smile. ‘Good heavens, no. Uncle is a confirmed bachelor. I love him dearly but, I have to admit, he is somewhat frosty in his dealings with people, particularly women whom he considers to be very much the weaker sex.’
My friend nodded with restrained enthusiasm and indicated that our visitor should resume his narrative.
‘When I completed my education, I was given a position, a junior position, at the brewery with the understanding that eventually I should become a partner with Uncle Godfrey when I reached my twenty-first birthday. Those were the instructions left in my father’s will.’
‘And this birthday takes place in two months’ time?’ I said, checking my notes.
‘Yes, on April the sixth.’
‘So where lies your problem, Mr Whitrow?’ asked Sherlock Holmes, leaning back in his chair and lighting a cigarette.
‘I have begun to fear for my life, Mr Holmes. Three times in as many days I have narrowly escaped death.’
‘Really,’ replied my friend languidly, but his eyes shone with interest.‘ Pray give me the details.’
‘On Monday a large section of masonry fell from the roof of our house as I was leaving. It crashed to the ground only a few feet away from me. Yesterday, on the way to the office, I was chased by a gang of roughs who, I am sure, would have killed me if I had not managed to give them the slip.’
‘Why should they wish to do that?’ I asked.
Our client gave a shrug of the shoulder. ‘I have no idea.’
Holmes leaned forward and pointed a bony finger at our client. ‘There is one other incident to relate. It concerns something which happened in the early hours of the morning, something which caused you to leave the house in a hurry ‒ your shoes are unpolished, your tie is askew and you have cut yourself in four places while shaving ‒ something more perilous than the other occurrences, something which has brought you in desperation to my door.’
‘You are right, Mr Holmes. A most frightening and damning incident. I am a light sleeper and some nights I can toss and turn until dawn without the benefit of sleep. But last night for some reason I slept deeply. It must have been the heavy dinner I’d eaten. Luckily, at around three in the morning some powerful instinct of survival prompted me to wake. If I had not done so, I would not be sitting here now. As soon as I gained consciousness, I began to choke. I quickly realised that the room was full of gas. I could hear the deadly hissing in the darkness. Someone had turned on the gas fire in the room without lighting it. The atmosphere was thick with poisonous fumes. With great effort I staggered from the bed hardly able to breathe. I tried to cry out but words failed me. As soon as I opened my mouth I began to suffocate on the foul vapour. I have no idea how I managed to summon up sufficient strength to reach the bedroom door and stumble into the corridor.’
‘You had a very narrow escape indeed,’ I remarked.
‘What happened next?’ enquired Holmes sharply.
‘I fell to the floor, my head swimming from the effect of the fumes, but as I did so I noticed the door of my uncle’s room close quickly as though someone had just entered at great speed.’
‘What do you make of that, Mr Whitrow?’
He shook his head sadly.‘ I dare not think. Some moments later, I was able to pull myself up into a sitting position and cry for help. Uncle Godfrey was at my side in an instant. I explained the situation as best I could and he clapped a handkerchief to his mouth and rushed into my room to turn the gas supply off. Thankfully, within an hour I was feeling my old self again. Supported by my uncle, I had taken a walk in the grounds to fill my lungs with fresh air and then sipped a large brandy to warm me.’
‘How did your uncle react to this incident?’
‘That was a strange thing. He failed to see the seriousness of it. He thought that I had been careless and switched the fire on to warm my room while I read before retiring and that I had forgotten to light the gas’.
‘Is that possible?’
‘Certainly not.’
‘Then how do you interpret the matter?’
Our client sat forward in his chair, his eyes wild with apprehension and fear. ‘Someone is trying to kill me,’ he said in a harsh whisper.
‘Someone ‒ who?’ asked Holmes.
‘I don’t know.’
’For what reason?’
Again Matthew Whitrow shook his head.
‘Come now, sir. The evidence you give shouts at us, giving us both culprit and motive.’
‘That interpretation does not bear contemplation ...’
‘That your Uncle Godfrey has a need to get rid of you before you turn twenty-one when he, effectively, loses half of his fortune to you.’
‘Not my uncle. Not the man who has been like a second father to me ...’
‘Have we any other candidates?’
Whitrow ran his fingers through his hair. ‘Not that I know of.’
‘Does your uncle know that you intended to seek my help?’
‘I thought it best to keep my own counsel.’
Suddenly Holmes rose from his chair, walked to the window and gazed out at the coils of mist, which still pressed in on us from the cold grey world beyond the pane. ‘There is more fog outside in the street than there is surrounding this affair, Mr Whitrow. Your story clearly implicates your uncle but I appreciate that suspicions and accusations are useless without proof. I am somewhat intrigued by your case and I shall endeavour to blow away the foggy vapours that surround it and bring the clear light of truth to bear upon it. Call upon me early tomorrow evening and I should be in a position to bring this matter to a successful conclusion’.
With a hearty handshake and expressions of deep gratitude our visitor left. On his departure, Holmes threw himself down in his chair and bade me leave him alone for an hour while he ran his mind over the various elements of the case. From the density of the smoke that poured from his black clay pipe and the depths of the contractions on his brow I could see that the problem was not as simple as he had indicated to our client.
Just before noon he went out. ‘I have a little errand at Somerset House in the Strand. Why don’t you meet me at Simpson’s for lunch, Watson?’
*
Holmes arrived promptly at one and we sat at a table by the window. The fog had lifted somewhat and through the net curtains we were able to glimpse the great tide of humanity pass up and down the Strand outside. We ordered our food and then I prompted Holmes to explain his thoughts on the case.
‘You seemed to suggest that it was a very simple matter,’ said I.
He grinned. ‘It is ‒ presented to me on a plate as it was. There was very little artifice in the story we were told.’
‘Are you saying Matthew Whitrow lied to us?’
‘I am convinced that some of what he told us is not true. Let us consider this case from another angle. Why should Godfrey Whitrow take on the responsibility of bringing up his brother’s child, look after him for nearly twenty years and then when he is but two months away from his twenty-first birthday try to arrange for his death?’
‘For the reason you have already intimated: so that young Matthew does not inherit half the brewery fortune and the business.’
‘But why wait so long? Surely there would have been far more opportune and less suspicious moments in the last twenty years. Why not carry out the murder then? Why wait until the last moment? No, it will not do. And consider also the three attempts on Matthew’s life. Where is the consistency there? A piece of falling masonry, a murderous attack by thugs and death by asphyxiation. The diversity of these attempts on the young Whitrow’s life indicates that they were not planned or at least organised by the same mind. And how would a respectable businessman know how to get in touch with a gang prepared to murder for money? Notice that none of these ’attempts’ had witnesses. Certainly if there had been, scrupulous Matthew would have informed us. In essence, what we have is only one version of events. It is time to obtain another viewpoint. We shall visit Godfrey Whitrow at the brewery this afternoon’.
*
Godfrey Whitrow was a large, bald, red-faced man in his late fifties. In repose his face was crabbed and ill at ease and even his eyes seemed to flash with some kind of permanent irritation. However, in manner he was perfectly cordial to us when we were shown into his office at the Whitrow Brewery on the outskirts of Pinner later that afternoon.
‘Take a seat, gentlemen. Would you care for a cup of tea?’
‘No thank you, sir,’ replied Holmes evenly. ‘We are here on rather serious business.’
Whitrow glanced at my friend’s card. ‘I have heard of you, of course, Mr Holmes and I have no doubt that your visit is in connection with the unfortunate incident that occurred at my home last night when my nephew was nearly asphyxiated.’
Holmes nodded.‘ What is your view of the incident?’
‘An unfortunate accident. Matthew is sometimes a careless boy and certainly he did appear to be somewhat preoccupied at dinner last evening. He hardly ate any of his food.’
‘What do you make of the other incidents where he has narrowly escaped injury?’ I asked.
Puzzlement registered itself on Whitrow’s rubicund visage. ‘What ‘other incidents’? I know of none’.
‘The falling masonry, the gang of roughs?’ I explained.
The brewer shook his head. ‘I am afraid I do not know what you mean.’
‘Your nephew is convinced that someone is trying to kill him.’ said Holmes.
Whitrow gave a gasp of astonishment. ‘Why, I have never heard anything so ridiculous. Why should anyone attempt to murder Matthew? What motive could they have?’
‘Money. His inheritance possibly.’
‘That is nonsense. I am the only one...’ Whitrow paused and his eyes widened in disbelief as the truth dawned on him. ‘Good gracious, you mean he thinks that I wish him dead.’ He shook his head in horror and mopped his brow with a large white handkerchief. ‘Why, Mr Holmes, this would be comic if the implications were not so serious. I mean my nephew no harm whatsoever. I am happy for him to inherit his father’s share ...’
‘I am a little rusty on some legal phrasing, Mr Whitrow, but I think I am right in saying that it would be more a transference than an inheritance, would it not?’
Whitrow stared open-mouthed at my friend. ‘Great heavens,’ he said softly, almost in a whisper. ‘You know.’
‘I know,’ affirmed my friend.
*
An hour later we arrived at The Grange, Godfrey Whitrow’s large house in the country, some five miles from the brewery. The manservant, Walker, admitted us. Holmes passed him a letter from his master, which instructed the servant to co-operate with our requests. Holmes asked to be shown to Matthew Whitrow’s bedroom.
‘The still waters of this case run very deep indeed, do they not, Watson?’ observed Holmes once we were alone.
‘Indeed,’ I said, looking about me. It was a large chamber with a broad window, which overlooked the extensive garden. It was well furnished with a four-poster bed, a wardrobe, bookcases and a chest of drawers. Holmes began by examining the gas fire, the root of the mischief the previous night and then the bookcases. ‘These are new volumes and yet they are well-thumbed,’ he observed holding up two volumes, each dealing with modern firearms. Opening the top drawer in the chest, Holmes gave a cry of delight. Slowly, with great theatricality, Holmes produced two pistols, a pair of Webley No 2’s. ‘Intriguing,’ he muttered whipping out his lens and taking them to the window for a thorough examination.
‘What do you make of the cartridges in this beauty?’ he asked at length, passing me the lens and one of the guns.
It did not take me long to discover what he had found. ‘They are blank cartridges.’
‘And in this gun ...?’ Holmes passed me the second revolver.
‘These are real. What is it all about? Two identical guns, one with real bullets and one with blanks?’
‘Not quite identical. Notice the little groove at the base of the handle of that one, the one with the real bullets.’
‘Why yes. The mark has been scratched in.’
‘So he will know which of these beauties can really kill.’
*
That night, as arranged, Holmes and I secreted ourselves in one of the guest bedrooms and waited for events to unfold. Just before eleven we were visited by Godfrey Whitrow.
‘Matthew has retired for the night,’ he told us in hushed tones. ‘He made no mention of his visit to you or of any of those attacks made upon his person. However, throughout dinner he regaled me with tales that he has been hearing about a spate of local armed burglaries. Apparently someone in the next village was killed in his bed during such a raid. He is concerned for our safety. Walker sleeps in quarters in the stable block some way from the house and we have no other live in servants. So he thought it prudent for us to have some means of self defence and gave me this firearm to protect myself.’ He pulled one of the Webley revolvers from his smoking jacket pocket. Holmes took it from him and examined the butt.
My friend gave me a knowing glance. ‘No mark. Mr Whitrow, this gun is loaded with blanks.’
‘What on earth is the boy up to?’ the brewer asked, his head shaking in bewilderment.
‘Murder,’ replied my friend quietly. ‘Now, sir, please make yourself comfortable here for tonight while my good friend Watson and I will move to your room until the last act of this dark drama is acted out. Whatever you hear, do not leave this room. Your life may depend on it.’
At a little after one in the morning we heard a crash from downstairs and a muffled cry for help: ‘Uncle, for God sake’s, help me.’ This outburst was followed by a gunshot. ‘The mischief has started,’ observed Holmes wryly and we ventured into the corridor and listened. The cry came again. The voice was that of Matthew Whitrow and it was emanating from the hallway. We sped along the landing but at the head of the stairs, Holmes held me back. ‘Stay here, Watson, until I call you. If the lad sees two figures our game is up.’
With these words Sherlock Holmes moved halfway down the curving staircase, a lithe, shadowy figure in the darkened house. In a very close imitation of Godfrey Whitrow’s voice he called out into the blackness below: ‘Are you all right, Matthew? What is going on?’
‘Help Uncle, burglars!’ came the response which was followed almost immediately by a gunshot. A bright flash illuminated the hallway where I glimpsed one darkened figure that appeared to be making his way to the door.
‘Don’t let him get away,’ came Matthew Whitrow’s disembodied voice once again.
Holmes fired his gun. The figure turned and aimed his pistol at my friend. There was a burst of orange flame and Holmes gave a sharp cry, pitched forward and tumbled down the stairs, landing in a heap at the bottom where he lay motionless.
‘Uncle! My God, Uncle.’ It was Matthew again and quickly he lit a lamp which filled the hallway with a dim amber light. It provided sufficient illumination to show that he was the only figure below. There had been no intruder.
On leaning over my friend with the mask of mock concern on his features, he staggered back in amazement. ‘You,’ he cried.
‘Yes, me,’ grinned Holmes, sitting up and aiming his pistol at the youth. ‘Sorry to disappoint you but I am neither your uncle nor am I dead. However, this gun, unlike yours, is loaded with real bullets so I advise you against any rash action.’
‘I ... I don’t understand.’
‘Watson, be so good as to rouse Mr Godfrey Whitrow and ask him to join us in the drawing-room.’
*
A short time later Godfrey and Matthew Whitrow sat opposite each other in the panelled drawing-room of The Grange, while Holmes explained details of the case.
‘You have a very scheming nephew here, Mr Whitrow. Scheming and unscrupulous. He has waited and bided his time to carry out his cold-hearted machinations until he was almost twenty-one, the age when he would inherit half the business and become a fully-fledged partner in the brewery. But, you see half was not good enough for Master Matthew. He wanted it all. With you out of the way, he believed he would inherit everything and become a very rich man indeed. First of all he planned to have you arrested for attempted murder ‒ of himself. A jail sentence would have put you out of his way for some time and then it would be very easy for him to eject you from the business.
‘The first two attempts ‒ the incident with the falling masonry and the murderous gang ‒ were pure fiction, but the asphyxiation was real. It was self-inflicted and a compelling episode. The apparent veracity of the one attempt helped to give credence to the other two ‒ or so he thought. He even attempted to strengthen the case against you by engaging the services of Sherlock Holmes, who was meant to accuse you of attempted murder. The facts as he revealed them when he came to see me could not fail to implicate you. But it was all too obvious, I am afraid. I suspect that he grew worried when I did not immediately arrange a warrant for your arrest and therefore he decided on another approach.
‘He decided to fake a burglary where you would be shot. For this scheme he utilised two guns. He gave you the one with the blank cartridges so that if you managed to shoot the burglar ‒ who was Matthew ‒ no damage would be done. He reasoned that in the darkness of the hall with the excitement, the voices and the gunshots, you would not be able to see exactly how many figures there were there. Afterwards, he intended to say that you fired at the intruder, who then fired back, killing you. Matthew would then exchange the gun in your hand for the one with real bullets before the police arrived and dispose of the other one. It was a neat and bold plan ...
‘And thanks to you, Mr Holmes, it failed.’ Godfrey Whitrow shook his head sadly and turned to his nephew. ‘But what remains a mystery is why you wanted, you needed to do it. I cannot believe it was solely greed, Matthew. I came to look upon you as my own son and I thought you cared for and respected me.’
The young man sat up and sneered at his uncle. Passion raged in his flashing eyes. ‘I was tired of being grateful and humble. Oh, how wonderful you were to take me in ‒ the little orphan boy. How thankful I should be. But I was given no freedom, no choices. I had to do as you asked, you dictated. You arranged my whole life. I was robbed of any individuality. I determined to grab my freedom when I inherited half the business. And Holmes was right: half wasn’t enough. I wanted it all ‒ and with you out of the way I would have had it all.’
‘That’s where you are wrong,’ interjected Holmes. ‘Perhaps you should have done some research before you embarked on your treacherous scheme. After your visit to Baker Street, I determined to discover the exact nature of your father’s will. It was a simple task. A visit to Somerset House on the Strand revealed a startling piece of information. The will certainly gives you half of the brewery business when you reach twenty-one providing your father is deceased.’
‘There is nothing new in what you are telling me,’ snapped Matthew Whitrow.
‘But your father is not dead ...’
The boy’s jaw dropped and the colour drained from his face. He shook his head in disbelief. ‘Not dead ... Don’t be ridiculous … I don’t...’
Godfrey Whitrow gave a heavy sigh. ‘Mr Holmes is right, Matthew. When your father returned from India eighteen years ago he was not suffering from enteric fever as you have been led to believe, but brain fever. It was a cruel trick of Nature. He simply went mad. Within a month he turned from a sane rational human being to a raving imbecile. He could not be trusted alone and he was too dangerous, too volatile to nurse at home. He had to be placed in an institution for his own safety as well as others’. He is still alive, residing in a lunatic asylum near the south coast. He does not know who he is and he does not recognise anyone. He cannot converse intelligently and cannot feed himself without help. But he is still alive. I visit him once a year out of a sense of duty and ... indeed love, for he is my brother. I took it upon myself to protect you from this awful truth all these years.’
Matthew Whitrow listened open-mouthed to this confession and then buried his face in his hands, his whole body wracked by deep sobs.
‘I lost a brother,’ said the brewer sadly, his eyes moistening also, ‘and now it seems I’ve lost a son.’
*
We waited for the police to arrive to arrest Matthew Whitrow on the charge of attempted murder before leaving to catch an early train back to town.
‘You know,’ said I, as the train pulled out of Pinner station, ‘I believe there will be reconciliation between uncle and the wayward nephew before too long. Now that the lad knows the truth about his father, I suspect it will bring him to his senses and cause him to appreciate the worth of Godfrey Whitrow.’
‘You have a more sanguine view of events than I, Watson. Matthew Whitrow has hated his uncle for a long, long time and now the lad has learned how he has been deceived over his father’s death. This fact is certain to increase the boy’s animosity.’ Holmes shook his head. ‘I believe they are destined to be estranged permanently. As the poet has it: ‘True hatred fuels tomorrow’s fire’.’