oon afterwards, the door locked behind us, I sat on the divan in Holmes’s room while he soaked in a copper tub behind a folded Japanese screen, and continued his story in what I felt was entirely inappropriate good cheer. oon afterwards, the door locked behind us, I sat on the divan in Holmes’s room while he soaked in a copper tub behind a folded Japanese screen, and continued his story in what I felt was entirely inappropriate good cheer.
‘Let me see if you can deduce where I found this torn shirt, Watson.’
‘It is not the time for games. I want to know who tried to kill you in the icehouse. We did not think to look for footprints,’ I said.
‘You did not think. However, I noted that my rescuers trampled the snow beyond use.’
‘You were unconscious!’
‘Not quite. But back to the elusive torn shirt. Come now, humour me. After all, I nearly died.’
‘Until I rescued you.’
‘Yes, and thanks. But now I must amuse myself during this ridiculous process. Is there any more hot water in the kettle? I can tell you first that in the location I was searching, I found some broken glass, swept under a table, with shards still embedded in a small broom, so whatever transpired there happened relatively recently,’ said he.
‘Very well, broken glass. Perhaps someone dropped something. What location? And yes, there is a second pot, next to the first.’
‘Ah, yes,’ I heard the sounds of pouring water and a sigh of satisfaction. ‘Now consider this. There were other signs of a struggle,’ he said.
‘Where was this, Holmes?’
‘Patience. See if you can deduce. They were subtle, but there. A table by a chair, with a lamp that would normally be there for reading, now missing. That same table with a small dent where it had been knocked over. There was a stain on the carpet nearby with a distinctive odour. The broken lamp must have been kerosene, for the glass fragments carried that odour. And a curtain nearby, disturbed, with three hooks bent out of place, and then an attempt to restore them.’
‘A fight, then, I suppose. It must have been frantic.’ A sudden image of the sumptuous apartments of the family members swam before me. Bent curtain hooks and a kerosene lamp did not fit. ‘Wait! From your description, it was not one of the sons. They all have gas and electric lights.’
‘Excellent, Watson! Now consider the marks on her arms, the handprint revealing a man of considerable size and strength.’
‘That is nearly every man on this estate, Holmes. Do not keep me guessing. Where was this torn shirt?’
‘In the rooms belonging to Cameron Coupe. I examined them while you were gone.’
‘Coupe! He killed her, then? My impression was that he had feelings for the girl.’
There was a long pause. I heard Holmes pouring in more water. He sighed. ‘That impression was mine as well. But I am afraid he is Fiona’s killer. In his closet I noted a shirt of a matching colour to the fragment in her hand, with a small piece of the collar torn away. There had been an attempt to mend it.’
I looked down at the small piece of cloth he had retrieved from the girl’s hand. He had set it on a table.
‘A match to this, then, Holmes?’
‘I am sure of it. But, for what it is worth, I do not think Coupe intended to kill her. I think it far more likely that the girl, who was clearly intelligent, deduced the identity of her kidnapper and confronted him. In her rage, heightened further perhaps by a previous attraction, she assailed him. Remember, the pattern of bruising on the girl’s arms, and nowhere else, conform more with someone attempting to restrain her rather than attack her. Her deduction, her fury, well, those traits would fit the various descriptions of the poor young woman.’
Once again I was struck with a kind of awe at my friend’s ability to form a complete and complex narrative from seemingly unrelated fragments of evidence. A compliment at this juncture, however, might only serve to inflate his already considerable self-regard.
‘Hmm,’ said I. ‘The head wound came from a fall, then?’
‘Precisely. That is my reading of the event. Not a murder.’
It was as if he had been there.
I could not help myself. ‘Astonishing, Holmes!’ It was then a second thought occurred. ‘Then she attacked him?’ I wondered. ‘In a sense, you blame the victim, then, Holmes?’
‘No, Watson, not at all. Ultimately he will be found responsible, and may hang. But I do not believe he acted out of malice. It is far more likely to have been a tragic accident.’
‘But why would Coupe have thrown her body in the icehouse?’
‘Think, man! The ground is frozen. He could not easily bury her or otherwise dispose of her – burning, for example, would have produced a suspicious smell. He may have been in a panic. Consider, it is a reasonable place to store a body that would not be found for a very long time, if ever. Perhaps he meant to retrieve it after the family had left for the South of France.’
‘Yes, that makes sense. Do you need more hot water?’
‘No. The icehouse was not a terrible idea. Her body would probably not have been found except for one thing.’
‘What?’
‘The act of throwing her body into the ice pit was witnessed by two others.’
‘Ah yes, the boy, Iain Moray.’
‘Yes. But another as well.’
‘I do not understand.’
‘The person who beheaded the girl and sent the head to the Hôtel du Cap could not have been Coupe. Such an action would only draw attention to the death he was at such pains to conceal. Coupe also does not strike me as so sadistic or twisted. I do not think he killed the boy, either. It took a cold-blooded murderer to do away with Iain Moray in that fashion. If Coupe had seen Iain, or been involved in killing him, he would hardly have pointed us in that direction in his first interview. I am quite sure that he had no idea what became of the boy.’
I heard splashing from behind the screen.
‘I see these points,’ I said. ‘But could Coupe have thrown the water on you today? Given that you were there, and had discovered the bodies?’
‘It is possible, but I do not think so.’
‘I sense an underlying animosity from the man,’ said I.
Holmes sighed. ‘He would benefit from discrediting us and having us leave, clearly. But I believe we seek a second person, who witnessed Coupe throwing Fiona’s body in the ice pit, then watched Iain Moray enter. This second person then removed the ladder and threw water on the boy. This is a much darker spirit.’
‘The same person who did so to you tonight!’
‘Very likely. What still puzzles me is the motive for sending Fiona’s head to France, Watson. It was clearly a message. But what that message was, I still cannot discern.’
‘It could not have been a family member, because they were all in the South of France,’ I said.
‘No one is eliminated, Watson. The preparation for this deed transpired between Isla McLaren’s visit to us in Baker Street, and their departure for France. Hand me a towel. We will be late for the royal unveiling. It is something we must not miss, Watson.’
‘I hardly think we will be admitted,’ I said, handing him a towel over the top of the screen.
‘Nevertheless, we shall go,’ said Holmes, and I heard him rising from the bath. His movements sounded uncertain.
In spite of my earlier curiosity to view members of the royal family in close proximity, the evening had been too dramatic by far. Exhausted, I now had no wish to participate in these festivities, especially in light of Isla McLaren’s words.
‘Why must we go to this?’
‘Because there is more to learn, Watson.’ Holmes stepped from behind the screen attired in his purple dressing gown, rubbing his hair with a towel. He was somewhat restored, his colour now back to his usual pallor and not the deathly blue of an hour ago. But he was still shivering. I did not like it.
‘Holmes, you are not recovered. You must rest!’
‘Watson, you are totally convincing in the character of my personal physician, but I assure you, I am quite myself, or near enough. Let me see the photograph you brought back with you.’
‘The photograph, yes, of course! In all the excitement I nearly forgot!’ I went to my valise and retrieved it. As I did so, I was reminded of my visit to Fettes. There had not been time to relate this story. I considered doing so at that moment, but some instinct told me to wait. I handed him the photograph. ‘Here, let me point out which one my friend identified as Donal McLaren.’
But Holmes was staring at the photograph in a kind of paralyzed horror. ‘No need, Watson. It is this man here.’ He pointed to the correct man and flung the photograph aside.
‘Who is it?’
Holmes stood staring into space; the wheels were turning and I knew enough to wait. He turned with sudden resolve. ‘Watson, hurry. We must not be late. Refresh yourself as I get dressed.’
‘Who is that man?’
But Holmes was already pulling his clothing from the wardrobe. ‘Make haste, Watson. We will speak of this later.’
‘Could he be the one behind all of this?’
‘Hardly! The man in that photograph is dead, Watson. Twice dead, apparently. It is August Bell Clarion.’
‘Clarion! The man who was a friend to Donal?’ And of course, Holmes’s schoolboy nemesis. ‘Holmes, while I was in Edinburgh—’
‘Later, Watson. Hurry! Bring your Webley.’
‘I left it with you!’
‘Oh, yes,’ said he. Removing it from a drawer, where he had evidently left it, he handed it to me. ‘Do not look at me that way, my dear fellow. Had I been carrying it, it would be at the bottom of the icehouse now!’
I sighed and took it from him. ‘My evening jacket is close-fitting. The gun will be visible in the pocket.’
‘All the better.’