The Adventure of the Silver Skull

by Hugh Ashton

I had spent a holiday of a few days in France, and had consequently not seen my friend Sherlock Holmes in that time. However, as I sat down to breakfast on the day before I was due to return to England, the manager of the Biarritz hotel at which I was staying handed me a telegram.

“Thank goodness I have found you at last STOP Return to England and proceed direction to Baker Street, where I await you STOP Holmes STOP.”

“Will there be a reply, monsieur?” the manager asked me solicitously. “It is pre-paid.”

I scribbled the words, “Coming at once,” on a leaf torn from my memorandum book and handed it to the manager, together with the few francs which he and the rest of the hotel staff seemed to expect for every service. “I will be leaving this morning,” I told him and ordered a cab to the station.

After enduring a seemingly interminable journey on the French railways and a squall which disrupted the Channel crossing, it was a positive relief to set foot on English soil once more.

On my arrival at Baker Street, I was not a little discommoded when Mrs. Hudson, answering the door, informed me that Sherlock Holmes was not in the house.

“He went out this morning,” she told me, “and said he’d be back for dinner. I’ll just let you into the rooms, Doctor, where there’s a nice warm fire, and you can wait for him to return.”

I passed the time waiting for Holmes attempting to deduce for myself what sort of case had prompted this imperious demand for my return, and at the same time had called Holmes away. A pile of newspaper clippings stood on a small table beside the chair where Holmes typically sat. I was surprised by their source, which was evidently the popular press, and their subject, which was the circumstances surrounding the scandal involving the card-room at the Tankerville Club, rumours of which had reached me even in France.

As I had heard the story already whispered in the smoking-room of the Hôtel de la Plage, the Earl of Hereford, Lord Gravesby, had won heavily at cards a few evenings previously. His opponent at that time was one of the Royal Dukes, Prince _____, and in the usual way of things, this would not have been of any great import.

However, the rumour was that His Royal Highness had, not to put too fine a point on the matter, accused Gravesby of having been less than honest in his play, and that he had been backed up in this accusation by his equerry, a certain Major Lionel Prendergast. Lord Gravesby, faced with this accusation, had hotly denied any such wrongdoing, and had consequently challenged Prendergast to a duel, etiquette prohibiting the participation in an affaire d’honneur by a member of the Royal family. Prendergast had declined to fight, instead demanding that the matter be brought before the Membership Committee of the Tankerville Club.

Opinion within the Club, it appeared from my perusal of the newspaper clippings lying beside Holmes’s chair, was divided on the matter. On the one hand, there was talk that Gravesby had won more at cards than might be reasonably be expected from a player of his ability, and that the act of challenging the man who had made the accusation, regardless of any Royal privileges, was unworthy of a true gentleman. On the other hand, there were those who believed that Lord Gravesby had done no wrong, that His Royal Highness was stepping outside the bounds of decency by making his accusations, and that Prendergast was a coward and a poltroon for refusing the challenge.

My reading was interrupted by the arrival of Sherlock Holmes, who glanced at the clippings that I had been perusing.

“Well, Watson, what do you make of it all?” he remarked, in a conversational tone.

“I knew Prendergast well in my time with the Army,” I replied. “I cannot believe some of the things that are written about him here.”

“I am well aware of your acquaintance with him,” replied Holmes. “That, after all, is the reason for my summoning you from your sojourn in foreign climes. I take it Biarritz was not too much to your liking, by the way. I would feel a little guilt should it become apparent that I had dragged you away from some budding romance or a similar situation.”

I felt myself blushing. “Nothing of that sort, I assure you,” I told him. “But I fail to see how my acquaintance with Prendergast may be of use to you.”

“Major Prendergast has retained my services to determine the truth of the matter and to make it public. He will be visiting me here in a few minutes. In the meantime, I would value your comments as to his character.”

“I knew him to be a solid character and a good soldier, albeit at times what one might term a rough diamond,” I told Holmes. “I firmly believe that, if he gives you his word, it is to be trusted. When may we expect his visit?”

“In approximately half-an-hour,” Holmes told me. “While we are waiting, perhaps you might care to tell me of whatever you know of Baron Maupertuis, who was staying in Biarritz while you were there.”

“I hardly know the man,” I protested. “I was introduced to him by a mutual acquaintance, and I fear that my impressions of him were hardly favourable. To be frank, he struck me as a common swindler.”

Holmes chuckled. “As always, my dear Watson, your instincts, at least as regards personalities, are infallible. The Baron is indeed a swindler, though hardly a common one. He is, in my estimation, and that of half the police forces of Europe, one of the most accomplished members of his accursed breed. It would provide me with great satisfaction were I to be the one responsible for bringing him before a court of justice. His schemes are on a large - one might even say colossal - scale, and have been the ruin of many men and women whom I would otherwise have regarded as being intelligent.”

“He has not been arrested, then?”

Holmes shook his head. “Sadly, no. He is a sly one, and usually works his nefarious deeds through confederates or cat’s paws. Nothing can be traced to him - nothing, that is, that would serve as evidence in a court of law. In addition, he always contrives to be resident in a country other than the one in which his current scheme is operating. This presents several interesting conundrums from the legal standpoint.” He broke off. “From the sounds downstairs, I believe our visitor is arriving a little early.”

Mrs. Hudson knocked on the door, announcing that Holmes had a visitor.

“Show him in, Mrs. Hudson,” Holmes replied, throwing himself into his armchair.

The man who was admitted to the room bore little resemblance to the strapping young officer I had known in India. While, as I had explained to Holmes, Prendergast had something of the bluff soldier about him, our visitor was epicene, almost effeminate in the delicacy of his features and the exquisite nature of his dress. A frogged frock-coat and a somewhat gaudy waistcoat and neckcloth formed the foundation of his appearance, which was completed by a top hat with an exaggerated curl to the brim, and a lacquered walking stick with a curiously worked silver handle in the shape of a human skull.

“Major Prendergast, I presume?” Holmes greeted him.

“Indeed not,” was the reply, uttered in a fluting tone of voice. “I take it you are expecting him to pay you a visit?”

Holmes inclined his head by way of answer.

“I must request you not to entertain any belief in anything he may say to you.”

“Indeed? And may I ask your interest in making this request?”

“I make this request as the result of the earnest wish - one might even term it a command - of the gentleman whom I have the honour of serving.”

“This gentleman would be one who has an interest in this case, I take it?”

“Indeed so. You would be wise to take due heed of his wishes in this matter, given the rank that he holds and the influence that he exerts.”

“I will treat your words and the wishes of your master with the consideration they deserve,” Holmes told him. “May I have the pleasure of knowing with whom I am speaking, by the way?”

“I am merely a messenger. My name is of no relevance here. I bid you good day, sir.” He sketched a faint half-bow as he left the room.

“Well, Watson,” said Holmes, after he had watched our visitor’s carriage pull away from outside our house. “What do you make of that?”

“It would seem that Prendergast knows something to the discredit of the Prince, does it not? But what will you do?”

“It is evident that our recent visitor and his master, whom we may well assume to be His Royal Highness, are unaware of the influence wielded by certain persons known to me within the government. Their power, though used discreetly, is nonetheless of sufficient potency to put a mere prince of the blood in his place. It will be interesting, at all events, to discover what Prendergast has to say for himself when he arrives here.”

In the event, we had not long to wait. Prendergast entered the room, little changed from the time when I first knew him, save for a touch of grey about the temples, but appearing flushed and in a state of high excitement.

“My dear Watson!” he exclaimed. “This is indeed a pleasant surprise. I am more than happy to see you again after all these years. And Mr. Holmes, sir. Delighted to make your acquaintance. I look to you as my saviour.”

“I hope that I may be of assistance to you in your troubles,” Holmes said to him. “The problem would seem to be a relatively simple one.”

“Alas, I fear that the issue has compounded itself since I first requested your help.” Holmes did not reply, but raised his eyebrows in response. “I assume,” Prendergast went on, indicating the newspaper from which I had been reading prior to the arrival of our previous visitor, “that you are acquainted with the facts of the case, as far as they have been made public.” Holmes inclined his head. “There has been a shocking development. Lord Gravesby was found dead at the Tankerville Club yesterday. The newspapers have yet to be informed of this development.”

“Dear me,” Holmes tutted. “And the cause of death?”

“I can only repeat what I have overheard, which may or may not be accurate. I heard that he was found with a pistol ball through his brain - a pistol of an antique type, used for duelling, that is - with the weapon lying nearby.”

“An antique pistol?”

“Indeed so. One of a pair owned by His Royal Highness.”

“The case certainly would appear to have its points of interest,” Holmes remarked. May I enquire what part you play in all of this?”

“The other pistol of the pair, as the police will shortly discover, if they have not done so already, is to be found in my room at the Tankerville, together with powder and ball.”

“How did it come to be there?”

“Following the accusations of cheating at cards made to his late Lordship, you will be aware that a challenge was issued. His Royal Highness, had he accepted this challenge in person, rather than by proxy as he did, would have had the choice of weapons, and he felt that this privilege would be extended to me. He therefore made me the loan of these duelling pistols, which apparently are a family heirloom. Both pistols were in my room when I left it this morning.”

“And now?”

“As soon as I heard the shocking news of his Lordship’s death, I hastened back to my room at the Club where I am staying while I am in Town. I had been performing an errand of a somewhat confidential nature for His Royal Highness and was only informed of Gravesby’s decease on my return. There I discovered the pistols’ case opened, and one pistol missing, along with the powder-horn. There also appeared to be fewer balls than I remembered. My first instinct was to take the remaining pistol and its accoutrements and fling it into the Thames, but I considered that the Club servants might have remembered seeing it, and its disappearance would raise more questions than it would solve problems.”

“Very well considered,” remarked Holmes. “To my mind, you have done the right thing if, as I conjecture, you wish me to clear your name. Tell me, do you know if the police are on your trail?”

“I do not know, but I strongly suspect that they are,” replied my unhappy friend. “How can they not be?”

“Before I proceed further in this matter,” Holmes told him, “I would like to inform you of a singular event that occurred shortly before your arrival here.” He proceeded to inform Prendergast of our visitor, and the warning that we had received. Prendergast heard Holmes with the greatest attention and sighed heavily at the end of the recital.

“Your visitor, I may inform you,” he told us, “rejoices in the name of Sir Quentin Austin. He is a long-time intimate of His Royal Highness, and enjoys his full confidence.”

“As do you?” Holmes suggested.

Prendergast shook his head. “You do me too much credit, sir. I was not brought up alongside the Prince, as was Sir Quentin, nor do I share some of their mutual tastes. No,” he held up a warning hand. “I am not about to inform you of the nature of these tastes. Though they may appear shameful to some, they are within the letter of the law - in the majority of cases, at any event. In any event, loyalty to my Sovereign and her family, if not to my employer, would prevent me from providing you with further details.”

I was intrigued, as I believe was Holmes, but we both refrained from making any further comment. At that moment, Mrs. Hudson entered, and announced that Inspector Lestrade was downstairs and wished to visit.

“By all means show him up, Mrs. Hudson,” Holmes said affably. “I fancy we can guess the errand that has brought him here.”

Lestrade gave a visible start when he entered and beheld Prendergast. “I was not expecting to find you here, sir,” he exclaimed. “Though on second thought, perhaps it is a natural progression of events. I am sorry to have to do this, Mr. Holmes, to one of your guests, but-”

“Stop!” Holmes commanded him. “There is no urgency about this, I am sure, and I will stand surety that Major Prendergast here will be available if you need him in the future to assist you with your enquiries.”

“As will I,” I told Lestrade. “Major Prendergast is an old comrade-in-arms. Our friendship goes back many years, and I can assure you that he is a man of his word.”

“Very well,” said Lestrade. “I will refrain for now from making the arrest. But you are incorrect on one point, Mr. Holmes.

“Oh, and what may that be?”

“There is a great deal of urgency attached to this. Orders have come to us from the very highest levels that this case be solved and dealt with at the earliest possible opportunity.”

“Then it is lucky that you have me on your side, is it not, Lestrade?” said Holmes, smiling. “I believe that, between the two of us, we will be able to satisfy the demands of the Palace in very short order, do you not agree? Pray take a seat and join our conversation? Watson, refreshment for our guests?”

I busied myself with the decanter and soda-syphon, and the conversation resumed.

“I must warn you, Major Prendergast,” Lestrade began, “that anything you say now in this room may be used as evidence in court, in proceedings against you or others.”

“I understand that.”

A silence ensued, broken by Holmes enquiring of Lestrade, “You have discovered both pistols, of course?”

“Naturally. This, after all, is the reason for our suspecting Major Prendergast here.”

“And there is no doubt in your mind that Lord Gravesby was killed by the pistol found nearby of which Major Prendergast has informed us?”

“None whatsoever in my mind.”

“And that it is not a case of suicide, rather than murder?”

“With a bullet through the brain and the pistol on the other side of the room, some feet away, suicide would seem to be an unlikely possibility, Mr. Holmes,” Lestrade smiled thinly.

“I see. And the place where he was found?”

“It is the Club room where he had been playing cards with His Royal Highness and Major Prendergast here on a previous evening.”

“The game?” Holmes asked Lestrade.

“I beg your pardon.”

“What game was being played?”

“I never thought to ascertain that,” Lestrade confessed. “Is it of any relevance?”

“It was bridge whist,” Prendergast informed us.

“Then it is indeed of relevance,” said Holmes. “There are four players required for the game, one of whom at any one given time will be dummy. Since the dummy was obviously not Lord Gravesby who was being accused of foul play, rightly or wrongly I cannot say at this juncture, the accusation was made by His Royal Highness, who felt compelled to drag Major Prendergast, who presumably held a hand on this deal, into all this, there is a fourth person involved, who was presumably acting as dummy on this hand, and may well have been the one who first raised the alarm. Furthermore, I would assume that this person had the interests of His Royal Highness, rather than Lord Gravesby, at heart.”

Major Prendergast started. “You are absolutely correct, Mr. Holmes. The fourth was Sir Quentin Austin.” His voice appeared to me to quaver a little as he informed us of this.

“Indeed?” Lestrade asked in apparent surprise. “He was the source of the information about the pistol in your room, Major Prendergast. He was in the Club when I called to investigate, and he gave the information to me voluntarily.”

“The snake!” exclaimed Prendergast in a voice of fury. “It was he who brought the pistols from His Royal Highness to my room at the Club. Naturally he would know where they were. But for him to inform the police of this - why, it is hardly the act of a gentleman. And together with his visit here earlier today-”

“What is this?” Lestrade enquired. Holmes informed him of the events prior to Prendergast’s arrival.

“Before today, what was your relationship with this man?” Holmes asked my friend. “You have told us a little of his relationship with His Royal Highness. Can you tell us a little of his character?”

“I frankly confess that I have never liked the man,” Prendergast told us. “He would not have lasted long in the Mess, Watson, I can tell you that. There has always been something about him that gave me the cold creeps. Nothing, I hasten to add, that can be precisely defined in public, but there is that in his nature which I find to be repellent. And indeed it was he who called attention to the alleged irregularities in play. You are perfectly right in your recital of the facts, Mr. Holmes.”

“And you are unable to tell us whether those allegations made by His Royal Highness have any basis in fact?” Holmes enquired.

Prendergast moved uncomfortably in his chair. “I would prefer not to answer that question,” he answered at length.

I noticed Holmes and Lestrade exchange glances. “You may be compelled to do so under oath when this case comes to court - either as the defendant in a criminal trial, or as a witness,” Lestrade told Prendergast.

“Nonetheless I would prefer not to answer the question at this time.”

“Very well, then. I think we may be able to infer something from Major Prendergast’s answer, eh, Mr. Holmes?”

Holmes said nothing, but merely nodded his head.

“I fear I have said too much,” Prendergast complained. “I pray you both that any conclusions you may have chosen to draw will go no further.”

“I fear we are moving in deep waters, do you not agree, Mr. Holmes?” the police agent said with a touch of anxiety evident in his voice.

‘Deep waters indeed. Perhaps we may view the scene together, Lestrade? Has the body been moved from there?”

“It was moved by the Club servants before we were called in,” Lestrade told him ruefully. “If I have learned one thing only from you, Mr. Holmes, it is that evidence should be left undisturbed as far as possible until the investigation is complete. Other than the body, we have left the room as we first entered it, and gave strict instructions to the Club that no one was to enter, let alone move any object inside it.”

“I am pleased to see that some of my seeds have fallen on good soil,” Holmes smiled. “However, even without the body, it is possible that some useful data may be obtained. Major Prendergast, I do not think that your presence will be required at this stage, but undoubtedly I may wish to ask you further questions, without Inspector Lestrade here being present, as has been my practice in several past cases.”

“I cannot say that I am happy with this arrangement, Mr. Holmes, but I am content to let you do so. You have always played fair with us at the Yard, and I do not believe this will prove to be an exception,” Lestrade answered.

“Thank you. Watson, Lestrade, your hats and sticks, and then we shall be off to the Club together.”

At the Tankerville, we were greeted by the Club Secretary, Brigadier Hetherington, who conducted us to the place where the body had been found.

“Who discovered Lord Gravesby?” Holmes asked him.

“Kenning, one of the waiters here. If he is here now, would you like to speak with him?”

“If it is possible, certainly I would.” Hetherington called a Club servant to fetch the man. Holmes cast his eye about the room, where three chairs still stood around a card table. The fourth was overturned. “I take it that this is the chair that was occupied by Lord Gravesby?”

“We have every reason to believe so. The body was found on the floor beside it.”

Holmes dropped to his knees and used his lens to scrutinise the carpet. “Do you happen to know if Lord Gravesby smoked cigars?” he asked Hetherington.

“Indeed he did.”

“While he was playing cards?”

“Usually that would be the case, but I have every reason to believe that on the night which concerns us - that is to say, the night of the unfortunate incident in which His Royal Highness and Major Prendergast were involved - he did not.”

“Oh?”

“His Royal Highness was suffering from a cough, and made it clear that he did not wish others to smoke in his presence.”

“And on the evening when the body was discovered?”

“I cannot say. It may be that Kenning will be able to provide further information on that score.”

“I see. And one final question on the subject. Do you happen to know if Lord Gravesby smoked Trichinopoly cigars?”

“Good heavens, no. He smoked Cuban Coronas. The Club used to keep a stock for his exclusive use. Ah, Kenning,” he added as the waiter entered. “This gentleman here, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, would like a few words with you.”

The waiter appeared to be ill at ease as he stood facing Holmes, his hands visibly trembling. “I didn’t do it, sir,” he stammered. “All that happened was, I came in here, and found him on the floor just there,” pointing to a spot near the overturned chair.

“No one is accusing you of killing his Lordship,” Holmes assured him. “I simply wish to know how you discovered him, and what you did then?”

“Well, sir, I had just finished tidying the smoking-room, putting the newspapers back on their racks and so on. Then I thought it was time to do this room, the second card-room, so I came in here and saw what I’ve just been telling you.”

“You have two card-rooms?” Holmes asked Hetherington.

“We have three, as it happens. His Royal Highness always used this one, and we are careful that it should not be booked for use by any other members when he is in Town. He often comes here with no advance notice.”

“I see,” answered Holmes. “Kenning, what did you do after you discovered the body?”

“Well, sir, I thought he might have dropped off to sleep and slipped off his chair, like, or else, begging your pardon, that he’d had a bit too much to drink, which has happened in the past, sir, if you’ll excuse me saying so, but there was no glasses or decanter on the table.”

“No ashtray or signs of a cigar or matches?”

“No, sir. The table was bare. Nothing on it. I’d take my oath on that.” Here the man paused, clearly relishing the importance that his recital was bestowing upon him. “Well, I bent over him and had a closer look, and he was stone dead, sir. His face was set all rigid, like, and when I turned him over, there was a hole in the back of his head, just there.” He pointed to a spot on his own head. “I could see that at a glance, sir.”

“Ha! You are familiar with dead bodies, then?”

“Indeed, sir. I served my time with the Gloucestershires before coming here, and I’ve seen my share of dead men. Good friends, too, some of them.”

“Yes, yes.” Holmes’s tone was a little impatient. “And then?”

“I called for help. Nichols came, and I told him to go and fetch Brigadier Hetherington.”

Hetherington nodded in confirmation. “Nichols brought me here, and I could see at a glance that his Lordship was dead. I told Kenning and Nichols to carry him discreetly to one of the bed-rooms, and I sent another of the servants to call the police.”

“How long was it before the police arrived?” Holmes enquired.

“There was a constable outside the door who arranged for Inspector Lestrade to come here.”

“I arrived as soon as I could, with Sergeant McIver - you remember him, Holmes, in the affair of the emerald earrings? - I would estimate I was no more than fifteen minutes from the time that I received the message,” Lestrade told us.

Hetherington coughed discreetly. “Inspector Lestrade was here within twenty-five minutes of the alarm being raised, Mr. Holmes.”

“And during that time, no one entered this room?”

A flush stole over the Club secretary’s face. “I am afraid I am unable to answer that question, Mr. Holmes. My attention, and that of the Club servants, was taken up by Lord Gravesby, and the necessity of concealing the fact of his demise from the other persons in the Club at that time.”

“There were many members, then?”

“Indeed there were many people there that night. The Worshipful Company of Confectioners were holding their annual dinner, and the usual number of members were present.”

Holmes turned his attention back to Kenning. “The pistol here,” gesturing to a flintlock pistol that appeared to date from the last century lying on a table at the other side of the room. “Was it there when you entered the room and discovered Lord Gravesby?”

“I’m afraid I couldn’t swear to that either way, sir. You see, I was more concerned for His Lordship than anything else.”

“Naturally.” Holmes turned to Lestrade. “The cause of death is the bullet, I take it?”

“Surely you are joking, Mr. Holmes? A man is found dead with a bullet wound and a pistol in the room, and you question the cause of death? I know you have your fancies and your theories, but this beats all.”

“Then I take it that the bullet has not been extracted? The post mortem examination has yet to take place, Inspector?”

“This afternoon, Mr. Holmes. I take it that you and Doctor Watson here would like to attend?”

“Who is performing the autopsy?”

“Sir Greville Patterson, if I recall correctly.”

“Then there will be no cause for me to attend. Pray let me have a copy of Sir Greville’s report as soon as it becomes available.”

“As you will, Mr. Holmes, but I do not believe that it will shed any new light on the matter.”

“My thanks.” Stepping cautiously, and keeping to the edges of the room, Holmes moved to the side table near the door where the pistol lay. “With your permission, Inspector?” he asked, reaching for the pistol. Lestrade nodded silently, and Holmes picked up the weapon and raised it to his nose. “There is no smell remaining,” he remarked, “such as I would expect from a weapon using black powder.” He examined the flash pan. “There is no sign that the weapon has been fired in the recent past.”

“What?” exclaimed Lestrade in confusion. “Are you telling us that this is not the means by which Lord Gravesby met his end?”

“Indeed I am,” said Holmes. “You may verify this for yourself,” he added, presenting the pistol for the police agent’s inspection.

“Then we have more than one mystery on our hands. Who placed the pistol here, and how did Lord Gravesby die?”

“As to the first, I strongly suspect Sir Quentin Austin, presumably to place suspicion on Major Prendergast. I believe we will have to await the results of the autopsy before we know the answer to the second.”

We left the Club in company with Lestrade, who seemed to be more than a little disconcerted by Holmes’s findings. “So you believe Prendergast to be innocent?” he asked.

“Innocent of shooting Gravesby with that particular pistol, at any rate. Indeed, consider the evidence we have just seen and heard. Can we indeed believe that Gravesby was indeed shot?”

“I am not entirely sure why you should say such a thing. He is dead, at any event, no matter how he died,” said Lestrade, thoughtfully. “I hope you are not disputing that fact. But, as you say, the post mortem examination may provide us with a few more answers.”

“I think I will make my way to Barts and view the body before Sir Greville starts his work,” said Holmes. “Watson, you will accompany me to the haunts of your youth? Lestrade?”

“Willingly,” I answered him, but Lestrade declined the invitation.

“However, if you would be good enough to pass on anything you find, Mr. Holmes, I would be most obliged,” he requested, and Holmes acknowledged this with a nod of his head.

We took ourselves to the hospital where I had trained as a student, and made our way to the room where Sir Greville Patterson plied his grisly trade.

“Ah, Holmes. Good to see you here. Shocking business, what? Watson, delighted to have another pair of hands and pair of eyes on this case. Shall we start?” He withdrew the sheet covering the cadaver. “I was informed that the cause of death was a bullet at the base of the neck. However, I perceive no exit wound. Watson, if you would, please?”

He and I turned over the body to expose the back of the neck, where a small hole was to be seen which lacked the superficial characteristics that mark wounds caused by projectiles fired from pistols or rifles.

“If I may say so, Sir Greville,” I remarked. “That hardly appears to be a bullet wound. I have seen enough of such in my time with the Army.”

“I agree,” replied my medical colleague. “We can easily determine the truth or otherwise of your observation, Watson.” A few minutes’ work with the scalpel, and Sir Greville grunted. “You were perfectly correct, Watson. There is no exit wound, and no sign of any bullet in here. I detect some fracturing of the second and third cervical vertebrae, but it does not resemble that which would be caused by a bullet.”

“As I thought,” commented Holmes, who had been silently observing the proceedings. “We must seek another weapon. You are certain that this wound was the cause of death?” he asked Sir Greville.

“Certainly this injury was the cause of death. I would put the immediate cause as the extreme compression of the spinal cord caused by the pressure of the fragments of the vertebrae being driven forward by - by whatever it was that caused this.” His tone, at first the confident manner of one of the foremost pathologists in the land, weakened and grew fainter as his doubts grew, in an almost visible manner.

“That, my dear Sir Greville, is my province,” remarked Holmes cheerfully. “Yours was to determine the cause of death, and you have done so admirably. Thank you so much for your work here.” He turned to go. “You will let me have the full report in good course? Come, Watson.”

“In all my experience, I have never seen a wound like that,” I said to Holmes as we walked away from the hospital.

“No more have I,” he told me. “This has the makings of a most ingenious case, Watson. The only possibility that suggests itself to me is that the murderer held in his hand an object similar to a dagger, but with no edge, and a slightly blunted tip - you observed the distinctive characteristics of the wound, did you not? - and used it with sufficient force not simply to break the skin, but to crush the vertebrae and the spinal cord. Death must have been painless and instantaneous. There is a certain diabolical ingenuity here, as well as a powerful motive.”

“I cannot conceive of such a weapon, or indeed, of the man who would wield it.”

“Indeed. We would seem to be searching for a man of powerful build - a man of action.”

“I hope that you are not suspecting my friend Prendergast,” I told him.

“At the present time, no one and everyone may be suspected. But let us see Prendergast, in any event. It is best that we do not acquaint him with Sir Greville’s findings, though.”

We returned to the Club through the Park, and secured a quiet corner of the smoking room in which we awaited Prendergast.

On his arrival, I noted his drawn face, which exhibited a curious pallor. “Are you unwell?” I asked him.

“A bit worried, old man. What with the pistol missing from my room and turning up next to the body. Enough to give anyone a turn.”

“I quite understand your concerns,” said Holmes. “However, I do not think you need to worry yourself over that matter. However, I would appreciate your providing more details on Sir Quentin Austin - specifically on his appearance. For example, does he usually carry a stick, and if so, what kind?”

Prendergast appeared to be considering the question for a short while before responding. “I do not recall seeing him with such an article. I believe I would remember if I had done so.”

“A lacquered stick, with a silver head in the shape of a skull, for example?”

Prendergast started. “You are describing a stick that is the property of His Royal Highness. It is a most distinctive article, and one of which he is most proud. I have heard it said that there is some secret about it, but it is not one to which I am privy. It may have been a gift from one of his female friends, perhaps.”

“Very well. Another question about Sir Quentin. I observed when he visited us that he is a user of tobacco in some form. Perhaps you can enlighten me further as to the form in which he indulges the habit.”

“He is often to be seen with one of those foul Trichinopoly weeds,” smiled Prendergast.

Holmes clapped his hands together in an expression of delight. “Then the case is solved,” Holmes told him. “When I have talked to the police, you will be freed from suspicion, and the culprit brought to justice.”

“Sir Quentin?” asked Prendergast incredulously.

“It may well be he,” answered Holmes. “I would advise you, Major, to return to your rooms and remain there until the police let you know formally that you are no longer under suspicion.”

After Prendergast had left us, Holmes and I took a cab to Scotland Yard.

“But have you deduced that Sir Quentin killed Gravesby?” I could not but refrain from asking my friend.

“I have,” he told me. “No doubt you noticed his stick?”

“Indeed so. I could hardly tear my eyes away from that grotesque skull that formed the handle?”

“Tut. You did not observe the tip? The silver ferrule was stained with some dark substance that was certainly not mud, and could not have been, since we have had no rain in a week. Furthermore, the shape of the stick at that end, and therefore the ferrule, was not round, but octagonal. When we arrived at the Club, I noticed a peculiar indentation on the carpet, within one of the areas that had been stained with blood. That, too, was an octagonal shape. The cigar ash that I observed is the final clue that points fair and square, or should I say fair and octagonally?” Holmes gave a faint chuckle, “to Sir Quentin Austin as the murderer.”

“I all seems too simple, Holmes. But you believe that that stick was the murder weapon? However, Sir Quentin seemed to me to be of too slight a build to inflict a blow that could cause the injuries we observed at Barts.”

“That point had occurred to me also, and I confess to being a little troubled by it,” Holmes admitted to me. “However, if we can convince Lestrade of the wisdom of interviewing Sir Quentin on the subject, I have little doubt that we will soon know the truth of the matter.”

On hearing Holmes’s words of explanation, Lestrade instantly sat up straight in his chair. “Why, thank you, Mr. Holmes. I will dispatch a constable to arrest him and bring him here immediately.”

“It might be better if he were not arrested at this stage of the proceedings,” Holmes suggested to him. “Let us hear what he has to say for himself first.”

“Especially given his friendship with a certain personage,” Lestrade added. “I see the sense in what you are saying, Mr. Holmes.”

The constable was dispatched, and returned some time later with Sir Quentin Austin, dressed as we had previously seen him, and carrying the skull-headed stick on which Holmes had remarked.

Lestrade opened the questioning. “Sir Quentin, do you deny being in that card room at the Tankerville Club after the death of Lord Gravesby?”

“I do deny it,” came the toneless reply.

“Then how is it,” asked Sherlock Holmes, “that your stick still retains traces of blood on its tip, which were imparted to it when the stick was pressed into that part of the carpet where a bloodstain was present?” Sir Quentin looked down at the end of the stick with what appeared to be a genuine look of surprise and horror on his face. “Furthermore,” Holmes continued, “traces of the cigar that you were smoking were present in that room, in the form of ash. We have established that while you were playing cards in that room on that night, you were not smoking.”

Sir Quentin closed his eyes in resignation. “Very well, then. Yes, I was in the room after Lord Gravesby’s death.”

“For the purpose of placing the pistol that you had abstracted from Major Prendergast’s room? For the purpose of implicating him in the murder?” Holmes went on.

“Yes,” came the answer in a hushed voice. “It was the work of a cad, I know, but the alternative was worse.”

“Such as being hanged for murder?” sneered Lestrade. “Sir Quentin Austin, I arrest you for - “

Holmes held up a hand. “Stop, Lestrade. Sir Quentin has not confessed to killing Lord Gravesby. With your permission, I would like to ask him a few more questions.”

“Oh, very well,” grumbled the police agent. “Since it is you.”

“Sir Quentin,” Holmes addressed the baronet, from whose face all colour had now drained. “However unpleasant or serious the consequences of your words, I strongly advise you to provide full and truthful answers to the questions I am about to ask you.” The other nodded. “Very well. Imprimis, I believe that is not your stick that you are holding. Or, if it is, that it was only recently presented to you by another who was the original owner.”

“The second of those statements is correct,” was the reply.

“And I believe I know who presented it to you. Very well. Let us continue. Do you know the secret of this stick? Why it was given to you?” Lestrade and I looked at each other in puzzlement. Holmes’s reasoning was beyond my comprehension, and from the look on his face, beyond that of Lestrade also.

“I believe I know why this was so,” Holmes went on. “Will you do me the kindness of passing me the object in question?” Wordlessly, Sir Quentin complied with the request. “Observe the tip closely,” Holmes requested us.

He held the stick horizontally, and we waited. Suddenly there was a loud click, and what we had taken to be the ferrule shot out from the tip of the stick to the extent of about two inches, with the velocity and force of a bullet from the mouth of a gun. “Imagine,” said Holmes calmly, “that I had the tip of this pressed against the back of my victim’s neck. Watson, what sort of injuries would result?”

“Those that we observed on Lord Gravesby,” I answered.

“But how does this return to its former state?” asked Lestrade.

“By the very simplest of methods,” Holmes informed us. He placed the tip of the stick on the floor and placed his weight on the handle, forcing the stick downwards. After a little exertion, the tip retracted, and another clicking sound presumably informed us that the mechanism was now locked into place. “And hence, gentlemen, the bloodstains on the tip of this stick when the murderer pressed the murder weapon into the carpet, at a point where it was soaked in the blood of the victim.”

“What is this diabolical thing?” I asked.

“Behold the Totenkopfstock. A few of these were created at the end of the last century in Vienna for those involved in espionage and in secret government work. I believed them all to have been destroyed, but such is clearly not the case. The trigger to release this diabolical weapon is concealed in the eyeholes of the skull.”

“My God!” breathed Sir Quentin. “I had no conception.” His face, formerly pale, was by now ashen. “To think I have been walking around London with this - this monstrous thing in my hands. So I have been in possession of the weapon that killed Lord Gravesby without knowing it?” he stammered.

“Why do you think it was given to you?” asked Holmes. “As a reward for placing false evidence to condemn an innocent man? No, it was to absolve your master of any complicity in the crime. You are guilty, my man, of conspiracy to pervert the cause of justice, even if you are innocent of the killing itself.”

By now, Sir Quentin, slumped in his chair, had his face in his hands, and appeared to be sobbing to himself. Between the sobs, we could make out the words, “I had no choice.”

“I must warn you,” Lestrade told him, “that anything you say will be taken down and may be used in evidence against you.”

“No matter,” replied Sir Quentin, recovering his posture, and addressing us with some dignity. “I am, as you may know, unmarried, and am likely to remain so for the rest of my life. I leave you to draw whatever conclusions you may choose from this statement. His Royal Highness drew his conclusions, and from then on, I was in his power, helpless to do anything other than what he commanded. The story of the card game at the Tankerville Club that you have read is a complete fiction. You have read, have you not, that His Royal Highness accused Gravesby of cheating?”

“That is so,” Holmes affirmed.

“The truth is otherwise. It was Gravesby who accused His Royal Highness of double-dealing the cards. He, that is to say His Royal Highness, indignantly denied this, and he left the room, followed by Prendergast and myself, where we took counsel among ourselves.”

“Was there any truth in the accusation against the Prince?” Lestrade asked.

Sir Quentin bowed his head. “I am ashamed to say that there was. It was not the first time that this had occurred. The Prince sent a Club servant to fetch a box from his rooms at - - House.

“That containing the duelling pistols?”

“Indeed. When the servant returned with the case, His Royal Highness ordered me to talk to Gravesby, and prevent the facts from becoming public, as I am ashamed to admit I had done on previous occasions. In this instance, however, I was unable to do so, and reported as much to the Prince, who thereupon flew into a passion and stormed out of the room. He returned, some ten minutes later, informing me that Gravesby had challenged him in a duel. He had refused to accept, and had named Prendergast to take his place.”

“Without consulting Prendergast? And did not Prendergast object?” I asked, incredulously.

Sir Quentin shrugged. “It is his way of doing things. Prendergast is a military man, and used to obeying orders. I believe that he would do anything in the world, if he were ordered to by a superior. His Royal Highness then dictated a note to me, addressed to Lord Gravesby requesting a meeting in the same card-room the next evening.”

“That is to say, the evening that Gravesby died,” Lestrade remarked.

“Indeed so. That evening, His Royal Highness and I made our way to the Club. While he went to the card-room where he’d arranged to meet Gravesby, I, as I had been instructed, met Prendergast and requested him to deliver a letter to Lady Thruxton at her home in Grosvenor Square.”

“The purpose of the letter?”

“I believe it was merely a ruse to take him out of the Club for a short time. I then waited in Prendergast’s room, and His Royal Highness joined me a few minutes after Prendergast’s departure.

“ ‘Take this, and place it in the card-room where it will be found,’ he instructed me, opening the box containing the duelling pistols, and handing me one.

“Naturally, I expressed some question as to why this was needed, and he turned on me with a look of fury such as I had never before observed.

“ ‘Your task is clear. Do this, or else...’ he hissed at me. The message was clear. I would be exposed and shamed before the world if I failed to comply with his instructions. I therefore made my way down to the card-room, unobserved, and there beheld a sight such as I hope never to see again. Lord Gravesby was lying on the floor, blood seeping from a wound in the back of his neck. I could not think clearly, and merely deposited the pistol on the nearest possible surface. I left the room, and then realised that my master might have intended me to place the pistol in such a way that suicide would be suspected. I hasten back towards the room, but was prevented from entering by the sight of one of the Club servants moving towards the door. I therefore made my way back to Prendergast’s room, where His Royal Highness awaited my return.

“ ‘It is all done,’ I told him.

“ ‘Excellent,’ he said, and that, Inspector, is when he presented me with this devil’s tool here,” indicating the weapon that Holmes had named as the Totenkopfstock.

“We left the Club quickly, without meeting anyone. Already, it was clear that Gravesby’s body had been discovered - but who, I asked myself, would suspect a Royal Duke of any misdoing?”

“Who indeed?” replied Holmes. “And not only does he appear to have committed murder most foul to cover up his villainy at the card table, but he has attempted to lay the blame at the door of not just one, but two innocent men. What say you, Lestrade?”

“It’s a puzzler, Mr. Holmes, and I don’t mind admitting that the situation’s a bit much for me. If it was anyone but His Royal Highness, we’d have the derbies on him by now. As it is...” His voice tailed off. “As for you, sir,” addressing Sir Quentin, “you’re guilty of compounding a felony, obstructing justice, and I can probably think of some more if you give me a minute.”

Holmes held up a warning hand. “Stop there, Inspector. Sir Quentin has given us an honest, and I believe a contrite, account of events. I do not believe that society has much to fear from him in the future. Rather, he has much to fear from society should these events be made public.”

“That is true,” Lestrade grudgingly admitted.

“You must retire from public life,” Holmes told Sir Quentin. “I would recommend leaving the country. Paris, Aix, or Baden-Baden would be congenial, perhaps.”

“He cannot leave England!” Lestrade exclaimed.

“He must. It is in no one’s interest that Sir Quentin remains here. Believe me, Inspector, if you bring this man to trial, let alone his master, you will set the country by the ears. He must leave.” He turned to Sir Quentin. “You have the money to do this?”

Sir Quentin shook his head. “I have little money of my own. His Royal Highness has been my chief financial support for the past few years.”

“And he may continue to be so in the future, by the time we have finished with him,” Holmes replied with a grim chuckle.

“What do you mean?” I asked him.

“I have alluded before to these matters,” he said simply, but refused to elaborate more.

A week later, we were sitting in our rooms in Baker Street, and I was reading The Times.

“It says here, Holmes, that His Royal Highness is to leave from Portsmouth next week to serve as Governor of Grenada. Is this your doing?”

Holmes smiled lazily. “Not mine, but the work of others with whom I have been in contact,” he corrected me. “However, it is at my instigation. We have also arranged that Sir Quentin Austin is to receive a generous annuity from His Royal Highness as soon as he is settled in Venice, which he has selected as his destination. Also a consequence of doings by those in Whitehall and the Palace.”

“But how did you know that His Royal Highness was responsible?” I asked.

“Your friend Prendergast, though he was obviously not telling the truth when it came to describing the card game and the events surrounding it, was clearly truthful in other respects, such as the discovery of the pistol in his room. Sir Quentin Austin was my first suspect. I felt sure that the account of Gravesby’s death we heard from Prendergast was incorrect when I remembered the blood on the ferrule of Sir Quentin’s distinctive stick that I had observed previously, and I believed that the victim had been battered to death. My first sight of the body dispelled that belief. The post mortem puzzled me. A man of Sir Quentin’s build and temperament could never have inflicted those injuries that we observed, but the evidence was strong that it was he who had placed the pistol in the room in order to falsely accuse Prendergast.

“Accordingly, I was forced to conclude that while he was not Gravesby’s killer, Sir Quentin was in some way closely connected with the criminal, as you yourself will have remarked when you recall that he arrived in a carriage which bore the arms of His Royal Highness painted on the door. Prendergast appeared to have an easily checked alibi. His Royal Highness was the only possible suspect remaining, and when I heard that the diabolical Totenkopfstock was the property of the Prince, I was convinced. A man who retains duelling pistols in a condition where they are easily made available for use might also possess some other objects of an equally nefarious nature. I must admit that the motive puzzled me a little until we had heard Sir Quentin’s story at the Yard. The idea that the tables had been turned, and that the victim was the accuser and vice versa, so to speak, had not occurred to me. The Prince was obviously not about to let his propensity for winning at cards at all costs to be made public - we may assume that a large sum was offered by Sir Quentin to Gravesby which was refused - and not content with personally eliminating his opponent, he attempted to cast the blame on others.”

“Monstrous!” I exclaimed. “Were it not for his rank...”

“Indeed, Watson. But we cannot live in the land of make-believe. However, we have at least ensured that we no longer inhabit the same land as His Royal Highness.” So saying, he took his Stradivarius from the wall, and proceeded to play a tune of his own composition.

“I have heard of you, Mr. Holmes. I heard from Major Prendergast how you saved him in the Tankerville Club scandal.”

“Ah, of course. He was wrongfully accused of cheating at cards.”

John Openshaw and Sherlock Holmes - “The Five Orange Pips”