Great Light and Great Shadow

“He was out on the lawn, in through the window, round the room, and up into the bedroom, for all the world like a dashing foxhound drawing a cover. In the bedroom he made a rapid cast around, and ended by throwing open the window, which appeared to give him some fresh cause for excitement, for he leaned out of it with loud ejaculations of interest and delight. Then he rushed down the stair, out through the open window, threw himself upon his face on the lawn, sprang up and into the room once more, all with the energy of the hunter who is at the very heels of his quarry.”

—Dr. John H. Watson, the Adventure of The Devil’s Foot.

“Watson, is nothing sacred?”

“Holmes, my role as biographer has become more important over time, and as such, your history is my purview.”

It was then he begrudgingly deigned to give me a full account of Irene’s first night at Baker Street with the admonition that I, “Bury it at the bottom of your pile, Watson!”

The rain had past and left an unusually cool spring night filled with the shivered remembrance of winter. A swift cold wind shook June’s fragile blossoms and eerily frightened hundreds of birds into a darkening sky.

Holmes and Irene arrived very late and endeavoured not to wake the occupants of the house. He entered as quietly as he could and hung his hat and coat next to mine, and with Irene’s in the hall. Once again he carried her over a threshold and gently placed her feet squarely in our sitting room. He reached for his pipe and thought better of it, left it on the mantelpiece.

He turned to her, “Irene would you like a whisky and soda or tea?”

She assumed the proprieties of lighting a fire in the grate, but had difficulties. Irene couldn’t get the flue open in time and smoke billowed throughout the first-floor apartment.

“Sherlock, the flue is stuck!”

Holmes wretched it open and then the windows.

She conscientiously began again. “With the house asleep, it is my duty to start the fire,” she said. And she reached out for the newspapers that were strewn on the floor using almost every match in the place in an attempt to stoke a fire with a gale blowing in from the open windows.

Shielding it with his body, Holmes lit a Bunsen burner and filled a large curved retort with water, and set it to boiling on a tripod. He filled two glasses each with a shot of whisky, and placed them on the mantel. At the sideboard, he worked the gasogene, but no seltzer was produced. He turned from this minor mystery as the odour of burning paper brought him to action and he quickly gathered the newspapers from Irene’s hand, carried them to his files, and closed the windows.

Irene was surprised but determined. She found more dishevelled newspapers on the settee and lit a match. Like a bull after a matador’s cape, Holmes charged in and blew it out, grabbed the papers and filed them safely away.

“What’s so important, they’re just newspaper?” She took the evening papers from the table and this time pulled a jack-knife from the mantelpiece to cut through them.

“A case!” he said.

As she turned to him with a questioning look, the bills that had been pinned by the knife fell into the fireplace. She wadded up the newspaper and touched a match to it.

Holmes ran in from the bedroom, with his hand up to stop her, gathered all the newspapers, and put out the embers with a napkin from the table before placing them on his reference shelves.

She threw up her hands! “Well, what do you burn?”

“Coal!” He yelled, loud enough to be heard on Baker Street, and indicated the coal scuttle with a stab of his finger.

The old tobacco-filled Persian slipper had been agitated during Irene’s campaign and wobbled dangerously with every human exertion. She added coal and the cigars she found in the scuttle, touched her last match to it and finally got a rather aromatic fire going.

There was a gurgling noise, to which Holmes immediately threw Irene and himself behind the settee as the gasogene exploded! He examined the damage. Its woven metal netting had held most of the broken glass inside. He threw it into the wastebasket and offered his bride his hand.

“They are known to do that—whisky?”

Holmes collapsed into his basket chair with a sigh, indicating the other chair with a wave of his hand. Irene impishly joined him in his. They shared a warming drink at the fire. But in their excitement the chair tipped, and they found themselves laughingly sprawled on the hearthrug. Holmes enamoured by how the firelight enlivened the red in her hair, kissed her, and helped her up once more.

He placed two cups, spoons, and sugar on the table. At his deal chemical table he measured the tea and added it to the retort. In exactly three minutes, Holmes bent to switch off the Bunsen burner, at the same time Irene screamed, “My God, it’s a finger!” and backed into him as he hurtled into his chemical apparatus, sending test tubes, pipettes, and all crashing into each other. She had found it in the coal scuttle.

“That’s where that was, thank you, Irene,” he said, and gently placed it in his desk drawer. The Persian slipper began its descent and Holmes with an infielder’s diving catch in the final minutes of a cricket game, grabbed and pinned it to the mantel, with his jack-knife. They gave up on the idea of tea. “Another whisky, Irene?”

In his bedroom, they wrapped in blankets like great Sioux chieftains. The bed creaked horribly. Unsuccessful at stifling it, they laughed at each sound. Irene put her hand over his mouth, he kissed it. Their laughter soon metamorphosed into sleep. He pulled the blankets around her. He wanted to hold her tightly, and infinitely, but relaxed his arms and gently encircled her sleeping form, his breath lost in her hair.

In the morning, they dressed in his nightclothes, she in his maroon dressing gown, sashed and tied. She swept up the broken glass in the sitting room and reported the damage to Holmes.

“I found one retort and some of your test tubes, siphons, and funnels, and your mortar and pestle were still intact. Thankfully, your microscope survived, and there were no chemicals about. Acid, for instance, might have been particularly troublesome. The scale could be re-articulated, I’ll do that for you now, if you’d like. Unfortunately, none of your glass plates, measures, or pipettes remained. All may simply be replaced.” She stood the unbroken glassware on the deal table and polished the microscope. “I had hoped to enjoy the male atmosphere of your flat. Your sitting room reeks of your bachelor life and the surprises of your detective office. But your bedroom is sorely missing everything, except my photo on your night table.”

“It’s been adequate for my needs. Irene, thank you for your astute analysis of my chemical apparatuses, I had no idea—”

She looked at him with a smile and handed him a list of vital replacements.

“Mrs. Holmes, I welcome your suggestions and want you to be happy here.”

She stretched his tape measure from head to footboard. “Sherlock, the facts are, this bed is 7-inches inadequate, and you say you have insomnia!”

“What do you propose?”

“An afternoon at Liberty’s Regent Street Store is recommended and your welcome presence at Briony Lodge until it is delivered.”

Holmes listened as Mrs. Hudson arrived outside the sitting room door. “Ah, it seems breakfast is the first order of business. Good morning Mrs. Hudson.” He opened the door to find her arms full of deliciously aromatic breakfast trays.

“I was just about to knock, Mr. Holmes.” Her face showed her relief.

“Clearly,” Holmes smiled and facilitated with the trays.

“Welcome to Baker Street, Mrs. Holmes.”

Irene helped set up. “Please call me Irene. Thank you for this splendid surprise. I hope we didn’t disrupt your sleep,” she smiled.

“My dear, Irene, the joy of a happily married couple is a gift of the gods.”

They laughed recalling the explosion and the crash of breaking glass.

After a quick shave and the usual throwing on of my robe, I ran up from the icebox, rushed in, with a cold bottle of champagne in each hand. I put the bottles on the table, and smiled, “Good morning, Mrs. Holmes!” I bowed and kissed her hand. “I look forward to the opening of your London show.”

“Doctor Watson.” She smiled back at me.

“What happened here?”

Irene began, and they laughed through it. “Your gasogene exploded and we found cover behind the settee. We fell out of the basket chair, knocked over the chemical apparatus, and nearly burnt the place down trying to light a fire, Doctor.”

“Somehow our unpaid bills and our cigars became tinder.”

“There’s a spare gasogene, old friend, and the bills will be restored like clockwork.”

“Mrs. Hudson, we have much need of your superior expertise. Might you recommend a featherbed and a furniture maker or company?” Irene said, “I thought we would take a trip to Liberty’s this afternoon.”

“Pooh, they will rob you blind. I had hoped to make certain changes to that room, but was not allowed to set foot in there during Mr. Holmes’ recent cases. I do have a guild friend who I might call here later today, if you’d like.”

Irene said, “Yes, please do.”

Holmes began looking under the covers. “What’s for breakfast, Mrs. Hudson?”

“It’s a wedding breakfast, Mr. Holmes, so Doctor Watson and I are your guests.

“Cold poached salmon with green mayonnaise, savoury eggs, orange scones, Devon crab soup, bread and butter pudding with whipped cream, and chocolate orange truffles.”

He stood and half bowed, took her hand in a most gentlemanly manor and kissed it. “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.”

“Oh, Mr. Holmes.”

“And champagne for toasts. Mrs. Hudson, this is the most incredible breakfast I have ever had.” I filled our glasses and made the first toast. “My most lucky friend and his remarkable wife: May you always be as happy as you were last night!”

They laughed and when Irene had calmed sufficiently. “A toast to Mrs. Hudson, your hospitality rivals Mrs. Broome’s.” Mrs. Hudson blushed.

Holmes said, “Let’s enjoy this wonderful feast,” he directed us to our chairs, and with a mouth full of salmon that he washed down with champagne he toasted me: “A toast to the gentleman who taught me the true meaning of friendship.”

I grasped his hand, which he shook, but also reached for the pudding, and said, “I didn’t ask him to.” We laughed, and then he looked in my eyes. “He can’t help it, it’s his natural state.”

Irene said, “Okay boys, I may be mistaken but who’s the bride, here?”

Holmes ran into his costume closet and came out in a veil and placed a topper on Irene’s head. “Is that clear, my dear?” We laughed.

She snuggled into him, he kissed her hair, Mrs. Hudson sighed, and I thanked Providence for the gift of this marriage.

Before the next toast, the telephone rang. I ran down to it, and rushed up two at a time. “Holmes, it’s Miss Rachel, she sounds upset!”

Swift as the wind he flew down the steps. “Rachel?”

“Papa? There’s something going on here at Oxford, I’m scared, I need you.”

“Come home, Rachel.”

“I can’t. Besides you need to investigate this yourself. Please come right away.”

“Calm yourself, my dear child, what is it?”

“There’s been a horrible murder. It just happened, and I’m locked up in the local gaol. They think I did it!”

“Watson and I will be there as fast as steam can carry us. Where are you?”

“The Oxford Castle Gaol, New Road and Park End Street, you may walk from the station. Love you Papa.”

“I love you, my brave girl.” He leapt up the stairs. “Watson!” It was an order. “Get dressed, and pack your gun! Mrs. Hudson, a cab, now!” He ran into his bedroom and in two minutes was fully dressed, checked his revolver for ammunition and slipped it into his jacket pocket.

Irene put his glass, and measure into the other pocket, took his hand and said, “I will be here.”

Holmes squeezed her hand, turned from her and called, “Watson!”

I called from the landing, “Cab’s here, Holmes.” We plunged down and out the door. Sherlock Holmes and I leapt into the cab as the horses were whipped to a gallop, their iron shod hooves smashed against the cobbles and we flew down Baker Street.

“What did she say, Holmes?”

“Deucedly little, Watson! She’s being held as the suspect in a murder case. That’s all I know. We must get to the scene of the crime before the evidence is trampled.”

“Is she all right?”

“She’s scared. Can you imagine Rachel scared?”

“Holmes, we will get her out of this.” But he was silent the rest of the trip.

What if Miss Rachel were truly involved? Maybe my firearm training was too soon. Maybe she was too young for such responsibility. I’d never forgive myself if this proved so. But she was an ideal pupil with a very good eye. Miss Rachel, irresponsible—impossible! If she were harmed, I will avenge her to the death. Enough John Watson! I attempted to put it aside as Holmes was doing.

We caught the morning express from Paddington Station. I noted the shifting scene as we quickly moved from ever-crowded city to small brick and wash cottages standing together, like children shivering in the wind. Vast and empty green swaths led onto Maidenhead’s sparkling canals cluttered with fishing craft. The wheels scraped and shrieked as we crossed the points, disturbing our already unsettled thoughts. Farmed rectangles of green and brown spoke of our rich, damp climate. Our intrepid railway carriage snaked through hills of humped-back sleeping giants. Domestic sheep grazed in well-hedged fields on my right. On my left, a red-tailed kestrel keenly hunted solo over lush wheat grasses. He dipped and screeched in triumph as his talons clasped his helpless prey.

Holmes was now in meditation pose. I shared his fatherly feelings for this remarkable girl. My marriage was unable to give me this. Miss Rachel, so full of life, has touched us all and we, who have saved so many, shall save her, too!

Finally, a freight train headed for London, filled with the necessities of city dwellers, signalled our arrival at Oxford. It screamed over a series of points as we alighted at the station. Holmes shot out of the train and covered the few blocks up Hythe Bridge Street to enter the Castle Barracks Gaol at New Road, like a thoroughbred crossing the finish line.

Minutes later, at the mention of his name, the door to her cell was unlocked. Miss Rachel, held tightly in her father’s arms, said, “They found a young woman student beaten to death, in a punt on the River Cherwell. Because I started a women’s self-defence class, they think it’s me.”

“Small-minded fools!” I kept my arm around her while Holmes interviewed his daughter. “Where is that?”

“I made you a map, Papa. Here’s where they found Ethel, she’s the victim. And here is where we are.”

“I have to go, but will be back soon, I’m sorry—”

“Papa, go! There’s evidence to find.”

“Be brave, Rachel Holmes.” He hugged her and we ran out across the breadth of the campus, crossed the Magdalen Bridge and arrived at Iffley Road.

“There’s St Hilda’s, Watson.” We jogged around the back to willows arching and swaying over the river to a setting more fitting for a landscape painter. Holmes began his meticulous investigation. The body had been removed, there was no police presence. But there were signs of a struggle in the grass at the river’s edge and running footprints led away. I moved beside the prints and attempted to follow them as far as I could. They seemed to end at the back door of a large greenhouse. I entered and could find nothing more. When I returned, Holmes was on his face, combing through the grass. He had found part of a shoelace and had reconstructed the fight.

“You observe, Watson, she started well, possibly knocked down her opponent, here. Then another joined the confrontation and she fought valiantly, but taking on two at once is difficult for an experienced fighter. Miss Ethel collapsed here. Examine where her foot slipped in the grass and the impression of her head? She may have been knocked unconscious at this point. But they didn’t stop. They beat her to death. What Oxford resident would do such a thing, and why? It’s beyond human reckoning. Did you find anything on your reconnaissance, anything unusual about the footprints?”

“Holmes, they led to the door of the greenhouse but nothing inside of consequence.”

We entered the formal building of the new St. Hilda’s College. It was empty but for one police guard on duty who let us pass in awe of my partner’s name. He was a young man, barely university age himself. By the look of him, this may have been his first murder.

Holmes had already deduced this and was kind to the boy. “What is your name, officer?”

“Staves, sir.”

“Constable Staves, do you know anything about this murder?”

He looked down. “Yes, I found her.”

“Tell me about it.”

“I was making my patrol of the college as I always do. When I came round the path from St. Hilda’s, two men were running behind the Botanic Gardens in the direction of the New Football Ground. I didn’t think anything of it, students run all the time on campus. But as I got closer to the river, I saw her, curled up like a discarded toy doll, and the punt floating with the current. She was so young.” He sighed. “I whistled for help and we took her to the station in a cart.

“You did well, son.”

“The sergeant sent me back to guard the scene.”

“Did he not question you about your experience?”

“No.”

“Where did their attack begin, I wonder? Did you hear screams?”

“No, I, I don’t know, sir. I think she was practicing on the sandbag in the nearby Sports Centre when they bullied her, she ran out the door and they killed her here. That’s all I can figure. I wish I had been here sooner. I would have—!” He looked at his hands.

Holmes placed his hand on the young man’s shoulder. “Regret helps no one, son, like shame it is to be discarded with the refuse. It is your clear mind and memory that will assist justice now. Do you have any idea why anyone would harm this student?”

He was looking at Holmes as I have seen so many do, with awe and admiration. “No sir, but there is anger on campus about the New Woman. Some of the gentlemen students don’t want to share the campus.”

“You think this attack was fuelled by anti-suffragist feelings?”

“That’s what I hear, sir.”

“Do you think the ones who attacked her meant to kill her? Could it have been an accident?”

“Didn’t look like an accident to me. She looked like they beat and kicked her until she stopped breathing. More like criminal characters than students.”

“Yes, we agree on that. Can you describe these men?”

“The shorter one had a beard. The tall one was clean-shaven, they may have worn work boots, but I can’t be certain. They were running on the other side of the field with their backs to me.”

Thank you, Constable.” He shook his hand. “Watson and I will look around and then return to the gaol.”

Holmes and I walked the path of the murderer. He found clear prints through the greenhouse. “He threw down these trampled aspidistras to hide his tracks.” He pointed, “They continue on here, Watson.”

We followed the footprints out the door and Holmes ran across the outer greens of the Botanic Gardens, indicating as he ran. “Watson, he kicked up the grass with each boot mark.” He measured the man’s stride and I caught up with him. They were running marks like the ones made by footballers. The tracks led onto the nearby Football Ground on the opposite side of the River Cherwell from St Hilda’s. They were obliterated by a barrage of similar muddy footprints. Holmes rose to his full height and surveyed the edges of the field.

“We’ll find nothing more here, Watson, to the gaol!” And he took off like a deer. When we reached it, Holmes addressed the young man on duty, “Inspector Wilkes, I’d like to see the body and speak with the coroner.”

“Mr. Holmes, Doctor Watson, the morgue is through here. I’ll find the coroner for you.”

Her injuries were similar to the women in our case. She was beautiful and very young, an Oxford student of intelligence and promise.

“Holmes, this is barbaric, what if—?”

“Yes, Watson, it is horror enough without involving the imagination. Logic will get us through this. Pull yourself together, old man, put your great heart away for the moment, I need your expertise.”

He examined the body. “She is covered in livid bruises.”

I parted her hair, “Holmes, look at this, the right side of the parietal bone is crushed. This wasn’t done with fists alone, unless they were wearing iron or brass knuckles. But we would see their tell-tale impressions.”

“Football boots, Watson? Examine the chin, here, and around the edges of her hair, her shoulder. There are singular impressions, like the marks made by the studs of a football boot in the sod after a game.” Holmes said.

“Holmes, each stud is attached to the boot sole by five nails like this and these marks match the ones I found on Doctor Addleton’s patient. I would swear to it. Staves thought they wore work boots. Until very recently, work boots were used for football.”

He thumped my back, “Watson, your rugby experience proves true again. See it here, and here?” he said, indicating areas of the woman’s body. “Observe the reverse impression of the cleat nails and, yes, this may connect the three cases.”

“Holmes, so the killer is a footballer. All we need now is to call them up and interview them. It’s marvellous, you’ve solved it.”

“Not yet, Doctor, there is more here. Look at her wrists, there is a definite impression of rope or cord. She was tied like the women we found in the Lady Chapel and the one you investigated. This was not a chance encounter, it was assassination.”

“Her windpipe is crushed, like the others,” I said.

Inspector Wilkes returned. “He’s gone for the day, sir.”

“Inspector, I will speak with the coroner tomorrow morning, correct? When this woman was discovered, were her wrists tied?”

“No, sir.”

“Anything else you can tell me, anything unusual in her clothing or dress?”

“I didn’t think much of it at the time, but one of her shoes was missing a lace.”

Holmes pulled out the three-inch fragment of shoelace he had found at the murder site, “This type of lace?”

“Yes, she was wearing tennis shoes.”

“Do you know her full name?”

“Ethel Berry, she was at St. Hilda’s.”

“Inspector Wilkes, what proof do you have that my daughter brutally beat and kicked to death Miss Ethel Berry?”

“She set up the self-defence classes for women and is also a St. Hilda’s student.”

“Inspector Wilkes, my investigation of the murder site revealed that the murderer wears football boots, is six feet tall, with a shoe size of ten or eleven. This was not an accidental encounter. It was an assassination or planned murder. Does that description fit my daughter or indeed any of the young ladies at St. Hilda’s in any way?”

“No, sir.”

“Then please discharge her to me, at once, and arrange for me and my associate, Doctor Watson, to interview every footballer in the college here, tomorrow at 9 a.m.”

“Yes sir, a pleasure working with you both.”

Wilkes opened the cell and she leapt into Holmes arms.

I said, “You are no longer a suspect, Miss Rachel.”

We walked back to her dormitory. “Child, we are lodged at the Randolph Hotel in town. I think it would be wise if you stayed with us. Tomorrow we interview the football team. It may be completed then. One thing does bother me. This was not a coincidental meeting, she was executed. Her hands were not swollen, and her wrists show signs of having been tied.”

“First racers now footballers, I want to be there tomorrow, Papa, I think I can help.”

“Thank you. What are your thoughts about the way Miss Berry was murdered?”

She shuddered and shook her head, “It’s so horrible, and why would anyone do this? I guess her attack could have been planned but execution seems too much, Papa. There could be a boyfriend involved, there’s so much of that going on around campus and some of the inexperienced boys are extremely pushy. I will just get my things while you’re interviewing my housemates.”

Holmes took her hand. “The very first thing you do when you go inside is get your derringer, yes?”

She nodded.

“Load all four barrels and keep it with you at all times, child, we meet in fifteen minutes.”

We entered St. Hilda’s and brought the residents together for an interview. Minutes later a pistol was fired and we rushed to its source. Her derringer smoking, Miss Rachel was standing at the window of her room. “He’s out there!” she said, “tall, dark, a fast runner.”

A young man ran across the fields and into the Sports Complex. Holmes gave chase, but once through the building, there was no sign of him. Holmes questioned the sportsmen with no success.

On the walk back to the Randolph Hotel Miss Rachel related her story, “I had just finished loading my gun, when I alarmed a man trying to climb through my window! I called out, fired, and hit him. There is a short trail of blood droplets beneath my window. He jumped and took off and you saw the rest. Did you catch up with him, Papa?”

“Yes, and lost him at the Iffley Road Sports Complex.”

We ate dinner in our rooms at the Randolph. Our fourth floor windows would be safe from any climbers.

Holmes raised his glass in a toast. “Congratulations, Rachel, you winged your first evildoer!”

“I just followed Doctor Watson’s training.”

“Make sure you keep it with you during the case.” Holmes shook my hand. “Thank you, friend Watson!”

I raised my toast. “Miss Rachel, you make me proud. That does not mean your training is over, girl, there is much more to learn during the holiday. I’m glad to hear you didn’t flinch and just followed your training.”

“And I look forward to it!” She kissed me on the cheek.

The following morning we walked west down George Street and turned into New Road. At 9 a.m., in the great hall of Oxford Castle Gaol, the manager of the Oxford University A.F.C. entered yelling red-faced at Holmes.

Unfazed and bored, Holmes sat cross-legged his fingers in meditation pose. In a low and measured tone, he said, “Mr. Carter, I already possess enough evidence to lock them up; now will you allow me to interview the players or shall I keep them all week? And do you and your assistants wear football boots? Please bring them here, forthwith. And anyone else you might think of?”

Carter ran out.

“Inspector Wilkes, do you have a list of all the footballers in this college? Now, please have them line up alphabetically and sit outside on the courtyard benches. Will you also alert them to the identities of their examiners? Thank you. And send in—” He looked at the list. “Mr. Allan.”

Holmes had pre-arranged the hall to accommodate the day’s interviews: A large, formidable oaken desk and chair on the right side and an equally large doctor’s desk, examination table, height measure, and curtain on the left. He perched casually on the edge of his desk, yet addressed each man authoritatively. I set up my necessities.

“Mr. Allan, what is your shoe size? Watson, please measure his height. Thank you. You can go.”

From “Ascot” to “Merriweather,” no bells, then, “Mr. North, what is your shoe size?”

“10 ½.”

“Watson?”

“He’s 6-foot, Holmes.”

Holmes focused intently on the papers on his desk. “Mr. North, you are an assistant manager for the Oxford Blues?”

“Yeah!”

“Doctor Watson will examine you now.” Without looking at the young man, he waved him away.

“Please remove your weskit and shirt, Mr. North. I will replace this bandage, I am a medical doctor. How did you get that injury, son and who patched you up?”

His look dared me to question his story. “I did it myself after I fell from a tree and punctured my shoulder on a branch, Doctor.”

“That must have been painful. It doesn’t look like you tore anything, that’s good.” I knew Holmes could hear every word. “The wound is round and perfectly symmetrical.” I measured it, “.32 calibre and a sprinkling of powder on the front of the chest. It was expertly done. A few inches down and to the right and that branch might have killed you. I need to palpate it for infection, son, it may hurt.”

“Ow!” He jerked away quickly as soon as my not so gentle ministrations moved the bullet. With difficulty he restrained himself from hitting me. I cleaned it with hydrogen peroxide and wrapped it up again.

“That should do for now. You need to have a surgeon look at that, Son.”

Holmes nodded to Inspector Wilkes and as his officers approached the footballer he leapt out the door, the inspector blew his whistle and ran out, in the walled-in courtyard and in front of the other footballers who cheered him on, the constables grabbed him and brought him to the cell. Holmes methodically continued his interviews, which resulted in two more suspects who fit the height and shoes of the killer. We had the assistant coach, who was making the most noise from their cell, and two other players.

Then he pulled in the golfers and their coaches. Though there were a few who fit the size they did not fit the type and were let go, after Holmes borrowed some accoutrements.

Miss Rachel joined us and asked to be put in the cell next to the footballers, as a suspect. “They might reveal something in their feelings toward me.”

Holmes coached her to stay on the opposite side of the cell. He dressed as a Scotch golfer with full mutton chops, and a walrus moustache, bushy eyebrows, a subtle but effective change to his nose. Donned the mismatched tweeds, cap and shoes he borrowed from the golfers, and added a heavy accent. He was thrown in with the footballers and instantly sidled up to the angry assistant manager.

“Shoes! They threw me in here for my shoes!” He emphatically thumped the man’s chest, “What fools! If I had my nine iron with me, I’d give them what for.” He raised his arm up as if he had it in his hand. “What do Londoners know about Oxford, or golf?”

“Who the hell are you, you’re not a footballer?”

“Pat Mitchell, I teach golf and wish I’d never set foot here in this wretched place.”

The two footballers were quick to defend Oxford as the best school in the world. The assistant coach grumbled something about suffragettes and especially the one in the next cell.

Miss Rachel from where she sat on the far side of her cell, laughed.

“Yeah, what’s so funny, you’re locked up tight too, little lady. You’re their number one suspect. They hang women here, you know, right out in that courtyard. They’re not going to keep us here; we’re too important to the team—assistant manager, and the best goalie this school’s seen.” He slapped the back of one of the footballers. “Just wait, they’ll let us go today, our manager will see to it.”

“What’s funny is how stupid you footballers all are! Why do you think you are locked up, fools? They found stud marks! What imbecile would leave that behind and implicate all his mates?”

The assistant lost it, threw himself at the bars, his arms reaching full length through them, “Just wait ‘til I get out girl, there won’t be any iron bars between us then!”

Holmes gave Watson the sign. Miss Rachel was immediately taken from her cell and he also was called into interrogation. A few minutes later the middle boy was released.

Holmes put his arms around her. “My wee lass are you alright?”

“I’m just a little shaken and very glad for those bars.”

Holmes removed his costume.

“Miss Rachel, your coolness under fire was well done,” I said and received a hug in reply.

Holmes left me to draw up our report of the case for Oxford. He took a long walk around the campus. For Miss Rachel he had shown his support of her involvement, yet I knew he was enraged by her attack and the chances she took. He didn’t make it back for dinner nor her bedtime. We three met for breakfast and took the first train back to London.

“Last night I woke North and questioned him about his disastrous association with Ethel. When you discovered him climbing through your window, Rachel, he was attempting to burglarize her room.”

“That confirms my thoughts, Papa. Doctor Watson and I went back to find her diary and notebooks, and gave them to the police.”

“Bravo, Rachel! Thank you, Doctor. We have him, he’s angry, and at suffragists, his shoes fit our investigation, and he’s definitely a bully, but I don’t believe that man is capable of this murder. His hands don’t match the marks on her neck, he’s never done time, and he’s a coward. Recall our examination of the good Constable Staves? We agreed on one point. This murder resembled an underworld killing not something an Oxford student would do.”

“It seems clear to me, Holmes, your investigation was thorough. We followed the clues and they led to him. I think it’s time for celebratory cigars.”

Holmes clouded the car in smoke, yet I could see he was having difficulty accepting my view of the situation. He pointed his cigar at us. “We now have enough proof to link these deaths. Ethel and at least one of the Priory women were suffragists. Doctor Addleton’s dressed like one. Without a doubt we have a murderer loose who has killed multiple times and is focusing on suffragists. Hannah and Madam Davis must be alerted. Rachel, will you notify them?”

“Of course, Papa.”

“I would like you to safely carry your derringer with you at all times, all barrels loaded. Not in a bag, but where you can reach it immediately. And to frequently practice and sharpen your baritsu skills. These men are targeting suffragists.”

“Yes, I will.”

“It is time to share this with Lestrade and also enlist the good people of the underworld. North’s cowardice in this affair fills me with revulsion and outrage. We did not get our man, Watson. We caught a dupe, a fool, a coward, a bully who in hot blood brought in others to bludgeon the keen and handsome, Ethel Berry. In fear he did nothing to defend one who had such potential. Further he deserted her to the fists and boots of her killers. He would not admit it, but he does know who these men are. His stay in an Oxford gaol is well-deserved. Though once far from his cronies in the cold, desolate cells of Scotland Yard he will be better housed. North will be remanded into our good hands and we will get another crack at him.”