After luncheon, it was a little calmer in our rooms. Holmes had settled into his leather armchair and was to be seen conducting some imagined piece of music with the stem of his pipe. For my part, I sat back and read the newspaper. It was as I idly scanned the paper that an item caught my eye. “Holmes, do you recall Lestrade mentioning a girl’s body being retrieved from the Thames?” Holmes paused in his conducting and nodded briefly. I read aloud from the newspaper… “At Bethnal Green Coroner’s Court today, the inquest into the death of Miss Catherine Ward, residing at number 14 Waverley Gardens, was adjourned. Miss Ward, aged 23 years, was an employee of the London Hydraulic Power Company. She was discovered floating face down in the Thames near London Bridge by the River Police and pronounced dead at the scene by Dr Alfred Bennett, a police surgeon, who had been summoned. The circumstances of Miss Ward’s death lead the court to deliver a verdict of murder by a person or persons unknown. Sergeant Peters of Thames Division, representing The Metropolitan Police, informed the court that the crime appeared to be motiveless and that enquiries into the death continue.”
Holmes leapt from his chair crying “Motiveless? Great heavens! From what we have already heard from Lestrade, the poor girl’s hands were bound behind her back and she had received a blow to the head! There must be a motive!” Holmes paced across our sitting room, clearly enraged. “I cannot stand idly by, Watson. Gather your hat and coat. We travel to Bethnal Green mortuary.” I stirred myself and whilst I retrieved my coat, I noticed Holmes dashing off a telegram before ringing the bell for Mrs Hudson.
We waited but a minute or so in Baker Street before we were able to flag down a Hansom. However, the ride to Bethnal Green mortuary seemed interminable, taking almost forty-five minutes. The mortuary had opened in 1880 and contained both the mortuary itself and facilities to undertake post-mortem examinations. It was a fine building, clad in Portland stone, and stood within the churchyard of nearby St Matthew’s. The building style was in keeping with that of the church and indeed it went some way towards showing a little respect and dignity for the dead. This was something that was clearly lacking in many of the mortuaries or ‘dead-houses’ spread across the metropolis.
After a brief walk, Holmes and I were soon able to seek out the mortuary guardian, a Mr Cyril Thomas. We had visited the mortuary perhaps two years previously whilst engaged upon another case. Mr Thomas recognised us immediately, shaking our hands and saying, “Why, Mr Holmes and Dr Watson, it is indeed a pleasure to meet you both again. I received your telegram and all has been prepared. This way, gentlemen, if you please.”
Mr Thomas led us through a side door and into the post mortem room. Inside were two marble slabs that were adequately illuminated by both high windows and also a double gaslight fitting that was suspended from the ceiling. Upon one of the slabs was a slight figure covered completely by a once white cotton sheet. Mr Thomas stood to one side whilst Holmes and I removed the sheet and we began our examination.
The body of Catherine Ward was naked except for a mortuary towel that covered her from chest to mid-thigh. After our brief, though thorough examination, we respectfully covered her to the neck with the sheet. Holmes turned towards me, his gloved right forefinger held upright as though questioning himself. “Tell me, Watson, what are your thoughts?”
I stood for a moment, “Well, I believe that she was dead before being dropped into the Thames. When I compressed her chest there was little sign of water in her lungs. She had not been in the river long before she was found and I believe that the heavy blow just behind her right ear was the one that killed her. The skull is gravely depressed and the flesh heavily bruised. Her wrists show marks from a ligature and in places the flesh is raw where she seems to have tried in vain to escape from her bonds. Clearly she was thrown into the Thames as a convenient way of disposing of her body.”
Holmes nodded. “Yes, I agree… but did you notice the skin beneath the nails of her right hand? Clearly she was a spirited girl and had struggled and fought before her hands had been bound behind her back.” Holmes paused for a moment… “I also noticed faint chafe marks at the corners of her lips where some kind of coarse fabric may have been used as a gag. This implies that wherever she was held prior to her death, it was somewhere where she might have been heard had she been able to call out.”
On hearing Holmes’ additional observations, I returned to the body. Finding the evidence just as he had described, I cursed myself inwardly for having overlooked it. Our examination of the body being completed, we thanked Mr Thomas and made our way through St. Matthew’s churchyard. On Bethnal Green Road, Holmes hailed a passing Hansom and I was surprised to hear him direct the cabbie to Waverley Gardens. For a moment I was puzzled but then recalled that this was the address given for the victim in the newspaper.
As we travelled in the cab, I turned and asked, “What do you hope to find there, Holmes?” I was concerned. Only a few days had passed since Catherine Ward had died and her family, presuming that she had one, had had little time to come to terms with their loss.
Holmes looked grim. “It will be difficult, but I am trying to find some possible motive for her death. Perhaps she had some knowledge or had seen something… something so important that if she mentioned it, even in passing, it might have compromised her killer. She had to be silenced.”
Waverly Gardens was a row of smart, Victorian red brick houses. The windowsills and the archways above the front doors and windows were decorated with fine, pale brick. Each house had a small wall in front, topped with cast-iron fleur-de-lys railings. A small plaque set into the brickwork over the front door announced the name of each house. Above the front door of number fourteen, the plaque read ‘Primrose Villa’.
As we approached the front door I felt mounting concern. Who would we be facing? A heartbroken husband? Distraught parents? It was a task that I most certainly did not relish. Holmes had taken one of his cards from his case and held it by his side. With his other hand, he knocked upon the door. After a few moments, the door opened and a haggard looking middle-aged man stood before us. He was unshaven and his clothes were creased. It looked as though he had slept in them for several days.
“Yes?” He asked. I looked at him and his red rimmed, empty eyes looked first at Holmes and then at me. It seemed as if he had cried so much that there was but little left of him.
Holmes touched his hat, saying “Mr Ward? My name is Sherlock Holmes and this is Dr Watson. We would like to speak to you about Catherine.” Holmes proffered his card. The man took it but did not read it.
“Are you from the police?” His voice had a slight West Country accent… “Only we have told them all we know…” The end of the sentence trailed off. It was clear to me that the man was still in shock.
I stepped forwards, saying, “No, but we are here to help if we can. May we come in?”
The man turned and we dutifully followed him down the hallway and into a cosy front room. “This is my wife, Dorothy. Catherine was our only daughter, you see.” On a chair in the corner of the room sat a woman wrapped in a knitted shawl, her arms foldeded tightly across her body. Her eyes were as blank as those of her husband, staring straight ahead as she slowly rocked back and forth in her chair. Mr Ward looked at us again, saying, “She hasn’t said a word, not one single word since that police constable came round and told us that Catherine had been found in the river.”
Seldom had I seen such sadness. I felt the need for some slight distraction, asking, “Perhaps some tea?” I was relieved when Mrs Ward stood and disappeared towards the back of the house.
Mr Ward looked around him, almost as though he were seeing the front room for the first time. “Please, gentlemen, be seated. I am unsure how you might help our poor Cathy.” Again he looked from one to the other of us.
Holmes sat forwards on his chair. “I see that this is most difficult for you, Mr Ward, but we need to know a little more about your daughter; her work for example, her friends?”
Mr Ward sat and faced Holmes. “Well, she was a good girl, never any trouble. She worked as a senior filing clerk at The London Hydraulic Power Company. She had been there about five years and used to file the big maps of the pipework, and whatnot, and how they all linked together.” A faint smile appeared on his face when he said, “Me and the wife used to tease her. She wasn’t very big and she told us that sometimes she struggled with the big maps.” We both nodded and let him continue. “To be honest, sir, I hadn’t realised how big them maps were until she brought one home about a week ago.”
I saw Holmes stiffen slightly. “She had worked at the company for five years and had not brought any work home before?”
“No sir, this was the first time. I think she wanted to show her young man what she did. I don’t think they have a similar system in Ireland.”
This time it was my turn to prick up my ears. I edged forward, saying, “Ireland, you say? It is a beautiful country. What was Catherine’s young man’s trade?”
Mr Ward scratched his head before saying, “Well, I’m not rightly sure, sir… I think it was something to do with plumbing. Cathy said that he was certainly interested in the pipework on the map that she brought home. Sean teased her. He said he wanted to see the most expensive and important map that they had and, by heavens, she brought it! You will never guess where it was of!”
“Westminster,” said Sherlock in a quiet voice.
Mr Ward looked completely shocked. “Heavens, sir, how did you guess?” He leaned backwards in his chair and just sat there, open-mouthed in wonderment.
Holmes’ eyes now burned. “When did your daughter meet this err… this err Sean, was it? Mr Ward?”
Ward rubbed his chin and said, “Yes, sir, Sean O’Bryan. Well, it must have been about November time. Cathy lost her purse on the underground railway and this handsome young Irish lad found it on the carriage floor. She was so grateful to have it returned that, when he asked if he might see her again, she agreed to meet him for a cup of tea at a Lyon’s Corner House. I suppose their friendship started from there.”
Holmes now looked gravely concerned. “Tell me, Mr Ward, have you had any word from this Sean O’Bryan since Catherine’s death?”
Ward furrowed his brow. “No sir, it’s strange for he would usually call round two or three times a week. Perhaps he too is grieving.”
Holmes looked towards me, raised an eyebrow and inclined his head slightly. Rising to our feet, Holmes edged towards the door, saying, “Thank you, Mr Ward, you have been most helpful. Come along, Watson.”
As we reached the front door, Mrs Ward could be seen approaching down the hallway with a tray of teacups. With a touch of my hat and a half whispered “Sorry,” we left the Wards house.