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acdholmesfestTitle: The Murder of Agnes Day
Author:[redacted]
Rating: PG13+
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, Dr Watson, Inspector Lestrade, Original Characters
Summary: Sherlock Holmes will have to solve this murder without Dr Watson’s assistance
Warnings: (Adult and sensitive subject matter)
Word Count: 7100
Author's Notes: This one is narrated by Mr Holmes
The Murder of Agnes Day
So It Begins
In the autumn of 1888 the world reeled with the horror of the murders in Whitechapel. However, these were not the first deaths to occur amongst the unfortunate women of our city. A few years before the coming of Saucy Jack, my friend, Dr John Watson, found himself embroiled in a murder charge which... well, perhaps I should start at the beginning. My excellent biographer, despite his romanticising propensities, certainly has a better appreciation for the narrative form than I, and his criticisms on my writing style would be most valid. The reasons that he has declined to record the events around this tale himself will become self-evident, and there are still many facts that remain elusive to me. He has begged me not to press him for details and I have honoured his wishes.
On the morning of September 30 1884 I found myself breaking my fast with only the agony columns for company, since my fellow lodger was still sound asleep. At that time, Dr Watson did not have a practice of his own, only a small list of people; some who retained his services as their physician, and others who would seek him out during emergencies. On the previous afternoon, he had been called out for one of the latter. Although he found my detective activities fascinating, medical work engaged him on a much deeper level. He never begrudged a patient neither the lateness of the hour, nor the nature of the complaint.
So, that morning, when our landlady enquired after our breakfast arrangements, I advised her that in similar situations, we would not likely see the doctor until luncheon, and that by that time he would be ravenous and require a hearty meal. The newspapers held little of interest and I anticipated that a boring day was ahead of me.
However, that was not to be. I was finishing the last of my coffee when the police arrived.
An Inspector Comes Calling
‘Mr Holmes,’ called Mrs Hudson from the front foyer, ‘There are some policemen to see you.’
I peered over the balustrade and did not recognise the inspector, although one of the two uniformed constables seemed to be familiar, no doubt having worked with me in the past. Something about this visit was amiss and he was reluctant to meet my eye.
‘I am Inspector Thomas Cerlew,’ said the plain-suited man in the long coat as he pushed past my landlady and presumed to climb the steps, ‘And you must be Sherlock Holmes. I hear you have some small ability as a private detective. That is of no consequence to me. I was informed that Dr John Watson resides here as well. Is he at home?’
‘He is asleep, but I will tell him you called when he awakes.’
‘I will see him now. Take me to him.’
When I asked what this was about, I was told, in no uncertain terms, to keep out of it. If I had not strictly forbidden it, Inspector Cerlew would have barged into Watson’s room, no doubt startling him out of his much-needed sleep. Instead, I tapped on the door and entered alone.
‘Watson?’
The gentle snoring from the jumble of blankets indicated that my friend was sound asleep. It was a great shame to have to wake him, but if I did not do so in a timely fashion, Inspector Cerlew would do the deed himself, and with far less consideration. I gave Watson’s arm a gentle squeeze and the snoring stopped.
‘Holmes,’ he groaned, ‘What time is it?’
‘I’m sorry, Doctor. There is a belligerent police inspector insisting to see you.’
Watson had sat up in bed and was about to ask me for clarification when Inspector Cerlew burst in.
‘Are you Dr John H. Watson?’
‘I am. Who are you and what is this about?’
‘My name is Inspector Cerlew, and I will ask the questions, if you please. Were you in Soho last night?’
‘Yes...’ My friend looked as to inquire further but then decided against it.
‘Do you know Miss Agnes Day?’
‘Yes, except that she is Mrs Day, not Miss.’
‘How did you know her?’
‘Did? She is one of my patients. Why do you use the past tense? What has happened?’
‘You admit to doctoring a whore? You surprise me, doctor. Last night, were you visiting her in your professional capacity, or in hers?’
‘Even prostitutes need medical attention, Inspector, but last night, I happened to be with another patient; not Mrs Day. Won’t you tell me what this is about?’
‘Do you recognise this?’ Cerlew asked, producing a small card from an envelope.
‘It is my calling card,’ Watson replied. ‘But is that blood?’
Indeed, from where I stood across the room, the dark brown spots on the white card looked like they could possibly be blood.
‘You tell me, doctor,’ the Inspector sneered.
Watson looked to me in confusion. ‘Mr Holmes has a chemical test for blood. He can—’
‘Agnes Day was murdered last night, and her body was butchered with “surgical precision” according to the police surgeon. We have a witness who can place you at the murder scene just before midnight, and you admit that this is yours,’ Cerlew snarled, brandishing the bloody article in Dr Watson’s face.
‘I was engaged with a patient from five o’clock until nearly two in the morning.’
‘Really? I don’t suppose anyone can corroborate that?’
‘Yes,’ Watson replied immediately. Then he paled, and hesitated. ‘No.’
‘Yes, or no: which is it, Doctor?’
‘It is No.’
‘Remove your nightshirt, please.’
‘This is highly irregular,’ Watson protested.
‘We’re looking for evidence.’
‘Evidence of what, Inspector,’ I asked.
‘There were signs that Mrs Day first put up a struggle and no doubt she left telltale marks.’
‘I’m quite familiar with the law. You need a warrant for this,’ I warned.
‘Well, it just so happens that I do have a warrant, Mr Holmes. It is for the arrest of Dr John Watson of this address and for a search of the premises. If you interfere with my investigation, I will have you arrested as well. Constable, escort Mr Holmes downstairs. Clap him in irons if he gives you any trouble.’
I left Watson colouring with indignation while he removed his garment.
Not a minute later, unshaven and ungroomed, shirt buttoned askew and bracers over only one shoulder, Watson was propelled down the stairs where he hastily donned his ulster and shoved his bare feet into his shoes before being forced into the waiting police carriage.
‘Mr Holmes,’ said the apologetic young constable, ‘Inspector Cerlew has arrested Dr Watson for the murder of Agnes Day.’
Investigation
Even though I arrived at Scotland Yard only minutes behind Cerlew and company, I never so much as caught a glimpse of Watson before he was taken off to an interview room for questioning. Since I was restricted from that section of the building, I searched around for others of my acquaintance who might be able to give me the facts of the case. I confess that I have never been so grateful to see Inspector Lestrade as I was that day. He ushered me to his cluttered office and closed the door behind us.
‘Mr Holmes,’ said Lestrade, ‘this is looking very bad for Dr Watson. Inspector Cerlew is extremely keen and he has a very solid case. I don’t know all the particulars but his evidence was enough to rouse a magistrate early in the morning to sign the arrest warrant. If it were anyone other than Dr Watson, I would be inclined to think that Cerlew had got his man.’
‘This is intolerable. They won’t let me see him, and they won’t tell me anything.’
‘Ah. That’s why I hate these young up-and-comers. Give a fellow like Cerlew a little bit of authority and he’s off like a slipped hound—putting on a grand show for the Guv’nor, and trying to become the next head boy. This is the first major case he’s caught and, mark my words, he’s going to milk it. I doubt that Cerlew will let you see Dr Watson today.’
‘Could you see him?’
‘I could try—no guarantees, of course,’ he said, and while he paused, a glimmer of mischief crossed his pointed features. ‘You could view the corpse, though, and speak with the police surgeon. The arrest warrant did not require Dr Phillips to do a complete post mortem, but he will be conducting one sometime today. Perhaps you will find something of note while Cerlew is busy with his suspect.’
I knew Phillips from my earliest days as a consulting detective. He had allowed me to observe his work and proved to be more patient with me than anyone I had met during my brief university tenure. No doubt he would remember me even though we had little not crossed paths in recent years. I found him sitting down to a cup of tea in his closet of an office.
‘Mr Sherlock Holmes, it is good to see you again. I’ve been hearing things about you.’
‘Good things, I hope.’
‘Some of them, yes,’ he grinned and offered me some tea. ‘What brings you down here today? Surely this is not a social call.’
‘I am interested in the Soho murder and I have a few questions. Have you finished your post mortem?’
‘No. It is next on my list. Would you care to assist?’
‘Thank you for the offer, but no. I’d prefer the role of impartial observer. The main suspect is known to me and my assistance could disqualify the evidence.’
‘Cerlew has made an arrest already? Remarkable!’ exclaimed Phillips, shaking his head in disbelief. He gestured towards the morgue and we set our minds to the task at hand.
It is in times like this that harden my heart against the human race. Although Dr Phillips had warned me, nothing could have prepared me for the sorry state of the remains of Agnes Day. I need not to describe in detail all the outrages perpetrated upon her person. Suffice it to say that it was no longer surprising that the arrest warrant was made out so quickly. Phillips and I exchanged a grim look and then he went to work.
‘I wish I could tell you that she died quickly, Mr Holmes, and that she did not suffer, but that is clearly not the case. Whoever did this was very methodical and precise. He wanted her awake and conscious while he tore her apart. She struggled before she died. In my preliminary examination, I found skin under her fingernails. Whoever did this has had training as a surgeon and an unlimited capacity for evil: he hated this woman, or perhaps whatever she represents in his mind. Does that sound like Cerlew’s suspect to you?’
‘No. I’m happy to say that the suspect has a very compassionate nature and could never act so heinously.’
‘Perhaps... How well do we know anybody? Before this morning, I did not think such atrocities were possible, and yet here we are,’ said Phillips. ‘Do you happen to know if Cerlew’s suspect is right-handed?’
‘Yes. Yes, he is.’
‘Well then, I may have some good news for you after all: I believe that these cuts were made by a left-handed individual.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Quite sure, and I’m prepared to testify at the inquest that these cuts were made with a left hand.’
‘Thank you, Doctor. That’s a good start. I will begin an investigation of my own, and I will concentrate on the victim. Obviously someone had a strong motive to kill her in such a way. I’m off to Soho to find someone who can give me some answers.
Mrs Agnes Day
There was no hope I would be able to see Watson that day. Lestrade too had been warned off although he promised to stay into the evening and try his luck.
I have learned long ago that preconceived notions were antithetical when it came to problems requiring reason and logical thinking. For this reason I tried to keep an open mind while I journeyed to Soho to interview the friends and neighbours of Mrs Day.
The street was bustling with business that afternoon yet people, still caught up in the novelty of the murder, were amenable, if not eager, to share their opinions and theories.
The portrait of Agnes Day began to emerge. She had been a pragmatic and shrewd businesswoman. Had she been born a man, she would have been described in more complimentary terms. She lived in well-appointed apartments on Portland Street. It was here, at her residence, that she had been slain.
The constable posted to safeguard the crime scene was familiar with me and was disposed to escort me through the premises. Nothing at the grisly scene could be used to either help or hinder Watson’s defence. The neighbours had heard a heated argument between Mrs Day and a man. The words had been indistinct and the point of contention could not be determined. My next recourse was to visit her establishment two streets away.
There I interviewed Miss Cécile Swayne, a confidant of Agnes Day. She admitted that earlier in the week Mrs Day had asked her if she knew of a discreet doctor who would take care of a little problem. When Miss Swayne had asked, Mrs Day had replied that she did not want to consult her regular physician in this instance. That being the case, Miss Swayne thought she had heard the rumour of a man in Whitechapel who fit the bill. Whether Mrs Day followed that lead or not was a matter of conjecture.
The denizens of the East End were less forthcoming. Even though they displayed obvious signs of having information, none of the women I interviewed there were willing to speak.
Imprisoned
A telegram from Inspector Lestrade arrived early the next morning stating that I would be permitted to see Dr Watson later the following day. Surely Watson’s own account would give me a better indication as to why he was still in custody.
A prison warder led Watson into the small room, and once he relinquished custody to Inspector Lestrade, the warder took up a position in the corridor just outside the door. I had not seen my fellow lodger for two days and I was appalled. Watson moved with deliberate care and let out a groan when he sat down. His grimy prison uniform was too large. The shirt sagged around his shoulders and the sleeves fell over his hands, which were handcuffed in front of him.
‘Hullo, Holmes, Inspector. I seem to have fallen into a spot of bother,’ he said with attempt of humour. I knew Watson well enough to read the signs: the dullness of his eyes indicated that he had not slept well—if had even slept at all. He had been given neither the opportunity to wash nor to shave, and this obviously was a source of embarrassment to him.
‘Did they feed you at least?’ I asked.
‘If you saw the food here, you wouldn’t be too insistent...’
That meant no, he had not had anything to eat. I reached for his hands and rolled up his sleeves, securing them so that they would not fall down. His wrists were raw. Although he did not tell me so, I saw other signs that he had been mistreated.
‘Good heavens, Lestrade, what kind of place are you running here?’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Holmes. It’s not unheard of for questioning to become a bit physical. Inspector Cerlew is a new boy and he’s trying to make a name for himself.’
‘I’ve already got a name for him and his ilk—’
‘Hush! Mind your tongue! Cerlew is the lead investigator. He could have you barred from communicating with the prisoner—me too, for that matter. I can leave you two to talk, but only for a few minutes.’
With that, the fastidious Lestrade left the room.
‘I don’t understand why I am still being held in custody,’ said Watson. ‘Agnes Day was a patient; that is true, but I had no reason to harm her. She wasn’t even one of my regulars. Inspector Cerlew said she had been horribly mutilated. Poor woman; she must have had enemies. Who could do such a thing?’
‘Inspector Cerlew is not interested other suspects. He is building a strong case against you.’
‘How can he? I wasn’t there and I did not do the things they claim.’
‘Cerlew has a witness who places you at the scene.’
‘I had been to Mrs Day’s establishment earlier that day, but that evening I was elsewhere. Cerlew’s witness is mistaken, or lying.’
‘Then why won’t you tell him where you were, and with whom?’
He looked at me and replied in a low voice, ‘It is a matter of my patient’s privacy, and I am bound to silence. You must understand this.’
‘I’m sure I do, but you must see what it looks like to everyone else: your refusal to divulge your actions or reveal the names of the people who could clear your name... Don’t you see? The confidentiality between doctor and patient just looks too convenient. Are you sure you cannot—’
‘—Not you too, Holmes, it is too much! A man must stand for something. I may not be much of a doctor, but I am at least that much of one. I did not murder Agnes Day and I will not sign Cerlew’s confession, no matter what pressure he brings to bear. Can you not, with your great mind, find the evidence to exonerate me? I cannot—will not compromise my patient’s privacy.’
Watson’s heated outburst drew the attention of the warder which caused our interview to come to an abrupt end. Watson was escorted back to the cells.
I confronted Inspector Cerlew in the corridor.
‘What business do you have coercing a confession from Dr Watson?’
‘I have no compunction regarding the methods I use to bring the guilty to justice, Mr Holmes. As for your friend, I never laid a hand on him. He had a little accident—fell down the stairs, he did. I promise to be a lot more careful in the future.’
The unveiled threat of this encounter left me in a foul mood and Lestrade bore the brunt of it when returned several minutes later.
‘What do you know of this witness against Watson?’ I demanded.
The Principal Witness
Inspector Lestrade opened a large envelope and handed me a sheet of foolscap containing the witness’s statement.
The witness, a cabbie called Nathan Merchand, in the account he dictated to Inspector Cerlew, swore that shortly after the midnight bells sounded, Dr John Watson hailed him from near Agnes Day’s bordello. He gave his address as 221B Baker Street in New Westminster and was driven there directly. The drive would have been slower due to the rain but he would have arrived by one quarter past the hour. On account of the poor weather, or perhaps in spite of it, Dr Watson gave a generous tip, thus ingratiating himself with the cabbie. Dr Watson waved goodbye to Merchand from the doorstep and the cabbie headed back into the city in hopes of another fare.
‘I want to speak with this Merchand,’ I said.
‘We may as well make it official. I’ll come along and bring a constable,’ Lestrade replied.
Our inquiries led us to the stand where the cabbie, Merchand, would start his night’s work in a few hours’ time. London coachmen are a gregarious lot and among the worst (or best) gossips in the world. Apparently, our witness had enjoyed the brush with celebrity that his murderous fare had opportuned, and he had spent some time that morning regaling his compatriots with tales about his dealings with the suspect and with the police. The Press had also come calling, once the sensational details of the murder became known.
Lestrade feared that due to the circumstances, our own questions might be subject to some creative embellishment. There was nothing to do but wait so we took dinner at a small nearby restaurant.
In due course, Nathan Merchand made an appearance and the two policemen brought him into the restaurant to meet me. The cabbie had a wiry build and was more than a little nervous about being interviewed again.
‘Be at ease, Mr Merchand,’ I said. ‘I only have to clarify a few points of your account. It need not take very long. I am fascinated by little details, and this story seems to be lacking some. First, are you absolutely certain of the time you picked up and delivered your passenger?’
‘Oh yes, sir!’ he said, no doubt relieved at the simplicity of my question.
‘And was it raining?’
‘Indeed, sir. By the bucket.’
‘Did it rain all night?’
‘No, sir. It were done when I finished my shift... nearly two o’clock.’
‘Did you get a good look at the suspect’s face?’
He paused. ‘No, not really. It were windy too, besides the rain. He wore his collar up, and his hat low.’
‘Did he carry anything with him?’
‘Just his doctor’s bag. I see plenty like them all the time.’
‘Anything else? A cane, or walking stick?’
‘Not that I recall. Seemed like a nice bloke though—gave me a generous tip before making a run for his door.’
‘Ran fast, did he?’
‘Oh yes! Like the devil was after him—which may very well have been the case, considering what he was up to earlier.’
‘Did you see him enter the premises at 221 Baker Street?’
‘Not as such. I hoped to find another fare. He must have done though. He weren’t there by the time I turned the rig around.’
I thanked Merchand for his time and he was leaving when Lestrade piped up.
‘How did Inspector Cerlew come to find you as a witness?’
‘I pass Portland Street on my way home. There were a small crowd of gawkers and the police were there too. I stopped to see what the fuss was about. When I heard about what happened to the unfortunate lady, I realised that I may have driven the murderer, and told the police so.’
‘What do you think, Lestrade?’ I asked when Merchand had returned to his hansom.
‘Everything he says is plausible—and damning, I should think. Why do you seem so relieved?’
‘Do I? For one thing, I was involved in a chemical experiment which kept me engaged well past midnight. Watson did not arrive home until after two o’clock.’
‘That’s marvelous! No—wait; your testimony would be questioned, and likely not admitted as evidence due to bias.’
‘True, but a good defence lawyer would tear Merchand’s testimony apart for other reasons.’
The Trial Begins
On the first morning of the trial I arrived early to get a seat with a good view of the proceedings. The presiding judge, Lord Henry Fleetwater, was a sharp-eyed older gentleman whose bearing foretold a low tolerance for nonsense. The gentlemen of the jury were shown in. They were drawn from the ranks of the trades and I recognised among them a butcher, a baker, a chandler, and a retired music teacher.
When his time had come to face the readings of the charges against him, Dr Watson stood in the dock, retaining as much dignity as he could for a man who looked like a low brawling hooligan. Mr Pearse, his lawyer, looked nervous and ineffectual. The jurymen were restless with eagerness; the growing publicity in The Press made this trial the most exciting thing that they were ever likely to experience. Several loutish observers were ordered removed from the public gallery due to their disruptive behaviour.
The rest of the day was taken up by the testimony of Inspector Cerlew and one of the constables who had accompanied him at the arrest of Dr Watson. They testified about how the evidence at the crime scene and the account of a witness, the cabbie Merchand, had led to the arrest of Dr John Watson of Baker Street. Cerlew testified that Watson had been furtive and had exhibited other signs of guilt. The constable, as well as participating in the arrest, had been in charge of Watson’s custody and claimed that the doctor was belligerent and hot-tempered.
Even though he knew I was there, Watson sat dully throughout the proceedings and did not once meet my eye. At the end of the day the trial was adjourned and he was taken away.
Outside the courtroom I was pausing for a cigarette when I was approached by an elderly, respectable gentleman, and his associate who must be a clerk or, more likely, a confidential secretary.
‘Are you Mr Holmes?’ asked the older man. ‘Your friend needs a better lawyer. I am prepared to offer my services. My name is Wyndgate.’
‘Not Sir Hugh Wyndgate, the prosecutor?’
‘The very same.’
‘I thought you had retired,’ I said.
‘So had I, but it turns out that my interest in legal matters could not be as easily thrown off as my wig and court silks. I maintain an active interest in current legal matters.’
‘Pardon my impudence. I know that Dr Watson needs a better defence lawyer, but frankly, he hasn’t the financial means.’
‘Mr Holmes, your friend could never afford me. Fortunately, I have wealth beyond my needs. I offer my services for the love of the game, not remuneration.’
‘John Watson is a good man, you know.’
‘Is he? That’s nice.’
‘—And he happens to be innocent.’
‘So much the better. I’m sorry, Mr Holmes, if I have given you the wrong impression. I am more interested in what Dr Watson represents, than the man himself. I have already spoken to Pearse and I shall begin tomorrow. Good day to you.’ With those parting words, the haughty gentleman brushed me aside and strode down the corridor.
The Trial is Delayed
The trial did not resume as scheduled on the following day.
Sir Hugh Wyndgate sat serenely for the defence waiting for Pearse to arrive and for Watson to be brought up. Judge Fleetwater clearly recognised his old colleague and favoured him with a questioning look, to which Sir Hugh returned an enigmatic smile.
When neither Watson nor his lawyer, Pearse, had appeared, the crown prosecutor rose and addressed the court. ‘I apologise for the delay, My Lord. Last night, the accused, John Watson, did wilfully instigate and engage in an affray in the Scotland Yard lock-up. As he has not yet appeared, I presume that he is unable to stand trial today. It is the request of the crown that this person be removed to a more secure location, for the sake of others, if not for his own safety. We expect to be seeking further charges anon.’
‘This is the first I am hearing of this, My Lord,’ Sir Hugh apologised.
Judge Fleetwater was not amused and he adjourned the session until such time as the defendant could return. The gallery erupted and the jury was led away.
Inspector Cerlew stood outside of the courtroom, surrounded by a group of reporters. I waited until he was alone.
‘What are you playing at, Cerlew? What have you been saying to The Press?’
‘My work is done. I’ve caught my man. Think of it this way, Mr Holmes,’ he hissed at me in a low voice that could not be overheard. ‘This case was nothing—just another dead whore until I attached the name of your friend to it. Even then, it would have hardly raised a ripple, but your friend is the close confidant of the famous consulting detective. How could The Press resist such a delicious scandal?’
Lestrade, who had been looking for me, arrived just in time to prevent me from facing assault charges of my own. He took me aside to where we could speak in confidence, and voiced his concerns. Dr Watson was now in the hands of the courts and no longer a responsibility of the police. He could not protect Watson while he remained in custody. The beating Watson had sustained last night at the hands of the other prisoners had very probably been at the behest of Inspector Cerlew, in an attempt to intimidate him. As I could have predicted, Cerlew’s case was falling apart. With his reputation as an investigator in jeopardy, the inspector was determined to get a conviction by any possible means, even by intimidating an innocent man into signing a false confession.
I found Mr Pearse that afternoon. For his part in the prison riot, Watson had been segregated and nobody, save his lawyers, was permitted to see him that day. Pearse’s concern for Watson’s safety was slightly eased by the presence of Sir Hugh and his confidence he brought. I gave Pearse all the details that I had managed to unearth and he promised to pass them on to Sir Hugh.
The situation seemed bleak. There was another theory I wished to pursue so, once again, I returned to the Scotland Yard morgue and called on Dr Phillips.
‘Mr Holmes, what brings you back to my grotto?’ asked Phillips, looking up from the report he was writing.
‘Do you have any mysterious deaths in the East End; specifically, women of childbearing years?’
He took his time to respond. ‘ “Childbearing”... that’s a curious choice of description. There have been several cases of women dying in childbirth or from complications of a miscarriage. There is more poverty and desperation in the slums, and that could account for some—’
‘What are you not saying, Dr Phillips?’ I demanded.
‘I have long suspected that someone has been posing as an abortionist and has been working in Whitechapel; that he preys on those poor unfortunates desperate enough to seek him out. His work is poor, many women have died, and nobody wants to talk about it. Do you think it has any bearing on the Soho case?’
‘In your post-mortem, could you determine if Agnes Day was pregnant?’
‘No, she wasn’t. She couldn’t—Mr Holmes, you might be on to something! Mrs Day could not bear children. I found scar tissue that would have rendered her barren. It was not recent, mind you; the damage was done when she was quite young, and she would have no need to call upon an abortionist lately.’
‘—Unless it was not for herself. Suppose she was acting as an agent for someone else?’
Dr Phillips shrugged. ‘Women have means at their disposal. Several noxious substances can trigger a miscarriage and these are well-known, especially among prostitutes, and midwives. Alas, sometimes the foetus is strongly rooted and medicines will not work. Then a woman has little choice other than... your friend—if you think that he might be involved in the dark trade, you better tread carefully.’
‘Do you have a list of dates?’ Philips produced a thick file, and I examined the dates of the deaths in question. Of course many of the dates conflicted with significant cases where Watson assisted me. It is one for me to believe in my friend, and quite another to expect a stranger to do so.
‘What if I told you that in your compilation of previous post-mortem examinations, you concluded that the abortionist was left-handed?’ I asked.
Dr Phillips was astounded and was slow to answer. ‘I hoped to be more certain before I made any accusations. Many women had died before I had made the connection and started to document the cases more thoroughly. The medical community would be in an uproar. It is for that reason that I have not included any information about these abortions in my official reports.’
‘And if I said that, on the day before her death, Mrs Day had made inquiries in the East End, asking after procuring a miscarriage, what would you say?’
‘I would say that she found the abortionist, they had a falling-out, and that he killed her. How did your friend come to be embroiled in all this?’
‘Several scenarios occur to me, but one seems most probable: Dr Watson has been physician to Mrs Day in the past. While she might rely on him for accidents and illnesses, I highly doubt that she would consult him on women’s matters. Outside of general medicine, Dr Watson’s speciality is battlefield surgery. She likely called him in on behalf of someone else—another woman, who required emergency care for complications after a botched miscarriage.’
‘That would explain his refusal to reveal his patient’s name. The lady could be subject to prosecution, and to have such private details made public would be the ruin of her.’
‘So you see what kind of a dilemma he has been caught up in?’
For a man of honour, it would certainly be an impossible situation.
Doctor Watson Takes the Stand
Dr Phillips testified that the evidence from his post-mortem examination of Agnes Day clearly pointed to a left-handed culprit, and that the accused was right-handed. This little detail must have been omitted from Inspector Cerlew’s notes because it caused considerable consternation for the Crown Prosecutor. I witnessed his confrontation with Inspector Cerlew during the afternoon recess and it was clear to me that the prosecutor did not appreciate being made a fool of in court.
Sir Hugh next attacked the testimony of Inspector Cerlew and Constable Warren and questioned the missing corroboration from Constable Stimson, the third policeman who had been involved with Watson’s arrest. From his reaction, the Crown Prosecutor seemed completely taken by surprise. He went from surprise to anger when Stimson’s account did not agree on several key points.
The time finally came for Watson to take the stand. He looked tired yet he spoke in a clear voice when he gave his account of the events of that fateful night. At four o’clock that afternoon had been called upon in his capacity as a physician to attend to a patient in Soho. He arrived close to five o’clock and stayed with the patient until half one the next morning. Since the rain had stopped, and since cabs were hard to find at that time of the night, he had decided to walk home. He estimated that the journey took thirty to forty minutes, and he recounted his path by the streets whose names he remembered. It was about two o’clock when he arrived back at his flat where he washed up before going to bed. The next thing he knew was that the police wanted to talk to him.
‘Dr Watson,’ said the prosecutor during his cross-examination, ‘You can save The Court a great deal of bother and clear your own name if you just tell us the name of the person or persons you were with on the night of September 29th.’
‘I cannot.’
Judge Fleetwater gave Dr Watson a sharp look. ‘Please answer the question, Doctor, or I may be forced to charge you with contempt.’
‘My Lord, it is not out of contempt that I refuse to answer. You place me in an impossible situation. I once took an oath where I swore that I would keep secret all that I saw or heard in my professional capacity in service to my patient. Would you demand that I break this trust? And if I did, as an oath-breaker, what would any subsequent testimony of mine be the worth?’
‘Doctor, if your feelings are so strong in this matter, are you willing to face the consequences if you are found guilty? This is a capital case.’
Watson paused to think it over. ‘Yes, My Lord, if I must.’
The jury looked uncomfortable. I was filled with dread. I feared that the tenacity that served Watson so well in the past might now cost him his life.
Summation
Sir Hugh Wyndgate rose to deliver his summation.
‘My Lord, Gentlemen of the Jury:
‘You have seen the lengths that the investigating police officers have gone in order to build this case against Dr Watson. And when I say build, I mean fabricate! Inspector Cerlew’s testimony regarding the nature of the wound found on Dr Watson is not even supported by one of his own constables. His subsequent actions to intimidate Dr Watson were unlawful and reprehensible, the result being that most of his “so-called” evidence is now inadmissible.
‘You have heard Dr Watson’s testimony. He did not deny knowing Mrs Day, nor the fact that she had contacted him. He did deny treating her on the date of her death and swore under oath that he was engaged with another patient. That he is unwilling to reveal this other patient, or the nature of their illness, when doing so would save him from a capital charge, speaks louder than the actions of a man hiding behind a contrived medical oath.
‘The Crown will argue that there was no other patient, and that Dr Watson cannot produce such an alibi. That is only a diversion. The case against Dr Watson was built on circumstantial evidence which has all been called into question. The blood-stained calling card? Dr Watson’s card would likely have been close to hand if Mrs Day had called upon him. The cabman’s testimony? Mr Merchand admitted that he did not see his customer’s face. And his account described the suspect’s agility—dashing through the rain to his door. May I remind you that he did not see the man enter the Baker Street residence, only run to the door. Another tenant at his residence testified that Dr Watson arrived home two hours later than the cabman claims.
‘All this circumstantial evidence leaves plenty of room for reasonable doubt. If another likely hypothesis can be posited, and if it too fits the evidence of the case, then you must acquit. For instance, if Mrs Day had some falling-out and was murdered at her home, would it not be clever for the real murderer to try to frame an innocent party, even if it was just to shift the investigation away from himself? What could be easier, upon finding Dr Watson’s calling card, then to leave it so conspicuously positioned at the murder scene, and then, having obtained Dr Watson’s address from said card, instructed the cabbie to take him to Baker Street? Had the real murderer known Dr Watson, he would have done better than to ask to be taken to “221B, Baker Street”. Dr Watson would surely have only said “221 Baker Street” because the flat number would have been irrelevant information to give to a cabman. As for the hurried flight from the cab to the door, it is obvious that the real murderer did not know Dr Watson, otherwise he would know that the doctor was lamed years ago and still uses a cane, especially in bad weather.
‘Gentlemen of the Jury, surely there is enough reasonable doubt to satisfy the Court, but let us also take into account the unlawful actions of Inspector Cerlew. When Dr Watson would not confess to a crime that he did not commit, and as the evidence against him was not strong enough to take to trial, Mr Cerlew took matters into his own hands and arranged for him to be assaulted in prison. I cannot begin to imagine how harrowing an experience that would have been, and yet, Dr Watson was willing to return there, rather than sign a false confession. Character must speak for something. I need not go into further detail. All you have to do is compare the character of Dr Watson, to those of his accusers.
‘The Crown may be eager for a conviction, but not just any conviction will do. Justice is not served if an innocent man is tried, convicted, and hanged. The real murderer of Agnes Day must be found and convicted and I’m afraid that the actions of the police have only made the true perpetrator’s escape from justice all the more likely. So rests the defence.’
All the evidence against Watson was circumstantial and the jury, pressed for time, and since the Crown Prosecutor was unable to present anything substantial, returned a verdict of not guilty. The public, on the other hand, riled up by sensational stories in the newspapers, were not as easily convinced.
Epilogue
One would think that pride and professional ethics, each a worthy attributes in its own right, would be laudable, but in the case of Dr Watson, this combination could have proved to be his ruin. All was not well when he returned home. His incarceration had strained his nerves, and the persistent harassment by the newspaper reporters only made matters worse. I suggested rustication to his friend’s Surrey manor but Watson refused, stating that it was bad enough to inflict his moods on those dwelling at Baker Street, and that time and familiar surroundings would be the best cure.
Of course, as he so often was in these matters, Watson was correct. The furore died away once other sensational stories became more attractive fodder for the press, and once again 221B Baker Street returned to its familiar state of gentle chaos.
Inspector Cerlew’s rising star was soon extinguished. The revelations at the trial were his undoing. Scotland Yard could not afford such bad publicity. He became a sort of pariah among his colleagues and was badly hurt in a brawl when other constables failed to come to his aid. Within the year he had left London for a position with the Pinkerton Agency in America. The last I heard, he had risen to a supervisory rank.
Dr Phillips continued to track the deaths of women in the East End and, after six months’ time, concluded that the Whitechapel abortionist had ceased his practice or had moved out of his jurisdiction. It was only with the coming of Jack in 1888 did he find cause to re-examine his records concerning this case.
As for my friend, who once held hopes of eventually establishing himself, Dr Watson felt that the trial had dealt his medical career a devastating setback. At first, very few of his former patients called upon him, and he ceased to interact with his professional colleagues.
Fortunately, the public’s memory is short and, slowly but surely, Dr Watson returned to work responding to those in needs.
It was out of the blue, some six months later that young Franklin Anstruther, scion of the noted Harley Street Anstruthers, contacted my friend with the offer to share a practice. If nothing else, this was a sign that the London medical oligarchy had taken notice of my friend and his actions, and had welcomed him into their fold.
~fin~
Author:[redacted]
Rating: PG13+
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, Dr Watson, Inspector Lestrade, Original Characters
Summary: Sherlock Holmes will have to solve this murder without Dr Watson’s assistance
Warnings: (Adult and sensitive subject matter)
Word Count: 7100
Author's Notes: This one is narrated by Mr Holmes
The Murder of Agnes Day
So It Begins
In the autumn of 1888 the world reeled with the horror of the murders in Whitechapel. However, these were not the first deaths to occur amongst the unfortunate women of our city. A few years before the coming of Saucy Jack, my friend, Dr John Watson, found himself embroiled in a murder charge which... well, perhaps I should start at the beginning. My excellent biographer, despite his romanticising propensities, certainly has a better appreciation for the narrative form than I, and his criticisms on my writing style would be most valid. The reasons that he has declined to record the events around this tale himself will become self-evident, and there are still many facts that remain elusive to me. He has begged me not to press him for details and I have honoured his wishes.
On the morning of September 30 1884 I found myself breaking my fast with only the agony columns for company, since my fellow lodger was still sound asleep. At that time, Dr Watson did not have a practice of his own, only a small list of people; some who retained his services as their physician, and others who would seek him out during emergencies. On the previous afternoon, he had been called out for one of the latter. Although he found my detective activities fascinating, medical work engaged him on a much deeper level. He never begrudged a patient neither the lateness of the hour, nor the nature of the complaint.
So, that morning, when our landlady enquired after our breakfast arrangements, I advised her that in similar situations, we would not likely see the doctor until luncheon, and that by that time he would be ravenous and require a hearty meal. The newspapers held little of interest and I anticipated that a boring day was ahead of me.
However, that was not to be. I was finishing the last of my coffee when the police arrived.
An Inspector Comes Calling
‘Mr Holmes,’ called Mrs Hudson from the front foyer, ‘There are some policemen to see you.’
I peered over the balustrade and did not recognise the inspector, although one of the two uniformed constables seemed to be familiar, no doubt having worked with me in the past. Something about this visit was amiss and he was reluctant to meet my eye.
‘I am Inspector Thomas Cerlew,’ said the plain-suited man in the long coat as he pushed past my landlady and presumed to climb the steps, ‘And you must be Sherlock Holmes. I hear you have some small ability as a private detective. That is of no consequence to me. I was informed that Dr John Watson resides here as well. Is he at home?’
‘He is asleep, but I will tell him you called when he awakes.’
‘I will see him now. Take me to him.’
When I asked what this was about, I was told, in no uncertain terms, to keep out of it. If I had not strictly forbidden it, Inspector Cerlew would have barged into Watson’s room, no doubt startling him out of his much-needed sleep. Instead, I tapped on the door and entered alone.
‘Watson?’
The gentle snoring from the jumble of blankets indicated that my friend was sound asleep. It was a great shame to have to wake him, but if I did not do so in a timely fashion, Inspector Cerlew would do the deed himself, and with far less consideration. I gave Watson’s arm a gentle squeeze and the snoring stopped.
‘Holmes,’ he groaned, ‘What time is it?’
‘I’m sorry, Doctor. There is a belligerent police inspector insisting to see you.’
Watson had sat up in bed and was about to ask me for clarification when Inspector Cerlew burst in.
‘Are you Dr John H. Watson?’
‘I am. Who are you and what is this about?’
‘My name is Inspector Cerlew, and I will ask the questions, if you please. Were you in Soho last night?’
‘Yes...’ My friend looked as to inquire further but then decided against it.
‘Do you know Miss Agnes Day?’
‘Yes, except that she is Mrs Day, not Miss.’
‘How did you know her?’
‘Did? She is one of my patients. Why do you use the past tense? What has happened?’
‘You admit to doctoring a whore? You surprise me, doctor. Last night, were you visiting her in your professional capacity, or in hers?’
‘Even prostitutes need medical attention, Inspector, but last night, I happened to be with another patient; not Mrs Day. Won’t you tell me what this is about?’
‘Do you recognise this?’ Cerlew asked, producing a small card from an envelope.
‘It is my calling card,’ Watson replied. ‘But is that blood?’
Indeed, from where I stood across the room, the dark brown spots on the white card looked like they could possibly be blood.
‘You tell me, doctor,’ the Inspector sneered.
Watson looked to me in confusion. ‘Mr Holmes has a chemical test for blood. He can—’
‘Agnes Day was murdered last night, and her body was butchered with “surgical precision” according to the police surgeon. We have a witness who can place you at the murder scene just before midnight, and you admit that this is yours,’ Cerlew snarled, brandishing the bloody article in Dr Watson’s face.
‘I was engaged with a patient from five o’clock until nearly two in the morning.’
‘Really? I don’t suppose anyone can corroborate that?’
‘Yes,’ Watson replied immediately. Then he paled, and hesitated. ‘No.’
‘Yes, or no: which is it, Doctor?’
‘It is No.’
‘Remove your nightshirt, please.’
‘This is highly irregular,’ Watson protested.
‘We’re looking for evidence.’
‘Evidence of what, Inspector,’ I asked.
‘There were signs that Mrs Day first put up a struggle and no doubt she left telltale marks.’
‘I’m quite familiar with the law. You need a warrant for this,’ I warned.
‘Well, it just so happens that I do have a warrant, Mr Holmes. It is for the arrest of Dr John Watson of this address and for a search of the premises. If you interfere with my investigation, I will have you arrested as well. Constable, escort Mr Holmes downstairs. Clap him in irons if he gives you any trouble.’
I left Watson colouring with indignation while he removed his garment.
Not a minute later, unshaven and ungroomed, shirt buttoned askew and bracers over only one shoulder, Watson was propelled down the stairs where he hastily donned his ulster and shoved his bare feet into his shoes before being forced into the waiting police carriage.
‘Mr Holmes,’ said the apologetic young constable, ‘Inspector Cerlew has arrested Dr Watson for the murder of Agnes Day.’
Investigation
Even though I arrived at Scotland Yard only minutes behind Cerlew and company, I never so much as caught a glimpse of Watson before he was taken off to an interview room for questioning. Since I was restricted from that section of the building, I searched around for others of my acquaintance who might be able to give me the facts of the case. I confess that I have never been so grateful to see Inspector Lestrade as I was that day. He ushered me to his cluttered office and closed the door behind us.
‘Mr Holmes,’ said Lestrade, ‘this is looking very bad for Dr Watson. Inspector Cerlew is extremely keen and he has a very solid case. I don’t know all the particulars but his evidence was enough to rouse a magistrate early in the morning to sign the arrest warrant. If it were anyone other than Dr Watson, I would be inclined to think that Cerlew had got his man.’
‘This is intolerable. They won’t let me see him, and they won’t tell me anything.’
‘Ah. That’s why I hate these young up-and-comers. Give a fellow like Cerlew a little bit of authority and he’s off like a slipped hound—putting on a grand show for the Guv’nor, and trying to become the next head boy. This is the first major case he’s caught and, mark my words, he’s going to milk it. I doubt that Cerlew will let you see Dr Watson today.’
‘Could you see him?’
‘I could try—no guarantees, of course,’ he said, and while he paused, a glimmer of mischief crossed his pointed features. ‘You could view the corpse, though, and speak with the police surgeon. The arrest warrant did not require Dr Phillips to do a complete post mortem, but he will be conducting one sometime today. Perhaps you will find something of note while Cerlew is busy with his suspect.’
I knew Phillips from my earliest days as a consulting detective. He had allowed me to observe his work and proved to be more patient with me than anyone I had met during my brief university tenure. No doubt he would remember me even though we had little not crossed paths in recent years. I found him sitting down to a cup of tea in his closet of an office.
‘Mr Sherlock Holmes, it is good to see you again. I’ve been hearing things about you.’
‘Good things, I hope.’
‘Some of them, yes,’ he grinned and offered me some tea. ‘What brings you down here today? Surely this is not a social call.’
‘I am interested in the Soho murder and I have a few questions. Have you finished your post mortem?’
‘No. It is next on my list. Would you care to assist?’
‘Thank you for the offer, but no. I’d prefer the role of impartial observer. The main suspect is known to me and my assistance could disqualify the evidence.’
‘Cerlew has made an arrest already? Remarkable!’ exclaimed Phillips, shaking his head in disbelief. He gestured towards the morgue and we set our minds to the task at hand.
It is in times like this that harden my heart against the human race. Although Dr Phillips had warned me, nothing could have prepared me for the sorry state of the remains of Agnes Day. I need not to describe in detail all the outrages perpetrated upon her person. Suffice it to say that it was no longer surprising that the arrest warrant was made out so quickly. Phillips and I exchanged a grim look and then he went to work.
‘I wish I could tell you that she died quickly, Mr Holmes, and that she did not suffer, but that is clearly not the case. Whoever did this was very methodical and precise. He wanted her awake and conscious while he tore her apart. She struggled before she died. In my preliminary examination, I found skin under her fingernails. Whoever did this has had training as a surgeon and an unlimited capacity for evil: he hated this woman, or perhaps whatever she represents in his mind. Does that sound like Cerlew’s suspect to you?’
‘No. I’m happy to say that the suspect has a very compassionate nature and could never act so heinously.’
‘Perhaps... How well do we know anybody? Before this morning, I did not think such atrocities were possible, and yet here we are,’ said Phillips. ‘Do you happen to know if Cerlew’s suspect is right-handed?’
‘Yes. Yes, he is.’
‘Well then, I may have some good news for you after all: I believe that these cuts were made by a left-handed individual.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Quite sure, and I’m prepared to testify at the inquest that these cuts were made with a left hand.’
‘Thank you, Doctor. That’s a good start. I will begin an investigation of my own, and I will concentrate on the victim. Obviously someone had a strong motive to kill her in such a way. I’m off to Soho to find someone who can give me some answers.
Mrs Agnes Day
There was no hope I would be able to see Watson that day. Lestrade too had been warned off although he promised to stay into the evening and try his luck.
I have learned long ago that preconceived notions were antithetical when it came to problems requiring reason and logical thinking. For this reason I tried to keep an open mind while I journeyed to Soho to interview the friends and neighbours of Mrs Day.
The street was bustling with business that afternoon yet people, still caught up in the novelty of the murder, were amenable, if not eager, to share their opinions and theories.
The portrait of Agnes Day began to emerge. She had been a pragmatic and shrewd businesswoman. Had she been born a man, she would have been described in more complimentary terms. She lived in well-appointed apartments on Portland Street. It was here, at her residence, that she had been slain.
The constable posted to safeguard the crime scene was familiar with me and was disposed to escort me through the premises. Nothing at the grisly scene could be used to either help or hinder Watson’s defence. The neighbours had heard a heated argument between Mrs Day and a man. The words had been indistinct and the point of contention could not be determined. My next recourse was to visit her establishment two streets away.
There I interviewed Miss Cécile Swayne, a confidant of Agnes Day. She admitted that earlier in the week Mrs Day had asked her if she knew of a discreet doctor who would take care of a little problem. When Miss Swayne had asked, Mrs Day had replied that she did not want to consult her regular physician in this instance. That being the case, Miss Swayne thought she had heard the rumour of a man in Whitechapel who fit the bill. Whether Mrs Day followed that lead or not was a matter of conjecture.
The denizens of the East End were less forthcoming. Even though they displayed obvious signs of having information, none of the women I interviewed there were willing to speak.
Imprisoned
A telegram from Inspector Lestrade arrived early the next morning stating that I would be permitted to see Dr Watson later the following day. Surely Watson’s own account would give me a better indication as to why he was still in custody.
A prison warder led Watson into the small room, and once he relinquished custody to Inspector Lestrade, the warder took up a position in the corridor just outside the door. I had not seen my fellow lodger for two days and I was appalled. Watson moved with deliberate care and let out a groan when he sat down. His grimy prison uniform was too large. The shirt sagged around his shoulders and the sleeves fell over his hands, which were handcuffed in front of him.
‘Hullo, Holmes, Inspector. I seem to have fallen into a spot of bother,’ he said with attempt of humour. I knew Watson well enough to read the signs: the dullness of his eyes indicated that he had not slept well—if had even slept at all. He had been given neither the opportunity to wash nor to shave, and this obviously was a source of embarrassment to him.
‘Did they feed you at least?’ I asked.
‘If you saw the food here, you wouldn’t be too insistent...’
That meant no, he had not had anything to eat. I reached for his hands and rolled up his sleeves, securing them so that they would not fall down. His wrists were raw. Although he did not tell me so, I saw other signs that he had been mistreated.
‘Good heavens, Lestrade, what kind of place are you running here?’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Holmes. It’s not unheard of for questioning to become a bit physical. Inspector Cerlew is a new boy and he’s trying to make a name for himself.’
‘I’ve already got a name for him and his ilk—’
‘Hush! Mind your tongue! Cerlew is the lead investigator. He could have you barred from communicating with the prisoner—me too, for that matter. I can leave you two to talk, but only for a few minutes.’
With that, the fastidious Lestrade left the room.
‘I don’t understand why I am still being held in custody,’ said Watson. ‘Agnes Day was a patient; that is true, but I had no reason to harm her. She wasn’t even one of my regulars. Inspector Cerlew said she had been horribly mutilated. Poor woman; she must have had enemies. Who could do such a thing?’
‘Inspector Cerlew is not interested other suspects. He is building a strong case against you.’
‘How can he? I wasn’t there and I did not do the things they claim.’
‘Cerlew has a witness who places you at the scene.’
‘I had been to Mrs Day’s establishment earlier that day, but that evening I was elsewhere. Cerlew’s witness is mistaken, or lying.’
‘Then why won’t you tell him where you were, and with whom?’
He looked at me and replied in a low voice, ‘It is a matter of my patient’s privacy, and I am bound to silence. You must understand this.’
‘I’m sure I do, but you must see what it looks like to everyone else: your refusal to divulge your actions or reveal the names of the people who could clear your name... Don’t you see? The confidentiality between doctor and patient just looks too convenient. Are you sure you cannot—’
‘—Not you too, Holmes, it is too much! A man must stand for something. I may not be much of a doctor, but I am at least that much of one. I did not murder Agnes Day and I will not sign Cerlew’s confession, no matter what pressure he brings to bear. Can you not, with your great mind, find the evidence to exonerate me? I cannot—will not compromise my patient’s privacy.’
Watson’s heated outburst drew the attention of the warder which caused our interview to come to an abrupt end. Watson was escorted back to the cells.
I confronted Inspector Cerlew in the corridor.
‘What business do you have coercing a confession from Dr Watson?’
‘I have no compunction regarding the methods I use to bring the guilty to justice, Mr Holmes. As for your friend, I never laid a hand on him. He had a little accident—fell down the stairs, he did. I promise to be a lot more careful in the future.’
The unveiled threat of this encounter left me in a foul mood and Lestrade bore the brunt of it when returned several minutes later.
‘What do you know of this witness against Watson?’ I demanded.
The Principal Witness
Inspector Lestrade opened a large envelope and handed me a sheet of foolscap containing the witness’s statement.
The witness, a cabbie called Nathan Merchand, in the account he dictated to Inspector Cerlew, swore that shortly after the midnight bells sounded, Dr John Watson hailed him from near Agnes Day’s bordello. He gave his address as 221B Baker Street in New Westminster and was driven there directly. The drive would have been slower due to the rain but he would have arrived by one quarter past the hour. On account of the poor weather, or perhaps in spite of it, Dr Watson gave a generous tip, thus ingratiating himself with the cabbie. Dr Watson waved goodbye to Merchand from the doorstep and the cabbie headed back into the city in hopes of another fare.
‘I want to speak with this Merchand,’ I said.
‘We may as well make it official. I’ll come along and bring a constable,’ Lestrade replied.
Our inquiries led us to the stand where the cabbie, Merchand, would start his night’s work in a few hours’ time. London coachmen are a gregarious lot and among the worst (or best) gossips in the world. Apparently, our witness had enjoyed the brush with celebrity that his murderous fare had opportuned, and he had spent some time that morning regaling his compatriots with tales about his dealings with the suspect and with the police. The Press had also come calling, once the sensational details of the murder became known.
Lestrade feared that due to the circumstances, our own questions might be subject to some creative embellishment. There was nothing to do but wait so we took dinner at a small nearby restaurant.
In due course, Nathan Merchand made an appearance and the two policemen brought him into the restaurant to meet me. The cabbie had a wiry build and was more than a little nervous about being interviewed again.
‘Be at ease, Mr Merchand,’ I said. ‘I only have to clarify a few points of your account. It need not take very long. I am fascinated by little details, and this story seems to be lacking some. First, are you absolutely certain of the time you picked up and delivered your passenger?’
‘Oh yes, sir!’ he said, no doubt relieved at the simplicity of my question.
‘And was it raining?’
‘Indeed, sir. By the bucket.’
‘Did it rain all night?’
‘No, sir. It were done when I finished my shift... nearly two o’clock.’
‘Did you get a good look at the suspect’s face?’
He paused. ‘No, not really. It were windy too, besides the rain. He wore his collar up, and his hat low.’
‘Did he carry anything with him?’
‘Just his doctor’s bag. I see plenty like them all the time.’
‘Anything else? A cane, or walking stick?’
‘Not that I recall. Seemed like a nice bloke though—gave me a generous tip before making a run for his door.’
‘Ran fast, did he?’
‘Oh yes! Like the devil was after him—which may very well have been the case, considering what he was up to earlier.’
‘Did you see him enter the premises at 221 Baker Street?’
‘Not as such. I hoped to find another fare. He must have done though. He weren’t there by the time I turned the rig around.’
I thanked Merchand for his time and he was leaving when Lestrade piped up.
‘How did Inspector Cerlew come to find you as a witness?’
‘I pass Portland Street on my way home. There were a small crowd of gawkers and the police were there too. I stopped to see what the fuss was about. When I heard about what happened to the unfortunate lady, I realised that I may have driven the murderer, and told the police so.’
‘What do you think, Lestrade?’ I asked when Merchand had returned to his hansom.
‘Everything he says is plausible—and damning, I should think. Why do you seem so relieved?’
‘Do I? For one thing, I was involved in a chemical experiment which kept me engaged well past midnight. Watson did not arrive home until after two o’clock.’
‘That’s marvelous! No—wait; your testimony would be questioned, and likely not admitted as evidence due to bias.’
‘True, but a good defence lawyer would tear Merchand’s testimony apart for other reasons.’
The Trial Begins
On the first morning of the trial I arrived early to get a seat with a good view of the proceedings. The presiding judge, Lord Henry Fleetwater, was a sharp-eyed older gentleman whose bearing foretold a low tolerance for nonsense. The gentlemen of the jury were shown in. They were drawn from the ranks of the trades and I recognised among them a butcher, a baker, a chandler, and a retired music teacher.
When his time had come to face the readings of the charges against him, Dr Watson stood in the dock, retaining as much dignity as he could for a man who looked like a low brawling hooligan. Mr Pearse, his lawyer, looked nervous and ineffectual. The jurymen were restless with eagerness; the growing publicity in The Press made this trial the most exciting thing that they were ever likely to experience. Several loutish observers were ordered removed from the public gallery due to their disruptive behaviour.
The rest of the day was taken up by the testimony of Inspector Cerlew and one of the constables who had accompanied him at the arrest of Dr Watson. They testified about how the evidence at the crime scene and the account of a witness, the cabbie Merchand, had led to the arrest of Dr John Watson of Baker Street. Cerlew testified that Watson had been furtive and had exhibited other signs of guilt. The constable, as well as participating in the arrest, had been in charge of Watson’s custody and claimed that the doctor was belligerent and hot-tempered.
Even though he knew I was there, Watson sat dully throughout the proceedings and did not once meet my eye. At the end of the day the trial was adjourned and he was taken away.
Outside the courtroom I was pausing for a cigarette when I was approached by an elderly, respectable gentleman, and his associate who must be a clerk or, more likely, a confidential secretary.
‘Are you Mr Holmes?’ asked the older man. ‘Your friend needs a better lawyer. I am prepared to offer my services. My name is Wyndgate.’
‘Not Sir Hugh Wyndgate, the prosecutor?’
‘The very same.’
‘I thought you had retired,’ I said.
‘So had I, but it turns out that my interest in legal matters could not be as easily thrown off as my wig and court silks. I maintain an active interest in current legal matters.’
‘Pardon my impudence. I know that Dr Watson needs a better defence lawyer, but frankly, he hasn’t the financial means.’
‘Mr Holmes, your friend could never afford me. Fortunately, I have wealth beyond my needs. I offer my services for the love of the game, not remuneration.’
‘John Watson is a good man, you know.’
‘Is he? That’s nice.’
‘—And he happens to be innocent.’
‘So much the better. I’m sorry, Mr Holmes, if I have given you the wrong impression. I am more interested in what Dr Watson represents, than the man himself. I have already spoken to Pearse and I shall begin tomorrow. Good day to you.’ With those parting words, the haughty gentleman brushed me aside and strode down the corridor.
The Trial is Delayed
The trial did not resume as scheduled on the following day.
Sir Hugh Wyndgate sat serenely for the defence waiting for Pearse to arrive and for Watson to be brought up. Judge Fleetwater clearly recognised his old colleague and favoured him with a questioning look, to which Sir Hugh returned an enigmatic smile.
When neither Watson nor his lawyer, Pearse, had appeared, the crown prosecutor rose and addressed the court. ‘I apologise for the delay, My Lord. Last night, the accused, John Watson, did wilfully instigate and engage in an affray in the Scotland Yard lock-up. As he has not yet appeared, I presume that he is unable to stand trial today. It is the request of the crown that this person be removed to a more secure location, for the sake of others, if not for his own safety. We expect to be seeking further charges anon.’
‘This is the first I am hearing of this, My Lord,’ Sir Hugh apologised.
Judge Fleetwater was not amused and he adjourned the session until such time as the defendant could return. The gallery erupted and the jury was led away.
Inspector Cerlew stood outside of the courtroom, surrounded by a group of reporters. I waited until he was alone.
‘What are you playing at, Cerlew? What have you been saying to The Press?’
‘My work is done. I’ve caught my man. Think of it this way, Mr Holmes,’ he hissed at me in a low voice that could not be overheard. ‘This case was nothing—just another dead whore until I attached the name of your friend to it. Even then, it would have hardly raised a ripple, but your friend is the close confidant of the famous consulting detective. How could The Press resist such a delicious scandal?’
Lestrade, who had been looking for me, arrived just in time to prevent me from facing assault charges of my own. He took me aside to where we could speak in confidence, and voiced his concerns. Dr Watson was now in the hands of the courts and no longer a responsibility of the police. He could not protect Watson while he remained in custody. The beating Watson had sustained last night at the hands of the other prisoners had very probably been at the behest of Inspector Cerlew, in an attempt to intimidate him. As I could have predicted, Cerlew’s case was falling apart. With his reputation as an investigator in jeopardy, the inspector was determined to get a conviction by any possible means, even by intimidating an innocent man into signing a false confession.
I found Mr Pearse that afternoon. For his part in the prison riot, Watson had been segregated and nobody, save his lawyers, was permitted to see him that day. Pearse’s concern for Watson’s safety was slightly eased by the presence of Sir Hugh and his confidence he brought. I gave Pearse all the details that I had managed to unearth and he promised to pass them on to Sir Hugh.
The situation seemed bleak. There was another theory I wished to pursue so, once again, I returned to the Scotland Yard morgue and called on Dr Phillips.
‘Mr Holmes, what brings you back to my grotto?’ asked Phillips, looking up from the report he was writing.
‘Do you have any mysterious deaths in the East End; specifically, women of childbearing years?’
He took his time to respond. ‘ “Childbearing”... that’s a curious choice of description. There have been several cases of women dying in childbirth or from complications of a miscarriage. There is more poverty and desperation in the slums, and that could account for some—’
‘What are you not saying, Dr Phillips?’ I demanded.
‘I have long suspected that someone has been posing as an abortionist and has been working in Whitechapel; that he preys on those poor unfortunates desperate enough to seek him out. His work is poor, many women have died, and nobody wants to talk about it. Do you think it has any bearing on the Soho case?’
‘In your post-mortem, could you determine if Agnes Day was pregnant?’
‘No, she wasn’t. She couldn’t—Mr Holmes, you might be on to something! Mrs Day could not bear children. I found scar tissue that would have rendered her barren. It was not recent, mind you; the damage was done when she was quite young, and she would have no need to call upon an abortionist lately.’
‘—Unless it was not for herself. Suppose she was acting as an agent for someone else?’
Dr Phillips shrugged. ‘Women have means at their disposal. Several noxious substances can trigger a miscarriage and these are well-known, especially among prostitutes, and midwives. Alas, sometimes the foetus is strongly rooted and medicines will not work. Then a woman has little choice other than... your friend—if you think that he might be involved in the dark trade, you better tread carefully.’
‘Do you have a list of dates?’ Philips produced a thick file, and I examined the dates of the deaths in question. Of course many of the dates conflicted with significant cases where Watson assisted me. It is one for me to believe in my friend, and quite another to expect a stranger to do so.
‘What if I told you that in your compilation of previous post-mortem examinations, you concluded that the abortionist was left-handed?’ I asked.
Dr Phillips was astounded and was slow to answer. ‘I hoped to be more certain before I made any accusations. Many women had died before I had made the connection and started to document the cases more thoroughly. The medical community would be in an uproar. It is for that reason that I have not included any information about these abortions in my official reports.’
‘And if I said that, on the day before her death, Mrs Day had made inquiries in the East End, asking after procuring a miscarriage, what would you say?’
‘I would say that she found the abortionist, they had a falling-out, and that he killed her. How did your friend come to be embroiled in all this?’
‘Several scenarios occur to me, but one seems most probable: Dr Watson has been physician to Mrs Day in the past. While she might rely on him for accidents and illnesses, I highly doubt that she would consult him on women’s matters. Outside of general medicine, Dr Watson’s speciality is battlefield surgery. She likely called him in on behalf of someone else—another woman, who required emergency care for complications after a botched miscarriage.’
‘That would explain his refusal to reveal his patient’s name. The lady could be subject to prosecution, and to have such private details made public would be the ruin of her.’
‘So you see what kind of a dilemma he has been caught up in?’
For a man of honour, it would certainly be an impossible situation.
Doctor Watson Takes the Stand
Dr Phillips testified that the evidence from his post-mortem examination of Agnes Day clearly pointed to a left-handed culprit, and that the accused was right-handed. This little detail must have been omitted from Inspector Cerlew’s notes because it caused considerable consternation for the Crown Prosecutor. I witnessed his confrontation with Inspector Cerlew during the afternoon recess and it was clear to me that the prosecutor did not appreciate being made a fool of in court.
Sir Hugh next attacked the testimony of Inspector Cerlew and Constable Warren and questioned the missing corroboration from Constable Stimson, the third policeman who had been involved with Watson’s arrest. From his reaction, the Crown Prosecutor seemed completely taken by surprise. He went from surprise to anger when Stimson’s account did not agree on several key points.
The time finally came for Watson to take the stand. He looked tired yet he spoke in a clear voice when he gave his account of the events of that fateful night. At four o’clock that afternoon had been called upon in his capacity as a physician to attend to a patient in Soho. He arrived close to five o’clock and stayed with the patient until half one the next morning. Since the rain had stopped, and since cabs were hard to find at that time of the night, he had decided to walk home. He estimated that the journey took thirty to forty minutes, and he recounted his path by the streets whose names he remembered. It was about two o’clock when he arrived back at his flat where he washed up before going to bed. The next thing he knew was that the police wanted to talk to him.
‘Dr Watson,’ said the prosecutor during his cross-examination, ‘You can save The Court a great deal of bother and clear your own name if you just tell us the name of the person or persons you were with on the night of September 29th.’
‘I cannot.’
Judge Fleetwater gave Dr Watson a sharp look. ‘Please answer the question, Doctor, or I may be forced to charge you with contempt.’
‘My Lord, it is not out of contempt that I refuse to answer. You place me in an impossible situation. I once took an oath where I swore that I would keep secret all that I saw or heard in my professional capacity in service to my patient. Would you demand that I break this trust? And if I did, as an oath-breaker, what would any subsequent testimony of mine be the worth?’
‘Doctor, if your feelings are so strong in this matter, are you willing to face the consequences if you are found guilty? This is a capital case.’
Watson paused to think it over. ‘Yes, My Lord, if I must.’
The jury looked uncomfortable. I was filled with dread. I feared that the tenacity that served Watson so well in the past might now cost him his life.
Summation
Sir Hugh Wyndgate rose to deliver his summation.
‘My Lord, Gentlemen of the Jury:
‘You have seen the lengths that the investigating police officers have gone in order to build this case against Dr Watson. And when I say build, I mean fabricate! Inspector Cerlew’s testimony regarding the nature of the wound found on Dr Watson is not even supported by one of his own constables. His subsequent actions to intimidate Dr Watson were unlawful and reprehensible, the result being that most of his “so-called” evidence is now inadmissible.
‘You have heard Dr Watson’s testimony. He did not deny knowing Mrs Day, nor the fact that she had contacted him. He did deny treating her on the date of her death and swore under oath that he was engaged with another patient. That he is unwilling to reveal this other patient, or the nature of their illness, when doing so would save him from a capital charge, speaks louder than the actions of a man hiding behind a contrived medical oath.
‘The Crown will argue that there was no other patient, and that Dr Watson cannot produce such an alibi. That is only a diversion. The case against Dr Watson was built on circumstantial evidence which has all been called into question. The blood-stained calling card? Dr Watson’s card would likely have been close to hand if Mrs Day had called upon him. The cabman’s testimony? Mr Merchand admitted that he did not see his customer’s face. And his account described the suspect’s agility—dashing through the rain to his door. May I remind you that he did not see the man enter the Baker Street residence, only run to the door. Another tenant at his residence testified that Dr Watson arrived home two hours later than the cabman claims.
‘All this circumstantial evidence leaves plenty of room for reasonable doubt. If another likely hypothesis can be posited, and if it too fits the evidence of the case, then you must acquit. For instance, if Mrs Day had some falling-out and was murdered at her home, would it not be clever for the real murderer to try to frame an innocent party, even if it was just to shift the investigation away from himself? What could be easier, upon finding Dr Watson’s calling card, then to leave it so conspicuously positioned at the murder scene, and then, having obtained Dr Watson’s address from said card, instructed the cabbie to take him to Baker Street? Had the real murderer known Dr Watson, he would have done better than to ask to be taken to “221B, Baker Street”. Dr Watson would surely have only said “221 Baker Street” because the flat number would have been irrelevant information to give to a cabman. As for the hurried flight from the cab to the door, it is obvious that the real murderer did not know Dr Watson, otherwise he would know that the doctor was lamed years ago and still uses a cane, especially in bad weather.
‘Gentlemen of the Jury, surely there is enough reasonable doubt to satisfy the Court, but let us also take into account the unlawful actions of Inspector Cerlew. When Dr Watson would not confess to a crime that he did not commit, and as the evidence against him was not strong enough to take to trial, Mr Cerlew took matters into his own hands and arranged for him to be assaulted in prison. I cannot begin to imagine how harrowing an experience that would have been, and yet, Dr Watson was willing to return there, rather than sign a false confession. Character must speak for something. I need not go into further detail. All you have to do is compare the character of Dr Watson, to those of his accusers.
‘The Crown may be eager for a conviction, but not just any conviction will do. Justice is not served if an innocent man is tried, convicted, and hanged. The real murderer of Agnes Day must be found and convicted and I’m afraid that the actions of the police have only made the true perpetrator’s escape from justice all the more likely. So rests the defence.’
All the evidence against Watson was circumstantial and the jury, pressed for time, and since the Crown Prosecutor was unable to present anything substantial, returned a verdict of not guilty. The public, on the other hand, riled up by sensational stories in the newspapers, were not as easily convinced.
Epilogue
One would think that pride and professional ethics, each a worthy attributes in its own right, would be laudable, but in the case of Dr Watson, this combination could have proved to be his ruin. All was not well when he returned home. His incarceration had strained his nerves, and the persistent harassment by the newspaper reporters only made matters worse. I suggested rustication to his friend’s Surrey manor but Watson refused, stating that it was bad enough to inflict his moods on those dwelling at Baker Street, and that time and familiar surroundings would be the best cure.
Of course, as he so often was in these matters, Watson was correct. The furore died away once other sensational stories became more attractive fodder for the press, and once again 221B Baker Street returned to its familiar state of gentle chaos.
Inspector Cerlew’s rising star was soon extinguished. The revelations at the trial were his undoing. Scotland Yard could not afford such bad publicity. He became a sort of pariah among his colleagues and was badly hurt in a brawl when other constables failed to come to his aid. Within the year he had left London for a position with the Pinkerton Agency in America. The last I heard, he had risen to a supervisory rank.
Dr Phillips continued to track the deaths of women in the East End and, after six months’ time, concluded that the Whitechapel abortionist had ceased his practice or had moved out of his jurisdiction. It was only with the coming of Jack in 1888 did he find cause to re-examine his records concerning this case.
As for my friend, who once held hopes of eventually establishing himself, Dr Watson felt that the trial had dealt his medical career a devastating setback. At first, very few of his former patients called upon him, and he ceased to interact with his professional colleagues.
Fortunately, the public’s memory is short and, slowly but surely, Dr Watson returned to work responding to those in needs.
It was out of the blue, some six months later that young Franklin Anstruther, scion of the noted Harley Street Anstruthers, contacted my friend with the offer to share a practice. If nothing else, this was a sign that the London medical oligarchy had taken notice of my friend and his actions, and had welcomed him into their fold.
~fin~
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no subject
Date: 2013-11-01 04:13 pm (UTC)Excellent case work.
Very suspenseful.
no subject
Date: 2013-11-01 08:38 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-11-01 09:06 pm (UTC)Terrific work!
no subject
Date: 2013-11-02 05:46 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-11-03 12:54 am (UTC)That the case against Watson was so weak and supported so poorly by both the cobbled evidence and the Constable's abuse would make the outcome cartoonishly cut-and-dried...were it not for too many cases where innocent men were hanged for lesser connections. (There are men on Death Row now in the States who could use a Sir Hugh of their own.)
Beautifully written, compellingly told.
no subject
Date: 2013-11-04 02:47 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-11-08 03:57 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-11-11 02:11 pm (UTC)