"It's all very well for you, Mr. Holmes," complained Inspector Lestrade. "You can pick and choose." I must admit that Lestrade had provocation. We were dining at Simpson's, and over the entree Holmes had mercilessly twitted Lestrade on his failure to solve a recent notorious robbery case. Lestrade felt the last straw descend on his back, and reacted accordingly. "I can't turn down an investigation simply because it presents no outré points of interest," the detective mocked. "I take whatever comes my way and do my best with it. If you had my case load, your record might not be what it is."
"There is much in what you say," smiled Holmes. "And yet, the system works well, does it not? Nine out of ten cases are much better solved by your indefatigable routine and huge army of policemen. The tenth case, the one with those outré points of interest, you bring to me. I appeal to the good Doctor; am I not in the position of specialist to Lestrade's general practitioner? You would hardly refer a simple case of measles to Sir Jasper Meek, yet I doubt not that he could treat it if necessary. It is simply a means of making the best use of the resource most suited to each problem."
"So you think you could handle my routine case load?"
"If I wished, but it would be like harnessing a thoroughbred to a beer wagon."
Lestrade became even more nettled. "I'd like to see you take my next case, at random, without the option to refuse it. You'd soon put a higher value on the official force, and spend less time criticizing good men doing their job."
Holmes came to the belated realization that he had actually offended his official colleague. "My dear Lestrade, I do beg your pardon. I know, better than most, that 'a policeman's lot'...."
"Please don't say it!" Lestrade burst out. "Every man-jack on the Force is sick to death of that song! If Mr. Gilbert were found murdered, you'd have to take the case. The Yard would be pulling for the killer."
A sly smile crept across Holmes' face. "I thought you could not refuse an assignment? No matter, I will rephrase my last comment. I know that you and your blue-coated cohorts earn your pay many times over, and deserve the public's thanks. I offer you my humblest apologies for my clumsy attempts at humor. And I accept your challenge; I will take your very next case, whether it be the theft of the Crown Jewels or a summons to abate a smoking chimney. Now, away with business and let us give full attention to the crepes aux cerises flambé I see approaching."
Holmes' apology not only mollified Lestrade's anger, it rendered him practically speechless during the coffee and sweet. We parted outside the restaurant, with Holmes admonishing Lestrade to summon us, day or night, for the promised investigation.
We had not long to wait, for young Halliday from the telegraph office met us at the doorstep of our Baker Street lodgings, a buff envelope in hand. "The Chief said most urgent, sir, and to give it directly into your hands. It's from Scotland Yard!" The idea excited him almost as much as the half-crown Holmes tossed him in exchange for the telegram.
Holmes ripped open the envelope, read, and handed me the message. "So much for a quiet smoke by the fire, Watson! Cab! I say, here!" he called, flagging a hansom. Once aboard and moving, I read the message:
"You have your case. Murder. Come at once. Church of St Barbara, Runnymeade Street. Lestrade "
I looked up at my companion, who grinned. "Lestrade was undoubtedly hoping to land me with a common cutpurse or drunken brawler, but he plays the game. The Yard must have sent him out as soon as he returned from our luncheon. A murder in a church may yet present those features of interest he hoped to deny me."
"I don't know Runnymeade Street," I remarked.
Holmes took the opportunity to exhibit his knowledge of London, which rivaled that of a veteran cabman. "Few people do. It is only four blocks long, and the Roman Catholic Church is the only landmark. It is not far from the British Museum, nor from Montague Street, my first London address. The neighborhood has seen better days, but a trace of the old gentility remains. The residents may be poor, but they have their self-respect. As you may see," he gestured, and I observed the houses we passed, old but kept up as well as a limited budget might allow. We slowed to a stop in front of a small church. Lestrade waited on the steps, with a tall, red-headed man in cassock and surplice, whom he introduced as Father Andrew McKenzie, Pastor of St. Barbara's. Lestrade bade the cleric tell us his story in his own words.
"I suppose it all began this morning," he said in a strong Scots accent that I shall not attempt to reproduce on paper.
"At the wedding?" Holmes interrupted.
"Aye," replied the startled priest. "And how did you know about the wedding?" Holmes merely picked up a few grains of rice from the steps, handed them to the priest, and bade him continue. "Miss Rigby was one of our helpers. We had a wedding this morning, and she came along to tidy up afterwards. I saw her coming up the pavement just as the young couple was leaving the church. As she got to the steps, she came over faint. A couple of ladies took her inside and left her sitting in a pew at the back of the church. She told them she'd rest a bit and then get on with her work. I was asked to the wedding breakfast, of course, round the corner at Clarke's. I walked back and was surprised to see the steps still covered with rice. I wondered if Miss Rigby had felt too ill and gone home, but when I went inside, I found her as you see her."
It was not a pleasant sight. A woman of about sixty years lay on her back in the pew, and from her face and the marks on her neck I had no doubt of how she died. The police surgeon, whom we had met before, confirmed my opinion. "Strangled from behind, by hand. No rope or cord used. Must have been a fairly strong man; it's not easy to crush the trachea from behind with the fingers. Most people would use their forearm across the throat." Father McKenzie grimaced at this notion. "There will be an autopsy, of course, but I don't expect to find much more."
"Have you been told about her fainting fit this morning?" asked Holmes. The surgeon nodded. "Please look for any condition that might have caused it."
Holmes turned to the priest. "Was the lady subject to fainting spells?" The question seemed to embarrass Father McKenzie. He drew us aside. "There was nothing wrong with her health, but Miss Rigby drank a bit," he confided. "But never when she was coming to the church. She was a pensioned-off servant, and she'd seen some great trouble in her life. She used to sit in the window of her ground floor flat, one block over, and smile out at nothing for hours. She kept a bottle of gin hidden in an old stone jar in the front hallway so no one would suspect, but of course everyone hereabouts knew. Still, no one ever saw her in church unless she was stony sober. I don't think it was drink that made her woozy this morning, but I'd rather you heard about her habits from me than from neighborhood gossips. She was a good woman, but she had her weakness, as do we all."
Holmes was silent for a moment, lost in thought. "If Miss Rigby was sober, and not infirm," he mused, "what might have caused her to faint this morning? I must have more detail. Father, when you first saw Miss Rigby approaching the church steps, how did she walk?"
"Quite normally. She always walked like a soldier, shoulders back and a firm stride. She told me once that when she first went into service the butler insisted on good posture."
"And when she fainted, did she simply collapse, did she reel as if stricken, or did she stiffen and fall rigidly? What was her facial expression like?"
The priest shook his head. "I'm afraid I can't tell you. Mr. Holmes. I had just turned my back on her to speak to the groom, and only turned back when I saw the shock on his face. Miss Rigby was already prostrate, with people starting to gather round her. Once I saw she was being cared for, I attended to the wedding party."
Holmes' lips were set in a thin, straight line, and his eyes narrowed to slits. "I must speak with someone who actually witnessed Miss Rigby's fall."
Father McKenzie led us across the aisle to a middle-aged woman waiting in a pew. "Mrs. DeLancie, may I present Inspector Lestrade, Mr. Holmes and Doctor Watson? They would like to ask you about the incident this morning."
Mrs. DeLancie, a solid-looking woman in maroon velvet and steel-grey sausage curls, eyed my friend with interest. "Not Mr. Sherlock Holmes?" The priest nodded, and she continued, "You're the one who pinned the Farintosh Tiara theft on that nasty Irishman and his no-good souse of a brother. McQueen lasted two months at my boarding house, till I tossed him into the street. I knew he was a bad one! Seven years was too good for him. Anything you ask, Mr. Holmes, I'm your woman. May I shake your hand?"
Holmes lifted an eyebrow at us and gravely took the woman's hand. "One encounters friends in all sorts of places. Thank you, ma'am, for the vote of confidence. You have an opportunity today to help turn the wheels of justice. I need to know exactly what happened to Miss Rigby this morning."
"Struck all of a heap, she was. I come along to see Miss Trowbridge in her dress, and just as they come out, there was Eleanor. She stopped, put her hand to her mouth, and let out a little squeak. Then her knees gave way and she folded up like a puppet with the strings cut. One second vertical, the next horizontal."
"You helped her into the church, then?"
"Oh, yes, I had me smelling salts, and brought her around. She said she'd be all right; she just wanted to rest a bit. She said she had to think. Having things to do, I left her here. Dear Lord, I wish we'd stayed, but how could I know?" she sobbed. "She said she was better!" Father McKenzie comforted her, and got Lestrade's permission for her to depart.
"Father, was Miss Rigby acquainted with the couple married this morning?" Holmes asked.
"They hardly moved in the same circles. Miss Trowbridge is the daughter of by far our richest parishioner. I'm sure Miss Rigby knew her by sight, but I doubt that they ever spoke. As for Mr. Keith, no one here knew him well. He and miss Trowbridge met on the Continent, and became engaged rather quickly. They might have been married there, but her father insisted she be married in the same church as he and his parents."
Holmes nodded, as if to confirm a train of thought. "Lestrade, you have Miss Rigby's keys? Perhaps the good Father will show us the lady's rooms."
The priest led us around two corners to a house divided up into flats. Miss Rigby had had the ground floor front, a simple bedroom and sitting room. Holmes held us at the door with an upraised hand and prowled the room, examining the carpet with his lens, gauging the thickness of dust on the books, opening drawers and examining papers, and so forth. Lestrade and I had seen this performance before, but Father McKenzie was mystified. He looked expectantly at my friend as we were finally allowed into the room.
Holmes waved us to seats and stood with his back to the mantle. "I have found a few facts that may bear on the case, but mostly in a negative sense. The carpet confirms the lady's health; she had a firm, full stride with none of the shuffling common to the aged and infirm. Her bankbook shows steady deposits of thirty pounds a quarter; these rooms and her clothes and possessions indicate that she lived within her means. I found no evidence of any relatives, and a will in the desk drawer names the parish as sole beneficiary. From her papers, I find that she was sentimental, concerned about the plight of the poor, and parted from her late employers in unpleasant circumstances, despite the pension. The problem must have had something to do with her mistress' marriage." Holmes opened a scrapbook and showed us a wedding photograph, in which the face of the groom had been scratched out with a sharp object. He turned the page to show another photograph, of the entire wedding party on the steps of a large country house. Holmes handed his lens to the priest and indicated one of the servants at the side of the picture. "This is Miss Rigby, is it not?" Father McKenzie nodded agreement.
Holmes held up a letter taken from the desk and read "Dear Eleanor, I do wish we could part on good terms. You have been so much more than a servant to me, you have been a friend, but I naturally cannot hear you speak of my husband as you did. In any case, I must make a home for him in Penang, and you deserve to rest and enjoy yourself after such long and devoted service. I enclose a token of my esteem, and Mr. Devane will pay you your pension every quarter, so please be sure he always has your address. Warmest Regards, Mrs. Peter Bradley."
Holmes stroked his chin thoughtfully. "Peter Bradley? Not an uncommon name, but I have heard it somewhere. It will come to me, or I shall look him up in my index when we return to Baker Street. It is my belief that..."
"Dear Mother of God and all the Saints!" interrupted the priest. He still held Holmes' lens and the picture album, and beckoned us to examine the wedding party photograph. "I can hardly believe my eyes! The groom in this photograph is.."
Holmes stopped him with an upraised palm. "Lestrade, Watson, you have seen all that I have. Can you name the man in the photograph?" We shook our mystified heads. "I can name him; Mr. Keith, whose marriage took place this morning. Am I correct, Father?"
The priest nodded, and Holmes continued, "Do you recall how Father McKenzie described the groom's face this morning? 'Shocked' is far too strong a reaction to simply seeing a woman faint. He recognized her! I have also remembered where I heard the name Peter Bradley. Quickly, Father, tell us where the couple was to proceed after the wedding breakfast."
"Why, they're off to Mr. Keith's ranch in western Canada. They took the train to Liverpool after the wedding breakfast, and will board the Prince Phillip the day after tomorrow."
"We have time, then," Holmes cried. At what hotel are they staying?"
"The Staunton. See here, Mr. Holmes, are you saying there's something wrong with Mr. Keith? He seemed a most charming young man."
The detective shook his head. "Unless I am mistaken, charm is a tool of the trade for such as he. This time, by Jove, we shall have him! Lestrade, may I apprehend this man with my own methods?"
Lestrade nodded. "I'll have to come along, it's my case. What do you intend to do?"
Holmes rubbed his hands gleefully. "I shall set a trap, and the first thing we need is bait. Father, can your flock spare you for a while? Excellent! Let us find a cab."
In moments we were once again rolling through London, finally stopping at Aspinall's Jewellery Shop in Bond Street. Holmes bade us wait, and after a few minutes in the shop, returned with a long, slender black satin case. He ordered the cab to Number Eight, Gray's Inn, and opened the case to disclose a shimmering triple strand of diamonds and emeralds. "Bait enough for any fish, eh?" he grinned. "My solicitor will now provide us with a hook. For that, Father, I need your help. I want the name of someone deceased, someone who might have left the bride, Miss Trowbridge, was it not? a legacy such as this necklace."
"Dear me!" exclaimed the priest. "Her family is well off, but not rich enough for this. That necklace must be worth a thousand pounds!"
"Wrong by almost half, Father!" Holmes chuckled. "Eighteen hundred and fifty, to be precise. Come now, at least give me the name of some distant connection, someone whose exact financial status might not be known to the Trowbridge family."
Father McKenzie thought for a moment. "Well, her godmother moved to the south of France many years ago, and passed away last winter. Markham was her name no, Markland, Vanessa Markland." Holmes noted it on his cuff.
At Grey's Inn we entered the chambers of Lyle, Morley and Hackett, Solicitors At Law, and were shown into the office of Mr. Stanley Hackett. After greetings and introductions, Holmes made an unusual request. "My dear Hackett, I want you to send an urgent message to Mr. and Mrs. Keith at the Staunton Hotel in Liverpool. Let me write it out for you. 'As executor of the estate of the late Mrs. Vanessa Markland, I must…"
"Just a minute, Holmes!" objected the solicitor. "I've never heard of any Vanessa Markland. Do you have any idea what sort of trouble I can get into for misrepresenting myself as someone's executor?"
"I have a very good idea," Holmes replied, "but I also have Inspector Lestrade's blessing, and you will be helping to capture a rather despicable criminal. A young lady's fate rests in your hands, Hackett. Surely a gentleman does not count personal risk at such a time?"
Holmes was at his most persuasive, and in the end a letter was dispatched by a trusted messenger to Liverpool. It read:
As executor of the estate of the late Mrs. Vanessa Markland, I must inform you of a codicil to her will, in which she bequeathed a diamond and emerald necklace, valued at about two thousand pounds, to her goddaughter upon the occasion of her marriage. Having just returned to Town, I was only informed this morning of the happy event. I offer my congratulations. Since you are going abroad, the necklace will be retrieved from the bank and carried to Liverpool tomorrow by my senior clerk. He will call upon you at your hotel. My sincere wishes for a long and happy marriage.
With reassurances to the nervous solicitor, we departed for Baker Street. While we fortified ourselves with tea and sandwiches, Holmes rummaged through his indexes and books of cuttings, and dashed off half a dozen telegrams. At last, he gathered us round the table to explain. "Now comes the justification of the many times I have told you to study the history of crime, Lestrade. I believe I have all the pieces of the puzzle here. Each of these clippings tells the story of a marriage between a young woman of means and an Englishman living abroad. The man goes under various names, including Peter Bradley, but the description tallies in every case. Tall, broad shouldered, black hair, blue eyes. Father, does this sound like Mr. Keith?"
"It certainly does, but it might be any of a hundred men." The cleric was still unwilling to label anyone a villain on circumstantial evidence.
Holmes, somewhat nettled, continued, "Did Mr. Keith wear a tiger's eye ring on the little finger of his right hand? Had he a birthmark at the corner of his eye? Did he tug at his earlobe when embarrassed? Yes? Then we may take it that this is our man. The many brides of Mr. Keith seem to have vanished after leaving for his supposed homes in South America, Australia, the Malay States, and so on. Three were found dead, in Cairo, Melbourne and Hong Kong. Two were never heard of again, and one, our best hope survived a horrible ordeal and returned. I have sent telegrams to that lady and to the relatives of the other victims. They will go down to Liverpool with us and identify the man. I also wired for a private car on the 6:30 train tomorrow morning. If you will join us then, we shall see the end of this case together." Father McKenzie declined to make the trip, having parish business. Lestrade left to report to his superiors, promising to be at the station.
He was as good as his word. After a fitful night's rest, I was roused by Holmes at an ungodly hour and whisked off to Paddington. The official detective was waiting on the platform, and at intervals we were joined by five men and a thickly veiled woman who walked awkwardly with the aid of a stout stick. On the journey to Liverpool Holmes explained his plan. Arriving at the Staunton Hotel, Holmes sent a card up to Mr. Keith. It was not his own, but the card of Hackett's senior clerk, which he had borrowed at Grey's Inn. We were bidden to ascend. Lestrade and our witnesses were secreted around a corner of the hallway, with orders to advance to the door of the suite once we were inside.
The man who received us fitted the description down to the rather flashy ring. He informed us that the new Mrs. Keith was lying down. Holmes introduced himself as Hackett's clerk.
"And who is this gentleman?" Keith asked, eyeing me suspiciously.
Holmes opened the jewel case and explained, "A valuable piece like this must be guarded." I turned back my coat to show the handle of my revolver, but Keith had eyes only for the green and white fire radiating from the satin case.
With an embarrassed little cough, Holmes continued, "You understand, sir, that I must ask for identification before handing you this necklace." Keith brought forth his passport and other documents, but Holmes shook his head. "Corroboration is necessary. I took the liberty of providing for it." He opened the door. Lestrade and our companions filed into the room. At the sight of them, Keith glared around like a cornered animal, but my revolver and Lestrade's held him still.
"Can any of you identify this man?" Holmes asked the assemblage.
The first to speak was an elderly gentleman. "I can! This is John Bramwell, who married my daughter, took everything she had and left her dead in a back alley in Cairo!" The other men joined in. "He's Alee Willis, he married my sister Jenny!" "No, he's Robert Frewington, cousin Anne's husband." and so on.
Finally, the veiled woman limped forward. "Do you remember me, Peter? Darling Peter!" The villain nearly fainted at the sound of her voice. "I loved you so much, and I trusted you, even with my jewels and my dear, dead father's bonds and shares. I trusted you right up to the moment you threw me out of the boat, far up the Orinoco River. The piranha fish didn't get all of me though, only my leg. Bad luck for you I'm such a good swimmer, isn't it? I got to the bank before I lost consciousness. A band of natives found me and nursed me back to health. There was more kindness and nobility in the least of those naked savages than you ever thought of having. They even made me one of their tribe, and marked me as their own. Look now upon the White Daughter of the Ucantos!" She snatched off her veil to reveal a lovely face disfigured by a web of fine blue tattoo lines. "Four years I have lived with a wooden leg and a face I cannot show in public, all because of you. Damn you! Damn your soul to hell! If I had the strength, I would tear your lying heart from your worthless body and dance on it!" Her hands went to her face and she burst into tears. The elderly man took her shoulders and led her from the room.
Lestrade stepped forward with handcuffs at the ready. "Dennis Keith, alias Peter Bradley, alias Bramwell, Willis, and Frewington, I am a police officer, and I arrest you on charges of bigamy, obtaining money under false pretences, and attempted murder. I shouldn't be surprised if actual murder charges are brought." He took Keith by the elbow and led him from the room.
We found young Miss Trowbridge in a drugged sleep. Over her distress I shall draw a veil; suffice it to say that she was returned to the much-needed support of her family.
Holmes, Lestrade and I were the only mourners at Miss Rigby's interment. Father McKenzie was furious that his flock should have shied away from the stigma of murder. "Last night I was trying to write a sermon touching upon the loss of our friend and helper, but I could not make the words come together, so I put it aside and caught up on my mending. Now, though, I have my theme. The tragedy is not Miss Rigby's death, but the scandalous absence of those who should have been here to bid her good-bye. There will be some warm consciences in Saint Barbara's this Sunday, I guarantee it!" He must have pitched it strong, for the parish got up a fund to erect a headstone. Among the subscribers were G. Lestrade, J. Watson and S. Holmes.
Ah, look at all the lonely people!
Eleanor Rigby picks up the rice in a church where a wedding has been,
Lives in a dream.
Waits at the window, wearing a face that she keeps in a jar by the door.
Who is it for?
All the lonely people, where do they all come from?
All the lonely people, where do they all belong?
Father McKenzie, writing the words to a sermon that no one will hear.
No one comes near.
Look at him working, darning his socks in the night when there's nobody there.
Nobody cares.
All the lonely people, where do they all come from?
All the lonely people, where do they all belong?
Eleanor Rigby died in the church and was buried along with her name.
Nobody came.
Father McKenzie wiping the dirt from his hands as he walks from the grave.
No one was saved.
All the lonely people, where do they all come from?
All the lonely people, where do they all belong?
Ah, look at all the lonely people!