Sherlock Holmes: and the Mystery of the Broken Window

  Sherlock Holmes and the Mystery of the Broken Window

  William Todd

  1

  As Sherlock Holmes, in a persistently argumentative mood as of late, has gone to visit—and more than likely annoy—his brother Mycroft, I sit here in blissful yet rare silence, pouring over the volumes of cases, some of which may never see the light of day. I revel in the shear accomplishment of my dear friend. In the years since we first took up residence here at Baker Street innumerable characters have pleaded their cases in this very room. All piqued Holmes’s intellect to one extent or another. They were his test tubes in the chemistry set of life. None, it seems to me, could elicit from his stalwart countenance anything akin to empathy. That is not to say that he did not care for the well being of these people. On several occasions, when either his services were summoned too late or clues were not presenting themselves in a timely manner and tragedy ensued—such as that curious case of The Five Orange Pips—Holmes became even more tenacious in his duty to place the guilty parties in the dock. His compassion was shown through the application of his unique abilities that brought about justice that oft times slipped through more authoritative hands.

  But there was one case that I feel, as his raconteur, shows a more human side to that genius of deduction and logic. There have only been a handful of events during the years we have spent together that elicited emotions that Holmes often said were detestable to the machinations of a mind such as his. But it warmed me immensely to be a part of those occasions, for they steeled my fondness of the man. In this particular account, it was brought out, albeit briefly, by a golden-haired fifteen-year-old girl, whose name was Fiona Hopkins.

  It was during the summer of ’84, a Tuesday afternoon, the sixteenth of July. Each of us was engrossed in our own separate tasks, he at his beakers and Bunsen burners and I at wallowing through the trudge that is London news. A cooling breeze was wafting the curtains of the open window, letting in the hustle and bustle from Baker Street below.

  “I fancy we shall be receiving company shortly,” said Holmes never looking up from his experiment.

  “Now how on earth can you know that?” I asked as I pulled the paper from my line of sight.

  He nodded to the open window.

  “And what do you make of all that dissonance?” I asked, my curiosity piqued.

  “Come now, Watson. Do you not hear the hansom on the street below?”

  “I hear several. How do you know any of them are for us?”

  He stretched his lean neck, bending his ear slightly closer to the window. “It is no different scrutinizing evidence to see which is relevant and which is happenstance. The cacophony below is the evidence to our ear. We must discard that which isn’t needed and decipher that which is left. Do you not hear the slowing of the hooves, the increase in its timbre, as it nears and halts below?”

  “I will take you at your word, but what makes you think that particular hansom has us in mind?”

  Just as he was about to offer up an explanation, there was a ring at the bell downstairs.

  Holmes smirked, and I for my turn just shook my head in amazement.

  “My powers of supposition are rather strong, my dear Watson. Without it, an investigation will never get off the ground. With it, you have as equal a chance at being wrong as you do right. I usually like my odds.”

  Just then, Mrs. Hudson hurried in a young man no older than twenty.

  I apologize for my rudeness, madam,” he said to her, “but time is of the essence.”

  He then looked upon each of us and implored, “Mr. Holmes, Mr. Holmes!”

  “I am the one you are in search of,” said Holmes with a slight bow. “This is my associate Dr. Watson. Whatever you mean to say, you can say with confidence in his company.”

  The young man’s chest was heaving and for a moment, I saw faint in his large, wide-set eyes. But he was a strapping lad and recovered himself quickly. Sandy, disheveled hair pushed awkwardly forward on his brow and meager attire that was hastily adorned added to his look of distress.

  “Please, sit,” Holmes offered as he motioned to an armchair near the hearth and set down his experiment. “Tell us what leaves you winded and pale.”

  “I’ll fetch the brandy,” said I.

  “Splendid idea, Watson. Our new acquaintance could use some color in his cheeks.”

  “My name,” the young man said between panting breaths, “is Stanley Hopkins.”

  “Well, how may we be of service to you, Stanley Hopkins?” said Holmes as he took the other chair opposite him. “Other than knowing that you are presently learning to be a blue dyer in a calico printing shop, and that you have traveled from some eastern county, possibly Kent, I am at a loss.”

  “You are indeed everything and more than what I’ve heard. You are right on both accounts, but how did you know?”

  “Strip away that which is superfluous,” replied Holmes, “and what remains is the bedrock of truth. The combination of your young age and the blue tinge to your fingertips, which you have tried mightily to scrub away but to no avail, tells me that you are still in the process of learning your trade, an apprentice. I fancy myself an adequate chemist and can tell that the dye on your hands is indigo, which is used in calico printing. And, since it has rained recently, given the accounts from the papers, only along the eastern shores due to a persistent storm in the North Sea, counties with such rich, dark soil, such as what has not quite dried on your boot tip, there, tells me that was your origination. Any area outside, say an hour’s train ride away, would have given the mud on your boot ample time to dry, so I know you live within an hour of London. But that is all rather mundane information. Now, onto your business here, Mr. Hopkins.”

  “It is my sister. She . . . she’s missing. I believe she’s been abducted!”

  “When was she discovered missing?”

  “Only this morning. She was last seen at just before ten last evening when we were getting ready for bed.”

  “How old is your sister?”

  “Fifteen.”

  “And you are sure that she did not leave of her own accord?”

  “I am positive that when I explain the entire situation to you, Mr. Holmes, that you will no doubt come to the same conclusion as myself.”

  The young man nodded his thanks and quickly downed the brandy I had given him. He went on to say, “I have heard of your remarkable ability, Mr. Holmes, and in a year’s time fancy myself to be a comparable detective with the Yard when I am of age to join. That is why I have come to you straightway first. Though it took quite some debate with my mother to convince her of it, no authorities have, as yet, been notified out of my fear that they would do more harm than good and boggle up the crime scene.”

  A small grin creased Holmes’ sinewy face. “You have done superbly in just that decision alone, my dear Stanley.”

  “I shall tell you all I know, and I am certain you will be able to make heads or tails of it once my story is completed. If you are willing, sir, I can give you recompense in payments, as we have nothing saved. I will pay whatever you ask, if only you can find my sister.”

  “Do not worry about any payments,” said Holmes, waving off the thought. “My coffers at the present are sufficient to attend to this little dilemma pro bono publico. I would like to hear this tale; however, I believe it would be prudent to talk and travel simultaneously. If your sister has indeed been abducted, then no minute can be wasted.”

  As he grabbed his hat from its hook, Holmes said to me, “Watson, would you be so kind as to bring your medical bag? Experience tells me that you may be needed as well in a
medical capacity.”

  He then picked up the Bradshaw from the mantle and consulted it briefly.

  “Ah,” he said. “There is a train leaving Charing Cross for Cliversham in twenty minutes. A good taxi will get us to the station just in time.”

  Young Mr. Hopkins shot me a most curious look when he fell in line as we left Baker Street.

  “But how on earth did he know down to the exact town in which I live?” he whispered to me.

  “Sir,” said I as Holmes fetched a four-wheeler, “there are certain mysteries upon this earth that we may never solve. Count this man’s remarkable gift as one.”

  2

  Everyone was in a somber silence as the taxi sped through the crowded streets of London. The downcast look upon Stanley Hopkins’ face, as he sat jostling about his seat, stole his youthful appearance; he seemed twice his true age.

  We made the station with no time to spare and settled down for the three-quarter hour train-ride to Cliversham. It was then that Sherlock Holmes pressed Stanley for more details of the case. He took up his usual stance—head bowed, fingers interlaced, brow furrowed introspectively. “Tell me everything you know and leave out nothing no matter how trivial the detail may be to you. A mountain of knowledge can be gleaned from the tiniest of details.”

  “Well, Mr. Holmes,” said Stanley, “I am nineteen myself, and as I mentioned earlier my sister is but fifteen. Her name is Fiona.”

  Just at the mention of her name, Stanley’s countenance brightened considerably.

  “She is a wonderful person with the beauty of no other female of my acquaintance, Mr. Holmes, and she is not wont of attention from boys her age and unfortunately men twice her age and more. It has always worried me that someone might take advantage of her innocence. Fiona will talk freely to anyone who will lend an ear and makes no judgment of anyone based on how they dress. She is truly a human flower if ever there was one.”

  I noticed that Holmes had unfolded his index fingers and began tapping them together impatiently. “The fondness you have of your sister is duly-noted, young Mr. Hopkins,” said he, “but facts will put forth a hypothesis and facts are what I require, at the moment.”

  “Of course. First off, let me say that we three—my mother, my sister, and myself—are the only occupants in the house. My father died over a year ago of Tuberculosis. He was a tide-waiter at Cliversham Port. We never had much money but did alright by ourselves. It has been a much rougher go since his death, which is why I’ve taken on being a blue dyer. Mother bakes, and we have a small garden in the back yard. These goods she takes and sells at market.

  “The day yesterday started out rather badly when a ruffian in the public park next to our home threw a rock through Fiona’s window during the night before just after sunset. It happened during a lull in the inclement weather.”

  “Did you see this ruffian?” asked Holmes.

  “I did not,” replied Stanley.

  “Then how, pray tell, did you know it was a ruffian?”

  “There are a fair share of the seedy sort that spend their days in that park. Who else besides a hooligan would do such a thing?”

  “Who else indeed,” replied Holmes dryly.

  “Anyway, after cleaning up the glass, I was going to board up the window until I could save enough money to pay for a new one, but mother said to leave the window as it was. I think she had hoped the brisk breezes would help dry out some of the dampness in the house.”

  “Was she not worried that more bad weather would produce the opposite effect?” I asked.

  “My sister’s bedroom is on the south side of the house, and the current rains are coming from the north. Also, our roof overhangs considerably, and there are many large trees that line the park to our south. These trees have large branches that overhang onto our lot, and these act as a further shield from the elements. It would be a terrible storm indeed coming up from the south that would deposit rain into her room.”

  “Did anything out of the ordinary happen other than the broken window?” asked Holmes.

  “As far as I know the day was no better, no worse than any other. I went to work, while mother and Fiona baked and tended the garden.

  “I came home after work and had some cold meats mother had set out for me. We all chatted the remainder of the evening away—”

  “Do you recall your conversations?” interrupted Holmes.

  Stanley gave Holmes a momentary look of puzzlement before his face brightened. “Ah, yes—all details, no matter how small. Well, I believe mother had mentioned seeing Fiona having conversation with the MP Kigge. He has a country home on a large parcel of land on the opposite side of the park. Fiona will often stop his carriage when he is in town to bend his ear about the local plight.”

  “I can’t say that I am up on every Member of Parliament. Is that name familiar to you, Watson?”

  “Eustace Kigge,” said I knowingly. “I believe he has some minor bills up for debate in the House of Commons. I read as much in the Times a day or two ago.”

  “And how does MP Kigge take to his carriage being usurped by strong-willed young women?” Holmes then asked the young man.

  “He seems to take it in stride, Mr. Holmes. He usually gives a very blithe and vague assurance to do what he can for whatever problem with which she confronts him and off he goes, once again.”

  There at once seemed to be a shadow of apprehension that passed over the young man’s features, and Holmes did not let the event elapse without notice. “Is there something about Mr. Kigge that tosses your mind about?” he asked.

  “Not so much him, Mr. Holmes, as his son, whom he often has with him. His name is Randolph. He is approaching your age, I would guess. He is very pale and sickly, with the perpetually grim features of one on constant drink or possibly opium. His deep, sunken, dull eyes always seem to be locked on Fiona like a hawk on a rabbit. He says little, but the way he looks upon Fiona un-nerves me. “

  “If your sister is indeed as comely as you say, would it not be natural that he gaze upon the most appealing object in his vicinity?”

  “I suppose you are correct. It is the ranting of a very protective brother. With father gone, it is up to me to keep our home safe, and I fear I’ve miserably failed.”

  I placed a sympathetic hand on his shoulder.

  “Was this Randolph with Mr. Kigge yesterday?” asked Holmes.

  Regaining himself Stanley said, “There was no mention of him in conversation, but it is very unusual for Kigge to be in town without his son.”

  A thought then occurred to me, which I endeavored to have clarified. “You mention the man and his son but no wife. Was it always just the two of them?”

  Holmes slapped his knee, “Good question, Watson! You give yourself too little credit in your ability to gain knowledge of my methods. Young Stanley, please answer the good doctor’s interrupting, yet completely adequate question.”

  “The MP has been a widower for some ten years now and has never remarried.”

  “Very good. Were there any other person or persons with whom your sister engaged?”

  “She has two neighborhood friends with whom she usually goes to the beach when she’s not helping mother: Julia Hutchins and Mary Marsby. And of course, there are the usual vagrants who wander through the park. She frequently chats them up for company, although when I am around I do my best to shield her from them, for some are hardened ex-sailors. Yes, I seem to remember Fiona saying that she had chased one out of garden with a broom earlier in the day. He was helping himself to our vegetables.”

  “Nothing more?”

  “Not that I can recall.”

  “You heard no noises in the night that may have seemed out of place?”

  “My room is at the bottom of the stairs, and there are several steps that creak something terrible when tread upon. I have always been a light sleeper and would bet my entire year’s wages, meager as they are, that no one could ascend or descend without my knowledge.”

 
; “And the rain?”

  “Well, it came and went in spurts throughout the day but it had stopped for good sometime before I got up this morning.”

  “Wonderful, young Mr. Hopkins. There are some telling bits of information raveled in your tale. I shall ponder them and see how they stack up to any physical evidence we may be fortunate to find.”

  All was quiet until the train was slowing into the station. As Holmes stretched, he pointed out the window to a large sandstone building off in the distance, girded round by rows of small pines.

  “That, Mr. Hopkins, is how I knew where you live. As I am a fan of your particular style of printing, I just happen to know that one of the largest calico printers in the whole of England, Wilson and Puckett Printing, resides right here in Cliversham. Your little hamlet is known for more than just its herring and its port.”

  “I wasn’t aware that you had heard my earlier inquiry, Mr. Holmes,” said Stanley taken aback.

  “One must use their ears in much the same way as their eyes. I see and hear much more than I am given credit for. Is that not right, Watson?”

  At that he smiled and nudged me with his elbow in jest.

  3

  We procured a four-wheeler and proceeded to 723 Beckham Lane, the home of the Hopkins family. It was at the lingering edges of the lane, near the outskirts of Cliversham, that we came upon two blocks of tattered, dun-coloured homes, the Hopkins home being the last in line before the sprawling Clyde Park.

  As our taxi stopped in front of the scrabbled, clapboard house, Stanley’s perpetually downcast features quickly fermented into anger. Several constables were milling around the side yard, taking notes, and rummaging through bushes next to a large stone wall.

  “Mother!” Stanley cried. “What have you done?”

  He jumped from the taxi and ran into the house.

  “So much for the scene of the crime,” said I, as I watched the uniformed men wallow through the soft earth.

  “Indeed,” lamented Holmes as he paid the driver. “Let us see if we can undo whatever mess the local force has created.”