Sherlock Holmes The Bewildered Murderer Case
By Evangelia- Raphaelia Stefanaki Maria Stratoudaki Smaragdi Tzanidaki Christianna Traetoraki Yannis Tsaganos
Mentor: Amalia Chompi
“Let’s Be Sherlock” eTwinning Project May 2019
4 July 1888 It was a cold, windy evening at 221B Baker Street. Being indifferent and impassive Holmes was sitting on a couch gazing at the living room walls. Watson, who was sitting in an armchair in front of the fireplace, approached him with that day’s newspaper in his hands trying to trigger off his friend’s reaction and prevent him from taking his usual dose of drugs. “Sherlock, look at these news reports!” he said vigorously. “A real tragedy! An acrobat of the Royal Circus died during the performance. They suspect that it was a murder. However, there is another report far more interesting than that … A rich man got on a carriage, but, when he realised that it was heading the wrong way, he tried to inform the coachman only to find out that he had been slaughtered. He started calling for help and luckily a policeman managed to stop the carriage.” “What a pile of idiots police officers can be at times!” Sherlock commented scornfully. “If he hadn’t stopped the horse, it would have taken them to the real offender,” he yelled. “At last!” Watson thought, but being eager to minimize even the slightest chance of Holmes’s drug abuse he went on to ask, “Have you heard about the high society burglar?” As Watson realised that he had sparked his interest in the matter, he went on explaining that this thief broke into wealthy people’s houses, while they were away, to steal just one valuable object.
Suddenly the doorbell rang. Watson opened the door to a young tall man wearing glasses. “I’m begging you for help, Mr. Holmes!” said the young man introducing himself as Gerald Lock. “Three days ago, Guy Clarendon was murdered at the Holiday Hotel. It’s inconceivable, but Miss Frances Nolan has been accused for that murder and imprisoned at the Criminal Court in Old Bailey”. “I was just about to mention it, Holmes,” said Watson showing the newspaper article.
“I can’t believe that she can murder anyone, even a scum like Guy Clarendon,” Gerald pointed out. “I am shocked! A scum? I’ve heard nothing of the sort. On the contrary, people speak highly of young Clarendon who is the offspring of an eminent family and has excelled at sports, namely cricket and fencing,” said Watson. “He was a wretch! He loved gambling and drinking and was associated with scoundrels from the East End. His father had practically disinherited him. I tried to warn Francis that the only reason behind his approach was her money, but to no avail,” added Gerald. All at once Holmes stopped daydreaming. He perked up and assertively said, “Frank and Loretta Nolan! The heirs of Sir Malcolm Nolan, founder of a company called ‘Aberdeen Navigation’. Both Sir Malcolm and Lady Nolan were killed when an anarchist called Zagent Joblink, a Russian activist and friend of Sergey Nechayev’s threw a bomb in their carriage as he wanted to show his loyalty to the Nechayev’s group. He thought that the Duke of York, a passionate supporter of conservatism, was in it. Loretta, Sir Malcolm’s daughter, who was four or five years old at that time, was in that carriage as well, but miraculously she was not injured. Yes, the sordid details of the murder along with the significant asset disposal became a topic in every newspaper and the public talked about it. Mr. Lock, you are a suitor for Miss Nolan, aren’t you?”. "Yes, I have proposed to her," Lock admitted. “But why has Miss Nolan been accused of the murder?” “Hmm, well … She was found bending over the corpse holding a gun," Lock finally said hesitantly. Sherlock nodded, took the paper clipping about the coachman’s murder in his hands again, thought for a while and finally said, "I'm sorry Mr. Lock, but I can't personally undertake your case. There is another serious problem that has to be dealt with." He assured Mr. Lock that he was left in capable hands and then went into his bedroom leaving Lock and Watson totally speechless. “Hmm … well, Mr. Lock,” stuttered Dr. Watson as soon as he managed to recover from surprise. “Please, forgive … well … as Holmes has just indicated, we’ll move heaven and earth in order to find the truth. You don’t have to worry about anything,” he added trying to persuade Mr. Lock, without much success. “Well, Watson,” said Sherlock when he came out of his bedroom. “I think you’ve eventually convinced me. I’ll help you. But if we are to solve this case, we have to collect evidence. So, why don’t you escort me to the Holiday Hotel first thing in the morning?” “OK, Sherlock. Let’s enjoy our brandy now.”
Early in the morning the detective and his friend set off for the hotel. The hotel manager was too irritated about the presence of the police to speak to them, but the receptionist was more than willing to help them out. “The gentleman in question checked in giving the name of Clarence Guy on May 29. He was given a room at the front of the hotel, on the 3rd floor. Two days later he asked to move to Suite 205. While staying there he received only two visitors as far as I know. One of them was a very detestable guy. He was a husky built man. He had a thick and long moustache and a scar on his cheek. He arrived here on June 1, that is the same day that Mr. Guy, I mean Mr. Clarendon, moved. He simply came, sat on a sofa in the lobby and waited. I watched him, but to tell you the truth, I was hesitant about approaching and asking him what he wanted. Twenty minutes later, Mr. Clarendon came downstairs. As he was passing by, the big guy stopped him. I’m certain that I discerned fear on his face and was about to tell one of the bellboys to call the police when Mr. Clarendon signaled that everything was just fine. After discussing for a few minutes, they left together. I haven’t seen that man ever since. The second visitor, who used to come here very often, was a very impressive woman. She was dressed in a very fashionable way, and she let out a typical belly laugh. I have no idea who she was.”
“Could you tell us what happened on July 2?” “It was about 9:00 am when a woman entered the hotel. She seemed to be rather simple-minded and I wouldn’t have noticed her if she hadn’t got in from the main entrance and headed for the stairs without casting a glance around. Since people who don’t stay at the hotel aren’t usually permitted to visit its premises without reporting to the reception first, I was about to stop her, when Mr. Ramsey, a long-term tenant and real whinger, held me back. Hardly had 30 seconds passed when a woman’s scream was heard. I ran upstairs and, as soon as I reached the second floor, I saw that the corridor was full of tenants. They directed me to Room 205 and said that they had heard a slight noise before the scream. There I found Mr. Clarendon’s body and the lady I’ve already mentioned. She lay in the middle of the room alive but unconscious holding a gun. I brought her round with some whisky I found in the room. She was at a loss. She didn’t have a clue where she was or what she had done. When she saw Mr. Clarendon’s body, she screamed again and threw the gun as if it burnt her hand. I took her to an empty room and called the police.” “Could we possibly see the crime scene?” Sherlock asked politely. “Of course, Sir!” the receptionist answered promptly. He told a bellboy to show them the suite. Sherlock started asking the boy questions and got some interesting pieces of information. First of all, he had just changed his night shift into a day one. Secondly, the main entrance of the hotel was locked at 10:00 pm. If tenants or visitors came to the hotel later, they had to ring the bell so that the boys working the night shift would let them in. Clarendon, who led an exemplary life, was always back before 10:00. A police constable let them enter the two-room suite but kept an eye on them all the time. The walls of the living area were covered with a slightly faded flowery wallpaper while the ceiling was covered with yellowish plaster. The constable indicated the bedroom doorway as the spot where the body had been found. There was some blood on the carpet and a much bigger stain had been caused by the wine of two dropped glasses, one of which was broken. In the middle of the area, about 15 ft. away, there were small pieces of yellow plaster. Sherlock started looking for evidence but he found nothing but a folded Cox Bank document in the top drawer of Clarendon’s desk. “Well, Watson! I don’t think there is anything else to be found here,” said Sherlock expressing his disappointment. “Let’s visit Miss Nolan at the Criminal Court in Old Bailey.”
Being in solitary confinement in a grey cell of the Court, young Francis Nolan looked very miserable and puzzled about her current situation. She couldn’t believe how things had gone so horribly wrong. As soon as Sherlock had asked her about the incident, she yelled, “I don’t remember anything except that I saw Guy’s body on the floor and the gun in my hand. I let out a scream and must have fainted. I didn’t even know that he was at the hotel and I’ve never been there before. Why am I suspected of shooting him? We were in love!”
Watson intervened and tried to calm her down. “Well, first things first, Miss,” said Sherlock calmly as soon as she had somehow composed herself. “What is the last thing you remember before the incident in the Holiday Hotel suite?” “I remember going to bed the previous night. On Sunday evenings I always have dinner with Dr. Trevelyan at home. He has been treating my sister Loretta for years and these weekly meetings have to do with the progress of her health. The doctor and I have become friends over the years. That night Dr. Trevelyan left at 10 o’clock. At 11:00, my maid Grace made me a cup of cocoa. I drank it, read in bed for a while, and then fell asleep.” “How long have you known Guy Clarendon?” “I first met him at Cornelius Oldwine’s country house in March. There was a party and my sister climbed a 20 ft. fountain and dived into the water. She got pneumonia and I had to bring her back home. Mr. Guy attended that party, too.” “Did he start flirting with you straight away?” “No, he didn’t actually seem to have noticed me. I was astonished by his visit a few weeks later. It was a fabulous afternoon, May 10. He apologised for having dared to visit me without notice. We started going out quite often. We went riding, went on picnics or dined out together. He confessed his love for me and asked me to marry him. I could never kill him!” “How can you explain your presence at the Holiday Hotel?” “I can’t, but I have to admit that I had two similar experiences in the past.” “Do you mean that you have had memory lapses before?” “Yes, twice last month. The first time I found myself sitting on a bench in Hyde Park. It was late afternoon and the last thing I remember was having dinner with my sister. I had a second memory lapse a few days later. That morning I met my lawyer, Hiram Davenport. That’s the last thing I remember before waking up at Liverpool Station. I consulted my doctor, Dr. Maison, and he seemed to be particularly concerned. He advised me to have a rest.” “Where did you find the gun?” “I’ve never seen it before although the police have assured me that it is mine.” “One last question, Miss Nolan. What’s your relationship with Gerald Lock?” “Jerry is an old good friend. Unfortunately, we’ve fallen out and lost contact because he spoke very badly of Guy.” “Thanks a lot, Miss Nolan. We’ll inform you about the progress of our investigation. Come on, Watson! It’s about time to pay a visit to Dr. Trevelyan, don’t you think?” said Sherlock leaving the cell.
Dr. Trevelyan was an athletic man and his movements and gestures were very accurate. He had penetrating, sparkling eyes, and he seemed to be able to guess your deepest thoughts, which was rather annoying. When he saw the two visitors, he sank into the chair of his desk, fumbled for his fob watch and asked them how he could help them. “We’ve been informed that you had dinner with Miss Nolan on July 1. Is that right?” “Yes. I have dinner with her every Sunday. Her sister Loretta has been treated by me for about 10 years, firstly at Mesmer-Brade Institute and then in my private clinic. I meet Miss Francis
once a week in order to inform her about her sister’s health progress, but what has started as a professional obligation has become a pleasant meeting of friends over the years. Well, if I may say so, it’s hard for me to believe that Miss Francis committed such a crime. She is a calm and trusting person. One could describe her as a little mouse, not very politely though. An action with such tension and confrontation is something unlike her.” “Are the two sisters close?” “I’m not sure. They lead very different and separate lives. Miss Francis lives a peaceful one, while Miss Loretta is rather wild and flashy. Francis stays at home, but Loretta never misses a party. Each girl’s laugh reveals their differences. Francis’s laugh is slight; it almost sounds like a whisper. Loretta’s laugh, on the other hand, is a belly, husky one, a burst of completely uninhibited laughter. However, Francis cares about her sister just like a parent, so Miss Loretta often takes refuge in her house and loves her to the extent she can love anyone.” “Thank you, Doctor,” said both the visitors leaving the place. “Well, what are we going to do next, Sherlock?” asked Watson hoping that this one was their last visit for that day. “Hmm … We should certainly visit that lawyer of Miss Nolan’s. I suppose that he can answer a lot of our questions. Let’s take a carriage!”
After a 15-minute ride, they arrived at Hiram Davenport’s office. The secretary told them that her boss was busy and asked them to wait for a while. Two hours had passed before Sherlock and Watson were finally taken to Mr. Davenport. He apologised for the delay with a rather guilty innocence and asked them to sit down. He added he was ready to answer any question they would like to pose. “Miss Nolan has told us that you are her lawyer. Is that true?” inquired Sherlock who was rather irritated by the long wait. “Yes, I’m Francis and Loretta’s lawyer even though I haven’t helped the latter enough ever since she came of age.” “Have you managed the assets left by their father for them?” “That’s right! Their father divided the one-third of Aberdeen Steam Navigation Company shares he had into two parts and gave each girl one half. I managed those assets as a trust until both of them came of age. Since then I’ve done my best to consult them.” “Owning the one-sixth of that company must have made them very rich.” “That’s absolutely true for Francis, but I regret to say that Loretta thought it was a good idea to sell all her shares against my advice. Now I’m afraid that her finances are not the ones that could be.” “Do you remember an occasion of meeting Miss Francis last month on which she lost consciousness?”
For a moment the lawyer seemed to be confused. Then he answered: “Well, I had a meeting with both Francis and Loretta last month and Miss Francis suddenly left. It seemed quite strange to me at the time, but he didn’t lose consciousness or whatever.” “Could you describe that meeting, please?” “We were in the middle of our conversation when I was called up to another office for a serious issue. I was gone … hmm … for 20 minutes. When I returned, Miss Francis gave me a very curious glance, thanked me, said that it was very nice to meet me again, or something of the like, and left. Miss Loretta laughed uproariously and left, too.” “Thank you very much, Mr. Davenport. Have a nice evening!” said Sherlock as he was about to leave the room. “And now what?” asked Watson impatiently. “I can see you’re beginning to lose your temper, Watson,” said Sherlock quietly. “Remember that patience is bitter, but its fruit is sweet. I have to visit one more person before this case is solved.” As soon as he had uttered those words, he got on the first carriage he found leaving the doctor behind under orders to wait for him at home.
Sherlock headed for an inn on City Road. He wanted to see its keeper, Mr. Porky Shinwell. He found him standing behind a cluttered front desk. As soon as the middle-aged stocky man saw the detective, he reached out and shook his hand saying, “It’s an honour to have you here, Sir. It’s a fact that your reputation precedes you. Well, what can I do for you?” “I’d like to ask you some questions if you don’t mind” “I’d be more than happy to help.” “Did you happen to know Guy Clarendon?” “Of course, I knew him. He and his girlfriend used to come by the inn every now and then, usually on their way to the Kilgore Playroom or back from it.” “What’s that?” The manager giggled and went on to say, “It’s a favourite haunt of aristocrats and wealthy people. The police have been trying to close it down for years, but its owner, Kilgore, always gets informed and takes the necessary measures every time they are 3 blocks away. Clarendon was said to owe Kilgore a considerable amount of money - about £7,000, I think. He had reached the point where Kilgore didn’t let him in any more. Clarendon didn’t like that at all. A quarrel between these two had almost broken out when Gas Bullock, Kilgore’s right-hand man, intervened. Clarendon drew back. He had a good excuse. Gas is just a caveman. Actually, there is a joke about him. Once someone expressed the wish to see the guy who had left a scar on his face. He was told that the guy’s widow had the same wish.” At this point Porky burst out laughing. “Anyway,” he soon went on, “Kilgore made it clear that he wanted his money back and the atmosphere got very tense. After a month or so, Clarendon appeared at the Playroom once again, but something must have changed in the meantime, because he smiled at everyone broadly and the ex-opponents treated each other like siblings. I suppose Clarendon must have paid him. While things seemed to have turned out well, Calvin Leech turned up.” “Who’s Calvin Leech?” “Well, Leech is believed to be a fence. He is also said to be a good trader as he gives you half the actual price of the item. Of course, Calvin Leech isn’t used to having business deals with fellows like Claude Kilgore, but that’s not the case here! Leech, Kilgore and Clarendon used to meet late at night after everybody had gone to bed. These meetings were held regularly until the evening before Clarendon’s murder.” “Were these meetings held at the Raven and Rat Inn?”
“Well, I can’t say for sure. But I’ll tell you that what I’ve told you so far is true; I swear to God. Well, we’ve been here for so long chatting without you ordering anything. What would you like to have?”
Half an hour later Sherlock was on his way back home. He tried to clear his mind and organise his thoughts. The evening breeze helped a lot. By the time he arrived at 221B Baker St., he had solved the case. He was eager to let Watson know about the results of his investigation thus removing his worry about not having been able to help poor Lock. He found his friend sitting in the old armchair in front of the fireplace looking at some notes he had made. As soon as the detective had entered the room, Watson turned around, looked at Sherlock and said, “Holmes, I’ve had trouble solving Clarendon’s case. Could you, please, help me?” Sherlock frowned. After a few minutes he sighed deeply, looked at his friend and the features of his face softened. “Of course, Watson,” he said softly. “How can I help?” It was obvious that he had changed his mind about revealing the truth right away. So, he let Watson describe all the evidence they had found together for about 20 minutes. When the doctor finished, Holmes broke his silence. “Good job, Watson. You’ve managed to solve two cases for Scotland Yard although I doubt that Lestrade will be grateful to you for that.” “Have I?” asked the doctor having a bewildered expression on his face. “Yes, indeed … Clarendon owed £7,000 to a gambler named Kilgore. Unfortunately, he couldn’t give him the money because he had fallen in disgrace and his father had disinherited him. Kilgore’s right-hand man, Gas Bullock, a very dangerous man, went around the area where the Clarendon’s house is and bullied young Guy. In order to solve his problem, the latter started burgling. His victims were people of his circle, whose social comings and goings he knew very well and whose houses he had visited. He bought a black jumper and black trousers, painted a pair of fencing shoes black and decided that he needed an operations centre. Perhaps it was Bullock’s intimidating presence that made him want to hide. Anyway, he chose the Holiday Hotel. Clarendon arrived at the hotel and spent a day inspecting the place. It was important for him to change the room he was first given with another at the back of the building, the wall of which has a trellis covered with branches of creepers which very conveniently end in his bedroom window. On June 1, Bullock, who had discovered Clarendon’s elegant hideout, met him in the lobby of the hotel. Clarendon had just withdrawn £5,000 which he had been given by his father and went to Kilgore in order to pay his debt off. That was the first time that the “High Society Burglar” had struck. Clarendon, Kilgore and Calvin Leech, the notorious fence, were seen together. Given that half the value of the first three stolen items totalled £2,000 and taking into consideration that Leech always gives his clients half the actual price of the item, Clarendon could easily repay Kilgore. Without a debt any more, he could make some money
for himself, which is proved by his banking transactions. What I mean is that Clarendon made a deposit the very next day of the following three burglaries. The motif of the burglaries is explicit. Clarendon chose the target and the evening and informed Leech. That evening he appeared at the Holiday Hotel long before 10:00 in order to establish his alibi, wore his work clothes and left the hotel using the trellis. As soon as he had committed the burglary, he came back, changed clothes again and met Leech. The following day he deposited his share. That motif was interrupted on July 1, the evening that the Cleopatra tiara was stolen. Loretta Nolan, Clarendon’s accomplice for years, found out about the burglaries, and she must have taken part in them. Her belly, husky laugh betrayed her presence at the Holiday Hotel. Shortly after the fifth burglary, they organised another two. The first one was Clarendon’s idea and had to do with the tiara while the second was planned by Dr. Trevelyan. Actually, the good doctor who has been treating Loretta by hypnosis for years learnt about the dark side of Clarendon during a session with his patient. He spotted his chance of getting rid of an annoying rival for Francis Nolan’s fortune, which he was determined to acquire at all costs. In the evening of July 1, he climbed up the trellis, slunk into Clarendon’s bedroom armed with a derringer gun and waited for him to come back. Clarendon returned from his night work and, while he was pouring himself some wine to celebrate the event, Trevelyan killed him and took the last stolen item, the Cleopatra tiara, exploiting the situation. Immediately after that he visited Francis. Having a profound knowledge of the technique and due to the drugs he gave her pretending that he was merely providing a tranquilizer, he hypnotised her. Then he ordered her to go to Clarendon’s bedroom with the derringer gun and shoot the ceiling. With Clarendon having been knocked off and Francis facing death penalty, the fortune of the latter would be inherited by her sister, Loretta. It would be a piece of cake for Trevelyan to take advantage of Loretta’s mental weakness and drain all her money from her, especially now that Clarendon doesn’t exist to lure her into extremes that would cost a lot of money. If you inform Lestrade, I’m pretty sure he will find out that the tiara is still in his possession.”
Having uttered these words, Holmes let out a deep sigh. He suddenly seemed exhausted. The spark of energy and interest ignited by Watson’s plea for help had almost been died out. For a moment he stood still and silent looking at himself in the mirror. There was no doubt that he was thinking about his failure to solve the case of the murdered coachman. Finally, he made for his room, muttering, “I think I have to get some rest.” Reaching the door, he stopped and whispered, “Watson, bring me the needle, please”.