MRS. POOLE: Nothing about a murder investigation is respectable.
“Let’s have the man who found her first,” said Holmes. Lestrade brought Poor Richard over to a corner of the pub where Holmes had gathered several chairs around a table: one for himself, one for Lestrade, one for the person they were questioning. Mary found herself another chair and sat discreetly behind Holmes, where she could see Poor Richard’s face as he was interrogated. Diana perched on the edge of a stool, and Watson leaned against the wall. Mary sent up a silent prayer: For goodness’ sake, just let Diana stay quiet. She wanted to hear what Poor Richard had to say.
BEATRICE: How did you manage to keep Diana quiet all that time?
DIANA: I can be quiet when I want to. I wanted to hear what they were talking about too.
“Now then,” said Holmes, when Poor Richard was sitting across from him. “How did you find the body of this girl, Molly Keane?”
“Well, it was like this, sir. I wandered into the alley to have a smoke, and just stumbled across her, like,” he said in a thin, high voice. It was not the voice Mary had expected, coming out of what was still a large man, under all his rags. “Then I told Jim, here”—he gestured back toward the landlord behind the bar, who nodded—“and he called the constable on duty. That’s all I know, sir.” He stared at Holmes with bloodshot eyes, and Mary noticed that his hands on the table were trembling.
“That won’t do, you know,” said Holmes, smiling at him, not unkindly. “I want the truth from you, no more, no less. The sleeve of your coat is stained with blood. If you don’t tell me how you discovered Molly Keane, I shall have Sergeant Debenham arrest you on suspicion of her murder.”
To Mary’s astonishment, Poor Richard put his head in his hands and began to sob. And yes, there, she could see it—the cuff of his coat, a faded tweed that had seen better days, was streaked with red. She must become more observant, like Mr. Holmes. When she had first met him, shooting so theatrically at the wall, she had dismissed him as a charlatan. But now that she was seeing him in action, she had to admire his powers of observation and deduction. If only she could develop such abilities in herself . . .
DIANA: You’d better not let him see this chapter. I don’t know what His Nosiness would think of being called a charlatan. He’s so used to being worshipped by Dr. Watson and anyone who reads The Strand!
MARY: He knows perfectly well what I thought of him, at first. And he knows my opinion’s changed since then.
“None of that,” said Lestrade. “You’ll answer the question, or it’s off to gaol with you.”
“It’s all right,” said Holmes. “Here, landlord, bring this man a pint of your best ale, on me. Shall I tell you what you did last night? You can tell me whether I’m right or not.”
Poor Richard raised his head and nodded. The prospect of ale seemed to have restored his spirits.
“You had been drinking, as you often do. One can’t mistake the red nose of the habitual drunkard. You knew there was a doorway at the back of the alley, and that it was sufficiently hidden so you could sleep there without being told to move on. Perhaps you had slept there before—I suspect it’s one of your regular spots. So you stumbled into the alley and fell asleep. You were still asleep when two men brought Molly Keane into the alley and murdered her, but I think they must have woken you enough that you stirred, or made some noise. I conjecture that’s what sent them running from the alley. They had not thought anyone would be there. Do you remember seeing or hearing them?”
“You’re right enough,” said Poor Richard. “I fell asleep in that doorway, although how you know it, I have no idea.”
“You were telling the truth when you said that you had a smoke,” replied Holmes. “You sat in that doorway smoking before you fell asleep. I found your match where you tossed it, and you dropped ashes in the doorway, where they would not be washed away by the rain. There are identical ashes on the front of your coat and that scarf around your neck. The ash from pipe tobacco is easily distinguished from the ash of a cigar or cigarette, and I note the general shape of a pipe in your breast pocket. A man does not sit and smoke his pipe in a dark alley, but he might well do so at sunset, as he prepares for sleep. It was obvious that you had entered the alley while it was still light, then fallen asleep in the doorway. Several threads from your coat were caught on a splinter in the door. I deduced a man in a tweed coat who was a pipe smoker, and here you are. That you slept in the doorway without waking is evident from your trousers, which are still damp from the knees down. The doorway was a large one, but you’re a tall man, and your legs stuck out at an angle, into the rain. Not even being cold and wet could wake you, intoxicated as you were.”
“Well, I don’t remember waking,” said Poor Richard. “If I had seen a woman being murdered, I would never have spent the night there. It gives me the shivers just thinking about it, her body lying there in the darkness while I slept. Do you think she’ll haunt me, sir?”
“But you must have touched her,” said Mary. “I’ve been wondering how you could have gotten blood on your cuff, and that’s the only way.”
“Is that true?” said Lestrade. “If I find that you’ve taken anything from the murder victim . . .”
“Ah, pity an old man!” said Poor Richard, rapidly searching through his coat pockets and bringing out a dirty handkerchief. “Here, this is all I took!” He shook the handkerchief, and out fell a sovereign, shiny except where blood crusted the edges. “I found it lying beside her on the ground. It must have fallen out of her hand, or her pocket. But that’s all, I swear! I had nothing to do with her murder.” He wiped his eyes and blew his nose loudly.
“Well done, Miss Jekyll,” said Holmes. “Molly Keane was paid handsomely, no doubt to entice her to her death. I believe we’ve gotten as much as we can out of you, my man. Consider yourself free to go. Unless Lestrade wants a beggar taking up space in his prison, I see no reason to detain you.”
Lestrade was not interested in holding Poor Richard. After the old man had stumbled out of the pub, he said, “I can’t see that half-wit removing a woman’s brain. He’s well known in this area, and the local constable will keep an eye on him. He may know more about this murder than he’s letting on, but if those men were his confederates, I want him out of prison so he can lead us to them. He’s more use to us out of prison than in.”
The girl was a different proposition than Old Richard. “Call me Kate,” she said. “That’s what I’m known by, and I won’t be telling you my last name, if it’s all the same to you, sir. Kate Bright-Eyes is what they call me around here, and that’s good enough for you, I reckon. The less you tell the police, the better, I find. But I’ll tell you about poor Molly. She may have been on the streets, but she didn’t deserve to be treated like that.”