Sherlock Holmes and the Conspicious Passenger

           It was during the late autumn of 1899 that Sherlock Holmes contracted Scarlet Fever from the docks, where he had been performing several investigations simultaneously. I spent over a week at 221 B Baker Street caring for my friend, and in time, he recovered. On the second day after his fever broke, I let him sit up in his favorite chair just as he used to.

“You need a holiday, my dear Holmes,” said I as I poured him some tea.

“Nonsense.” Sherlock replied. “You know very well that I thrive off of my work and that without it I would be obliged to take cocaine, much to your disapproval.”

“Nevertheless,” I persisted, “You really must have a vacation. You have been working nonstop for the past few years and-”

“It has been perfectly exhilarating.” Holmes interrupted. “The crown jewels of Malta recovered, Archibald Bronteau apprehended, the Dupont Will decoded… my career has never been finer.”

“True,” I conceded, “But if you wish it to continue, you really must take a holiday for your health. You know as well as I that when you are consumed in a case, you become rather negligent of such matters as eating and sleeping.”

           Sherlock waved his hand in the air dismissively.

“My constitution has carried me through admirably.”

“Well you cannot always expect it to do so,” said I. “As your doctor and your friend, I really do insist that you go to country for at least a week.”

           Holmes eyed me, somewhat petulantly, then sighed with great impatience.

“Very well, it seems that I must.”

“Splendid!” I was quite surprised that I had convinced him. “Where to, then? Yorkshire? Bath?”

           Sherlock considered for a moment.

“Cumbria,” he decided.

“Cumbria?”

“Yes. I was raised there, in Windermere. My parents owned a villa by the lake called Buran Lodge and I should like to see it again.”

“Excellent!” I said. “Unless things go very much askew, I would expect that you would be able to depart in a week.”

“You are coming with me, naturally.”

“Sherlock!” I gave a start. “I must tend to my practice; I can’t take a holiday!”

“You are my doctor.” Sherlock said innocently. “I may have a relapse, and then what would I do?”

           I was fully aware that Sherlock was bending all his delicate powers of manipulation to the task of convincing me.

“I really don’t know, Holmes.” I said. “I don’t believe that I can spare the time…”

Eight days later found me in a train with Holmes, speeding off towards Windermere. My wife had insisted that I too was in need of a holiday. Without further ado, the dear woman packed my suitcase and kissed me good-bye.

           I must confess that I was rather happy for the rest. My friend, too, seemed content to sit back and watch the scenery speed by. The sun was shining on the frosted trees, and the weather promised to be fine. I was quite satisfied in the knowledge that Sherlock would gain some much-needed rest during our stay in Cumbria.

           A young lady shared our box with us. She introduced herself as Imelda Dunsley and remained silent thereafter. Sherlock was his usual taciturn self, immersed in private thought. I turned to a thesis on brain fever for the occupation of my time. The three of us got on admirably well, and in complete silence.

           Two hours into our journey, a crisply-dressed man leaned into our box to speak to Miss Dunsley.

“Your father insisted on lemonade for you, ma’am. It is in the dining car whenever you wish it.”

           Our companion laughed aloud.

“Dear papa! Of course I shall come.”

           Miss Dunsley exited our box and I returned to my book. Sherlock’s voice interrupted me. He was sitting upright, his silver eyes alight.

“Something is up, mark my words.”

           His words did not come to fruition, though. Miss Dunsley returned to her seat and we rode on for nearly a half hour. At last, Holmes stood up and stretched.

“What do you say Watson? How about a jaunt through the cars?”

           I agreed heartily, my thesis have lost some of its original appeal. Sherlock and I strolled through the train, I enjoying the lavish decorations and my companion drawing silent conclusions about the passengers. His eyes darted about, resting on both the faces of the people and, curiously, the wooden paneling on the sides of the cars.

           We entered the dining car, and Sherlock became rather excited. He instructed me to distract the bartender; meanwhile he began to rap lightly on the walls and floor. Rather at a loss, I ordered a whiskey and tried to converse with the man behind the counter. He was quite a friendly chap, the same one that had entered our box to speak with Miss Dunsley.

“Just as I suspected!”

           Holmes’ exultant cry interrupted our conversation. He had opened a very small closet at the end of the car and a man’s body had fallen out. A knife wound gaped in his chest.

“Quick!” Sherlock snapped at the bartender. “Bring your superior in at once. Watson, see that no one comes into the car.”

           We both obeyed without question. Sherlock’s firm, confident manner always presided over urgent situations. He was kneeling beside the body now, performing one of his swift evaluations.

“An artist,” Holmes decided, drawing a notepad and charcoals out of the man’s pocket. “No weapons on him, native of lower London, smoker of Sorbonne Tobacco, unmarried, not terribly well off though he was at one time, initials R.P., asthmatic, somewhat lazy. His murderer was right-handed and a swift and intelligent mover. What’s this? Great Scott man, we don’t want the ticket-man! Bring us a conductor!”

           Sherlock was greatly excited and he spoke with a tart urgency that galvanized the young bartender into action once more. He returned presently with a conductor.

“What is going on here?” the conductor cried.

“A murder. No, don’t concern yourself for pity’s sake. I am Sherlock Holmes, from London, and I shall take the matter on. The murderer will be apprehended promptly, my dear sir. I have called you to suggest that you have the body removed to a quite inaccessible area. There is no need to terrify the poor passengers.”

“Yes, sir!” the conductor said. “Are you quite sure that you will find the culprit? I don’t want this bloody chap (pardon the irony, sir) to be galivanting amongst the passengers. Not good for the face of the railway, if you take my meaning, sir.”

“Yes, I am quite sure,” Sherlock said with strained patience. “Now put this man in a baggage-rack or under the counter or even back in his closet, but get rid of him at once! Come along Watson.”

           I nearly had to jog to keep up with my companion’s long strides.

“Sherlock, I am afraid that all this excitement is not quite healthy.”

“Nonsense, my dear doctor! I have never felt healthier in all my life. I must confide in you that I suspect our box-companion.”

“Miss Dunsley?” I exclaimed, askance. “Why on earth?”

“When one odd action precedes another, it is not unlikely that they are connected. I have a plan that may help us obtain proof. At some point, I shall open the window and pretend to be overcome with the smoke. I shall ask for a handkerchief, and you must beg it of Miss Dunsley with the claim that you forgot yours. Understood?”

“Yes, Sherlock.”

           We returned to our box. Miss Dunsley had not moved. She glanced up briefly at our re-entry, and then returned to her copy of The London Woman. Sherlock took a seat next to the window, and opened one of his indexes. After a few moments, he began to waver.

           Even I, who was fully aware of my friend’s charade, was nearly convinced. He swayed, blinking stupidly and breathing heavily. Abruptly, he jerked the window open. A flood of smoke poured in from the engine at the train’s head. Holmes collapsed into his seat, coughing violently. I scrambled to help, fanning him with my hat as I tried to close the window. Sherlock’s coughing intensified.

“Madam, your handkerchief!” I cried urgently.

           The woman’s hand at once flew to her pocket but then hesitated.

“I don’t have one with me,” she said. “Shall I run and get a napkin or something of the like?”

“Yes, do!”

           Miss Dunsley exited our box and rushed off. Sherlock sat up as soon as she was out of sight.

“I was checking my indexes,” he said in a low voice, “And we have quite the situation on our hands. If I am correct in my conjecture, we are dealing with renowned female serial killer Elizabeth Batton. As you may have observed, our dear travelling companion has a peculiar mole above her right eyebrow.”

           Just as Sherlock finished speaking, Miss Dunsley returned. Curiously enough, though she carried a napkin in her hand, I could see the corner of a handkerchief poking out of her pocket. It had on it the barest spot of red. Sherlock cleared his throat heavily.

“Thank you madame, but I believe that I am quite recovered. The heat was rather overwhelming, and then that wretched smoke! Deepest apologies for the inconvenience. Perhaps you would permit me to treat you to a cake and coffee at your destination? Nay- I insist.”

“Very well, sir.” Miss Dunsley laughed. “I am getting off at Windermere, the next halt.”

“Fancy! My friend and I are as well.”

           Sherlock and Miss Dunsley engaged in pleasant small talk until our arrival at the Windermere Halt. As Miss Dunsley gathered her luggage, Sherlock whispered instructions in my ear, so softly that I scarcely heard him at all.

“Take Miss Dunsley’s arm and lead her off the train. Walk her through a puddle and note whether she lifts her skirts to avoid it. I’ll meet you presently.”

           I did not understand how Sherlock’s plan pertained in any way to proving Miss Dunsley’s guilt, but I trusted him too much to disregard his command. I lead Miss Dunsley down onto the platform and through a puddle. Curiously, she did not lift her skirts to avoid it. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Sherlock following us.

“Elizabeth Batton?” he said, loudly enough that the lady could hear.

           She paused and turned. Holmes smiled.

“So it’s true. Never forget, Watson, that often you can convince the guilty party to give himself, or in this case herself, away.”

“I will not bother to deny it, for I see that you have had the better of my from the start.” Miss Batton said. “But for heaven’s sake, how did you know?”

“You did not offer your handkerchief, though you had it. I deduced that you had used it to clean the blood off of the knife that you killed the poor artist with.”

“Rupert Penningow.”

“Quite so. I quickly ascertained that the only place on your person that you could conceivably be carrying a knife is in your boot. When my friend Watson lead you through a puddle, you refused to lift your skirts, confirming my supposition. I further decided that our dear friend the bartender was your client. Any true railway bartender would know in an instant that a conductor, not a ticket-man, was his superior. I took the liberty of leading the man over to the station, which is where, I regret, I must lead you also.”

           Miss Batton tilted her head upwards.

“I applaud you, sir. And now you must forgive me if I make a supposition of my own. You are the renowned Sherlock Holmes.”

“I am.”

“Perhaps, Mr. Holmes, you would vouch for me in court?”

“You have murdered dozens, Miss Batton.” Sherlock said coldly. “There is little that I can say for you.”

“I believe that there is much, in fact. I did not resist arrest, for one. Moreover, I was once hired to murder you. But as I stood in an upper window, my revolver trained upon your head in the street below, I did not fire.”

“Do you actually believer her?” I said, incredulous.

           Holmes looked her over in his keen fashion.

“I do. Very well Miss Batton, perhaps I shall say something for you. But now I am afraid that I must bid you good-day.”

           We had reached the police station at Windermere. A pair of officers received the lady, who continued to strut with her head high into the cell which had been opened for her. Sherlock took a deep breath as the station door slammed shut.

“I believe that I am quite ready for a holiday, Watson.”