50. THE CASE OF THE TWICE DEAD MAN

A prequel to the case of Sammy Spencer

It’s sometimes hard for me to believe that there was a time before Holmes and I met, but there was, and that was before there was anyone around to record his unique methods. But the holder of the pen is myself and I am pleased to do Holmes a service by using it. Today, I have been reminded of one account he gave me of his early days by the attempt by the vagrant Sammy Spencer to rob our home one hot summer’s day recently. I will therefore recount that earlier adventure here, and it will perforce have to be written in the third person as I was not there in person (obviously) but was probably hacking some poor devil’s leg off in a medical facility close to the battle-field in Afghanistan where I was medical orderly.

There had been a spate of burglaries in an area of London not noted for honesty or wealth except for one largish residence belonging to the infamous Tommy Tapnut on the edge of what might be seen as a small village, and that Tommy Tapnut was renowned as the worst kind of loan-shark and blackguard imaginable, being responsible for more mutilations when his borrowers failed to repay him on time than I’ve had glasses of brandy. He was, indeed, a nasty piece of work and it was in the general area where he lived that the aforementioned spate of burglaries occurred.

Holmes was approached by Scotland Yard to assist in the apprehension of the thief. Inspector Lestrade, then a young officer at Scotland Yard, considered, apparently, that the neighbours of Mr Tapnut were poor enough without having to suffer physical abuse and even mutilation if they were late in repayment of a high-interest loan they had begged from him.

“Might Tapnut himself be responsible for the burglaries?” asked Holmes, “after all, his reputation is hardly that of a guardian angel benevolently protecting his neighbourhood flock!”

“I suppose it might be argued that he is,” sighed Lestrade, “but only indirectly in that his attitude to late payers of loans he has issued is one of violence rather then understanding. Therefore his neighbours, scared for their very lives quite often, turn to theft in order to escape the worst he can offer, and the only people available to steal from are their equally poor neighbours.”

“I will see what I can do,” murmured Holmes, “but I warn you, Lestrade, although I abhor crime I more greatly abhor the causes behind crime and it would seem that a loan-shark is just that, in this particuar instance.”

“If only we could catch him with his sadistic reminders of overdue debts we might be able to take him out of circulation for a while, but he’s too clever to be caught himself. He employs a team of thugs to do his dirty work for him. You know, Sherlock, the sort that delight in mutilating others, and although the odd felon might occasionally be caught but I’ve yet to trace any of them back to Tapnut.”

“Then I will investigate,” sighed Holmes. “It is wretches like money lenders with their unreasonable demands of interest that make crime almost forgiveable.”

“I never thought I’d hear you say that, Sherlock,” murmured Lestrade, grinning quietly to himself.

The next day Sherlock Holmes, skilfully disguised as an Irish tinker and with a convincing accent was to be seen in the neighbourhood of the spate of thefts that had troubled the police. The house in which Tapnut lived was at the end of a very private cul-de-sac lined with lime trees and a coppiced shrubbery, and must have contained at least six bedrooms, which contrasted with the mean and crowded terraces of back-to-back houses in a higgledy-piggledy array abutting his land where his pauper neighbours lived.

Holmes, adopting a sullen expression and carrying a tatty carpet bag of tools, approached the house and knocked on the front door. It was opened by Tommy Tapnut himself, a man in an expensive jacket and mismatching trousers, though everything about him looked slightly wrong, as if he was trying too hard to fit into the ambience and refinement of his home. For instance, the trousers were the wrong style for lounging at home but were more like those worn by college types applauding at the boundary of a cricket square, his pince-nez were obviously barely necessary as he didn’t seem to care whether he looked through them, round them or over them, and his green shirt clashed with his bright blue jacket.

Holmes doffed his torn and stained cap. “Sorry, sir,” he began in a strong Dublin accent, “but I was wondering … leaking pipes, dripping taps, sir, anything like that needing a tinker man to fix it?”

The other looked at him scornfully. “Unless you can fit a burglar-proof lock I’ve no work for you, you scoundrel!” he said.

Holmes looked wounded at the attitude, but managed a smile. “I can fix you up like Fort Knox,” he said, and he adopted a secretive pose. “Tell me, sir, are you being burgled all the time?”

The other leered at him. “I would if it weren’t for the dogs,” he said, “but the dogs keep the riff-raff at bay. Keep the hounds hungry and they’ll even eat the kind of meat that the scum round here manage to cultivate on their bellies!”

“Ah, sir, ‘tis a cruel sad world we live in,” muttered Sherlock. “So there’s no dripping taps? No leaking pipes? No pots and pans gone to hole?”

“No there isn’t, and if there was I’d call on the services of my own staff to see to it! Now be off with you before I call the dogs!”

“You’re a fine cruel man, sir,” muttered Holmes, and he turned to go.

Then, suddenly as though the deed had been scripted, a lanky young man, ill-muscled and with a beard turning to grey despite his apparent youth, leapt from a coppice behind Holmes, darted past the detective and lunged at the irate man in the door, a rusted blade, the sort used in kitchens to cut bread into slices only old and filthy rather than shiny and pristine, in his hand.

“Now I’ve got ya, ya swine!” he croaked, and careless of his own safety he launched himself at Tommy Tapnut and somehow managed to create a veritable fountain of blood from a wound on the man’s neck caused by the rusted blade being forced by every fibre of the attacker’s being as deep into the offensive Tapnut as it would go.

He must have died at once. He tried to gurgle out his attacker’s name, but no sound came other than a squishing gasp.

“Well done, my fine fellow,” said Holmes, resorting to his own persona despite his tatty appearance. But the attacker retrieved his knife, flung it into the coppice behind him, and vanished as quickly as he had come.

“Well, well, well,” muttered Sherlock.

He turned to go, and had barely taken ten steps, when a second youth appeared, moving furtively out of the coppiced shrubs and lunged towards the dead man on the ground. He, too, held a blade and was clearly intent on doing Mr Tapnut some serious harm. And he did try. Before he could stop himself he had made a serious wound in the dead man’s side, quite spoiling the blue sporting jacket he was wearing.

“I wouldn’t do that,” murmured Holmes, “for it’s quite plain to me that the wretched man’s dead already.”

The youth looked confused as though nothing had turned out like he’d planned it. “He’s the very devil,” he mumbled. “And he sent his bullies to my place on account of me not paying him the five shillings I owe ‘cause I never had it, and they scared my missus something rotten and smashed the place up.”

“I heard that he could be vindictive,” suggested Holmes. “I think you may need me as a witness, young fellow. I reckon the constable may add two and two together and come to an odd number, and you may need a referee with more mathematical skill that the average policeman.”

“I came to kill the swine,” gabbled the youth. Me? I’m Sammy Spencer, an’ proud of it!”

“Then if you need evidence that will save you from the gallows, Mr Spencer, you’d best remember my name,” said Sherlock. “I’m Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street, and I’m willingly at your service. And I know for sure that the man you killed was already dead!”

© Peter Rogerson 27.09.17