Showing posts with label 1a. Show all posts
Showing posts with label 1a. Show all posts

Chapter 1: A Letter From Anglesey

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Sherlock Holmes
"Would you agree, Watson, that patience is a virtue?"

The voice of Sherlock Holmes shattered my mid-morning daydream.

"I suppose it can be," I replied groggily, thinking of fire brigades, and wondering what had got into Holmes, who didn't normally indulge in flights of philosophical fancy.

"And is it not true that virtue is its own reward?" Holmes continued.

"That may or may not be the case," I replied, "but I don't see where you're going with this, Holmes. Have you suddenly become a philosopher?"

"Not at all, my dear Watson. But I have been extremely patient. And my patience is soon to be rewarded!"

"Honestly, Holmes! You never cease to amaze me! How can you know what's about to happen?"

My friend smiled and drew an envelope from his inner pocket. "What, dear Watson, do you make of this?"

He sat quietly while I examined the envelope, then spoke again. "You know my methods," he said. "Use them. Tell me everything you can deduce about this message, and the man who sent it."

"The envelope is white, long and narrow," I said, "and fairly standard, I would think. It was sealed, but it has been cut open with a long, straight, sharp blade."

"I opened it myself, Watson," Holmes explained with a hint of friendly exasperation in his voice. "What else do you see?"

"It was sent yesterday afternoon from Anglesey, Wales, and it arrived in London this morning."

"Indeed. It came with the first post. And what of the contents?"

I unfolded a single sheet of white paper and read aloud:
Trefor near Bodedern
Anglesey, Wales
Tuesday, 21 September

Dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes,

Amazing tales of your knowledge, skill and discretion have reached us her in the north of Wales, and I trust they are no too highly exaggerated.

My cousin Ellen, having herd of your incredible powers, has begged me repeatedly to ask you for help, but until now I have been reluctant.

The truth is, Mr. Holmes, the police are getting nowhere, and my family and I would be most gratful if you should be so kind as to help us.

I shall be in London on Thursday, and would be pleased to call upon you at your convenience.

Yours most sincerly,
William Hughes
"What do you say now, Watson?" Holmes asked with a glint in his eye. "Now do you see how my patience is about to be rewarded?"

"No doubt I am duller than you in many important respects, Holmes," I said somewhat testily, "but I cannot see any --"

"Perhaps you're looking in the wrong place. What catches your eye about this letter?"

"The man is extremely distraught, Holmes. He's misspelled several common words, even though, by his vocabulary, he is obviously well-educated."

"Distraught? I should say so! What else?"

"He mentions his cousin Ellen. It's clear she's put him up to sending this. Whatever has happened, this man Hughes might be guilty of it, and he might be coming to you only to pacify his cousin. I think you should be very wary of him, Holmes."

"I shall certainly give your advice all the consideration it deserves," said Holmes with a faint smirk, and I knew I was barking up the wrong tree yet again.

"Help me, Holmes," I conceded. "What am I missing?"

"Look at the bottom of the letter, Watson. Look at the very bottom of the page."

"He's spelled 'sincerely' wrong."

"Below that."

"The only thing below that is the man's name: William Hughes. Do you know him?"

"I don't know him, but I have read of him. And, unless I am very much mistaken, so have you."

"I can't say the name rings a bell, Holmes," I replied. "Are you certain I know it?"

"You've been reading all the papers, haven't you, Watson? Surely in the past three or four weeks you've run across his name several times."

"Well, that may be so, but I've lost the handle. Help me again, Holmes. Who is William Hughes?"

"I'm glad you finally asked," Holmes replied. "William Hughes, of Anglesey, Wales, is -- or was -- related to the unfortunate Gareth Williams!"

"I take it you'll see him?"

"Tomorrow at ten. Will you be here?"

"If I can be of service, Holmes, of course I will be here."

"Excellent. I'm on another case, as you know, and I'll be away for the rest of the day. But you, Watson, are welcome to my archive."

Less than a month earlier it had seemed the entire country was talking about Gareth Williams, the young government worker whose decomposing body was found in a padlocked bag in a bathtub in central London.

I had been vaguely aware of Holmes' curiosity about the case, but I didn't realize the extent of his interest until he handed me a folder of newspaper clippings nearly two inches thick.

"Amuse yourself with these articles, if you have nothing else to do," the great detective said. "I'll be back late tonight or early tomorrow, certainly in plenty of time to meet Mr. William Hughes of Anglesey."

And with that, Holmes picked up his hat and stick and left me to spend the rest of the day reading, preparing for a meeting which -- though I didn't realize it at the time -- would draw us into a mystery as deep and subtle as any we had ever encountered.

Chapter 2: William Hughes Arrives

William Hughes
I read for as long as I could, but I retired before Holmes returned. When I awoke, I found him in his usual spot, awake and alert and enjoying the breakfast our landlady, Mrs. Hudson, had prepared for us.

I was full of questions about the Gareth Williams case, but he was having none of it. "It is a capital mistake to theorize in advance of the facts, Watson," he said. "Let us hear from Mr. William Hughes before we try to answer any questions." And much to my astonishment, for the next few hours he spoke of nothing but violin music.

A few minutes before ten o'clock, we heard the doorbell, then footsteps on the stair. Holmes caught my eye and said quietly, "Sit tight. Say nothing. Write everything down."

Then we heard Mrs. Hudson's voice. "Mr Holmes? Mr. William Hughes to see you, sir."

"Show him in, Mrs. Hudson," my friend replied, and the door swung open, revealing our much-anticipated guest.

"Mr. Holmes? Thank you so much for seeing me," he said, looking across the room at my friend.

"Not at all, Mr. Hughes. Please sit down and make yourself comfortable. This is my friend and colleague Dr. Watson, before whom you can speak freely," he continued with a nod in my direction.

"Thank you so much, sir. I don't know where to begin. The police have made a hash of everything. The press have made it even worse. The family and friends are devastated, the funeral is tomorrow, and we still don't even know the cause of death!"

"Ah, Mr. Hughes," said my friend, "you and Dr. Watson share the habit of starting in the middle of a story. Please take a deep breath and relax, and tell us the whole story, from the beginning."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes. We've been living this nightmare for nearly a month now, sir, and sometimes --"

"It's all right, Mr. Hughes. You're among friends here. Relax, take your time, and tell us everything you think we should know."

William Hughes took several deep breaths before he began to speak.

"For me, sir, it starts with my cousin Ellen. I've loved her as a sister all my life. Ellen married a chap named Ian Williams, a fine fellow, and they had two children: a boy, Gareth, and a girl, Ceri.

"Gareth was blessed with a gift for mathematics that impressed everyone. His teachers were amazed, but they didn't know what to do with him, or for him, perhaps I should say. They started sending him to Bangor University, just one day a week at first, when he was 13, and he graduated with a first-class degree in maths when he was only 17 years old.

"He earned a PhD. from Manchester University at 19, and then he was off to Cambridge, St. Catharine's College, and we started to think he might stay in academia for a while, maybe even become a professor. He would have made a fine teacher, sir. He was so friendly, he had a way of putting people at ease. He wasn't much for small talk, but he was a joy to listen to about things that mattered to him, things he knew well. He certainly knew what he was about when it came to maths, sir. And he had a passion for it.

"He had always done extremely well academically, so we were stunned when -- at the age of 20 -- he failed an exam and dropped out of St. Catharine's. We worried for his future, sir, but he soon found a job with the government.

"He worked for GCHQ in Cheltenham, sir, and the only thing we really knew about his work was that it was secret. He said it had something to do with codes, but other than that he said nothing, and we could sense that it would have been rude to ask. He often traveled to the US on work-related matters, but he always returned to Cheltenham.

"Cheltenham is not far from Wales, and Gareth came back home to see the family as often as he could. He loved to ride with his father -- both of them expert cyclists -- and Gareth raced with the local bicycle club, too. He was a wonderful sportsman, and he won quite a number of races, especially in the hills. Oh, how he loved to ride in the hills!

"Late last summer, Gareth moved to London for a temporary posting. We were given to understand that he had been seconded to MI6. He said he would be back in Cheltenham when he was finished with MI6.

"Here in London, Gareth lived in a flat at 36 Alderney Street, in Pimlico. The crown paid his rent, it was close to his work, and he was happy here, although he missed the country. He was anxious to get back to Cheltenham, sir. But it never happened.

"We got the bad news on the 24th of August, a date I will never forget. Gareth had stopped returning calls from Ceri, so she called the police and asked them to check on him. They went to his flat at 36 Alderney Street, and that's where they found him, sir. He was dead!

"They found his body in the bath, in a holdall -- a big red bag made to carry camping gear. The bag was closed with a zipper. And the zipper was padlocked shut!"

I already knew most of these details, having spent the previous day reading about the case. But I couldn't stop myself from gasping. Nor could I stop the cold shivers running up and down my spine.

Sherlock Holmes rang for Mrs. Hudson. "You must need something to drink, Mr. Hughes. What can we offer you?"

Chapter 3: Hughes Continues


Police remove the body of Gareth Williams
from the block of flats at 36 Alderney Street
Mrs. Hudson had come and gone before Sherlock Holmes asked William Hughes to speak again.

"In your letter, you said the police had made a hash of it. I take it they haven't made any arrests?"

"Arrests? No sir!" our guest replied with disdain. "They're not even ready to call it murder!"

"And they still haven't identified a cause of death?"

"No, sir. All we know about that is what we've read in the papers. And most of what's been printed in the papers has been rubbish!"

"In what way?" Holmes asked, and there was a long pause before Hughes answered.

"First they lied about the body, sir. Then they lied about the man!"

"How did they lie about the body?" Holmes inquired.

Hughes drew another deep breath. "Some of the papers said he had been stabbed. Some even said he'd been dismembered! But then the police said there wasn't a mark on the body, no sign of any physical violence at all."

"What else can you tell us about the condition of the body?" Holmes asked.

"Very little. The body was 'in an advanced state of decomposition', and this, we're told, complicates the toxicology, making it difficult to determine both the time of death and the cause, sir."

"How long had Gareth been missing?" Holmes inquired, and William Hughes struggled to compose an answer.

"Gareth returned from a trip to the US on the 11th of August. That was a Wednesday, sir. Ceri talked to him on that day -- that was his last contact with his family. The police have released CCTV footage of Gareth shopping in London which they say was shot on the 14th and 15th of the month -- Saturday and Sunday. But that's all we know, sir."

"But the body," said Holmes, "which was found on the 23rd, was said to be 'in an advanced state of decomposition,' was it not? That is very curious, Dr. Watson."

"Indeed, Holmes," I replied. "But as to how curious, that may depend on the bag."

"Quite so. What, if anything, do you know about the bag?" Holmes asked William Hughes.

"According to the police, it was a large red holdall, manufactured by 'The North Face.' It's normally used to carry camping equipment or sporting gear. We don't know any more than that, sir," Hughes replied.

Once again we heard Mrs. Hudson's footsteps, and the conversation paused.

"I may have to ask a few more painful questions," Sherlock Holmes said, after Mrs. Hudson had left us a tray of refreshments.

"I suspected as much," replied William Hughes. "And to be honest, sir, that's one of the reasons I was reluctant to write to you, and to come here in person. But now that I'm here, sir, I can see there'd be no point in asking for your help and then refusing to answer your questions, now would there?"

"My thoughts exactly," Holmes said.

"Ask me anything you like, Mr. Holmes. I'll tell you whatever I can."

"Did Gareth have any enemies that you know of?" Holmes continued.

"None that I know of, sir. But of course, in his line of work, sir, there are always enemies, are there not?"

"Was he a large man?"

"Oh no, sir. He stood five feet seven, five-eight at the most, sir. He was slight of build, though very well-toned. He spent too many hours on the bike, sir, and climbed too many hills, to be otherwise."

"So, we have a small man, in a large bag, padlocked, in a bathtub. And yet the police aren't willing to say 'murder'. What do they think happened? Do they think he padlocked himself into the bag?"

"So it has been suggested -- by at least one daily paper, sir". William Hughes looked profoundly incredulous.

"I agree it sounds preposterous," said Holmes.

"But that's not the worst of it, sir. The papers have been full of the most lurid claims and innuendos, right from the very beginning, when they started saying it looked like a 'bizarre sex game gone wrong'. Can you imagine?"

"How absurd," said the detective, and our guest continued.

"The papers have said that once in his flat, police found gay porn, women's clothing that would have fit Gareth, contact numbers for male escort agencies, bondage equipment, wigs, makeup and all sorts of other very odd things -- at least, things that would have been odd to find in the flat of a single man, sir."

Holmes nodded. Hughes continued, "Then the police announced that none of this was true. But that's hardly stopped the speculation in the press! Nor has it stopped the police from saying they think the solution to the mystery lies in his private life."

"That is very strange," offered Holmes.

"We think so, too, sir, and we'd like to know why they're doing this. Another thing we want to know, sir: Why did all this rubbish ever get printed? We never saw any sign that Gareth was gay. It seemed to us as though perhaps the government or somebody were trying to smear Gareth's reputation."

"Indeed, Mr. Hughes," said Holmes. "It certainly sounds as though somebody somewhere is trying to do something. What about the family? Where are they, and how are they coping?"

The last question surprised me, because -- although I had seen Holmes investigate many unexplained deaths, some of which turned out to be outrageously bizarre murders -- I had never seen him express much concern about the relatives of a victim.

"We're up in the northwest of Wales, sir, near Holyhead."

Holmes didn't respond immediately, and Hughes continued. "Holyhead is a beautiful natural port, sir, about halfway between Dublin and Liverpool. Valley is just a few miles east of Holyhead, and that's where Ellen and Ian live. I live a few miles further east, and Ceri and her husband Chris live near Wrexham, but most of the others are nearby. I can't say any of us are doing well, sir, but they will all be cheered to hear of your interest in the case -- assuming you are interested, sir?"

"I am definitely interested, Mr. Hughes. Whether I can be of any service is another matter. I will certainly do whatever I can."

"We are most grateful to you, sir," replied William Hughes, rising from his seat.

"What do you think, Watson?" asked Holmes when our guest had departed.

"I don't know what to think, Holmes," I replied. "Do you?"

"I think William Hughes is up against forces larger than he can imagine -- forces much stronger than he and his family can fight on their own. If we were to throw our weight onto their side, that wouldn't tip the balance, Watson. But it might make a good start. Are you game?"

"I cannot imagine what that family is going through," I replied. "First to lose their son, brother, nephew; then to have his name tarnished in the papers. Of course I'm game, Holmes! What can I do to help?"

"Find a shop that sells 'North Face' gear," he said, "and bring back one of those bags!"

Chapter 4: The Bag That Held The Body

Previous: Hughes Continues

a red North Face "Base Camp" bag
It wasn't difficult to find a shop that sold "North Face" equipment, and once I was there, it wasn't difficult to find the bag I sought.

It was the largest, most durable holdall they had, the North Face "Base Camp" model, and there were plenty of colours to choose from. I bought a red one.

"This is easy!" I smiled inwardly as I made my way back to 221B Baker Street, where Holmes would be waiting to praise me for my skill in obtaining the one object in the world he most wanted to examine ... or so I thought.

But when I returned home, instead of the great detective in person, I found a note, which read:
Dear Watson,

I have gone to Cheltenham and will not return until evening.

SH
Somewhat disappointed by the reception, but pleased and proud that he had taken such a bold step so soon, I sat down and began to examine the bag.

The walls were of a material I had never seen before: strong but somewhat elastic, and certainly watertight. It felt like a very durable frabric -- mesh, perhaps? -- doubly laminated with thick vinyl. A D-shaped zipper ran across the top and was covered by a D-shaped flap. This was a bag that could be left out in the rain.

It had handles at the sides and on both ends, so the bag could be carried by one person or two -- and it was easily large enough to hold more gear than one person could comfortably carry.

Heavy woven nylon compression straps ran around the bag in multiple directions; these would make it easy to tighten the load inside the bag, so the contents would not shift around.

The zipper itself intrigued me; the teeth were larger than any I had ever seen, and appeared to be made of plastic-coated steel. It certainly wasn't going to fall apart or rust anytime soon.

I considered the various ways in which the bag could be locked; this seemed especially important in light of claims that Gareth Williams had somehow climbed into the bag and locked himself in. He panicked because he couldn't get the lock open, then suffocated, or died of a heart attack, depending on which account you happened to believe -- if you believed any of them.

At each end of the zipper was a steel "tag" through which a fabric "pull" was threaded. It was possible for me bring the zipper almost closed, thread a padlock through the "pulls," then force the "tags" far enough apart to squeeze the lock into the bag. Presumably, then, it would have been possible for someone smaller than I to climb into the bag, bring the zipper almost closed, grab the "pulls" and bring them into the bag, then thread a lock through them. Why anyone would do that was -- and still is -- utterly beyond me.

As a medical professional, I am aware of the practice known as auto-erotic asphyxiation; starving one's body of oxygen to enhance sexual pleasure. I haven't tried it, nor have I been tempted, but there's no denying that people do it. I have heard of many different ways in which people have done it, some of which have cost them their lives -- accidentally, it is always claimed.

A tiny corner of my brain understands what drives people to experiment with various methods of enhancing their pleasure. But no part of me understands why anyone would deliberately choose a method as risky as this.

I wondered what sort of person would look at this bag and think, "That would make for an excellent orgasm."

Then I wondered what sort of person would look at it and think, "That would make an excellent murder weapon." And the spinal chills were upon me again.

I tried to imagine what it would take to confine a man inside a bag like this. Once trapped in such a bag, he wouldn't be able to do anything except breathe, and that not for very long.

If somebody, somehow, got Gareth Williams into the bag, padlocked it shut and left it the bathtub, Gareth wouldn't have had a chance -- even if they didn't tighten the compression straps.

The police -- or sources allegedly within the police department -- had been "leaking" the "theory" that an unknown person had locked him in the bag for sexual kicks, planning to return later and release him.

But how could anyone could believe a person trapped in such a bag could be left alone for any length of time, and would still be alive later? How could anyone do such a thing for kicks? Why would anyone lock the bag, unless ... unless ...

How could a boy-genius, who grew up to do valuable secret work for the government, be so stupid as to say "Please lock me up in this heavy plastic bag and leave me in the bath"? And could those have possibly been his final words?

The more I thought about it, the more I thought, "Either Gareth Williams was seriously demented, or he was murdered."

I couldn't wait for Holmes to return. Lacking his gift of mental compartmentalization, as well as his skill upon the violin, I found myself with nothing to do but turn the bag over and over in my hands, and the thoughts over and over in my mind.

Chapter 5: Holmes Returns From Cheltenham


Gareth Williams' flat in Cheltenham
"Good job, Watson! I see you've found the bag!"

Holmes shook me by the shoulder as he spoke, waking me from a deep slumber. "Now get up and go to bed, my friend. We have a busy day tomorrow."

"But Holmes, surely! Don't you want to examine the bag?"

"Indeed I do, Watson," he said. "But it is late and you are tired, and I will need you in the morning. I will tell you all about my visit to Cheltenham, too, but first you must sleep. And so must I."

I couldn't argue with him, especially since he had already disappeared into his bedroom.

But when I awoke the next day, he was sitting on the sofa with the red bag in his lap. "You've made an outstanding catch!" he said.

"Thank you," said I. "It wasn't difficult. Have you examined the bag, Holmes?"

"Have you?" he replied.

"Indeed I have. And the longer I looked at it, the more it looked like a murder weapon," I offered.

"Once locked inside a bag of this kind, no man would stand a chance," said Holmes, and I smiled grimly.

"As I see it, Holmes," I continued, "either Gareth Williams was exceptionally demented, or he was murdered."

"I can tell you how demented he was," Holmes replied. "I've just returned from Cheltenham."

I nodded and Holmes continued, "I went there to meet Jenny Elliot. She was Gareth Williams' landlady, and she's a lovely woman. We spent about an hour together late yesterday afternoon, and she quite charmed me." My friend smiled sheepishly. He wasn't easily charmed, and he knew I knew it.

"She's heartbroken. You can see she loved that young man. She met him eleven years ago when he was just 20, and I suppose he could have been like a son, or even a grandson, to her," Holmes said with an atypical note of tenderness in his voice.

"What else did you learn, Holmes?" I asked, in a rare reversal of roles.

"Some very interesting things. Jenny Elliot told me that in the ten years he lived under her roof, Gareth Williams had no visitors, male or female. He kept to himself and lived very quietly. Remember that, Watson.

"She showed me the flat, as small and spartan as you could imagine. It looked as if she had just made it up for his return. Very lovely, simple digs, Watson. You think we live simply? Hah! You should see where he lived!

"Gareth Williams had told her he was looking forward to coming back to Cheltenham after his year in London, and that he'd be living in the flat again starting September 3rd. Mark that, too. The date may be significant.

"But as for this bag and the question of accident or murder, here's the kicker: Jenny Elliot also told me she used to do his washing and hang it on the line. When his clothes were dry, she would fold them and put them away in his drawers. This went on for ten years, Watson, and in that time she never saw anything 'untoward': no dresses, no wigs, no porn, no bondage gear, no --"

"Just as you'd expect, Holmes," I interjected. "For if a single young man had such lurid secrets to hide, would he allow his landlady to wash his clothes, let alone put them away? Surely a man with a gay double life and a few quid to spend would live elsewhere than in the home of a motherly type who would come into his flat when he was away and open all the drawers!"

"Exactly!" said Holmes. "Which means ... which means ..."

I hadn't seen Holmes stumped in quite some time, and it took me nearly a full second to come to his rescue. "Which means you need a pipe, Holmes," said I, "and some shag tobacco!"

"Thank you, Watson. I was nearly stumped there for a moment. Must be old age creeping up on me," the master detective said quietly. And he turned toward the mantle, where he kept the worst of his tobacco.

"Perhaps two pipes, my friend," I said, thinking it might be more like three or four. But then -- without even having lit a match -- Holmes turned back to me and said, "Pimlico! What do we know about the flat in Pimlico where the police found the body?"

"Ah, yes, 36 Alderney Street. I remember reading about it, Holmes. The papers were more or less evenly divided between those who said it was an MI6 'safe house' and those who said it was owned by a corporation based on an island in the Bahamas whose name means 'mother Russia' in Russian."

"That's a good one!" Holmes laughed, and when I didn't laugh along with him, he explained.

"It's a double joke, Watson. On one hand, it's a throwback to the Cold War. When British intelligence agents brought Soviet defectors to London, they could put them up in safe house whose name meant 'home' to their guests. Cute, no? And on the other hand, if anyone inquired as to who owned the property, the trail would lead to an island far away and a name that looked Russian. Who would ever guess the owner was actually British intelligence?"

"You think so, Holmes?"

"Absolutely, Watson! Whenever MI6 gets a new man, from GCHQ or elsewhere, they need a place for him to live where they can keep him safe -- and where they can keep an eye on him! What could be simpler than offering him a rent-free flat in a 'safe house' within walking distance from work?"

"William Hughes said the crown paid Gareth's rent!"

"Indeed, Watson. And kept him under its wing -- or should I say 'microscope'?"

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