Sherlock Holmes At the Raffles Hotel Page 4

  I had scarcely had time to take a proper look about me, when Arshak touched my arm and nodded ahead of us. “Behold,” said he with a pardonable touch of drama, “the Raffles Hotel.”

  I turned my head, looked when he indicated, and gave an involuntary gasp of surprise. I had heard of the ‘Raffles’, of course – and who has not? – but never actually seen it, and it was somewhat different from what I had imagined. Not unduly high, perhaps, a couple of storeys only, but it seemed to cover an enormous acreage of ground. White, cool, airy, spacious – it seemed a veritable oasis of calm and comfort, even from the outside.

  “It is indeed impressive,” I told Arshak.

  “But just wait until you see the interior. I imagine you will be glad to get inside, out of the heat?”

  “Oh, the heat doesn’t bother me,” I told him. “Quite like old times, in fact. Does the heat trouble you, Holmes?”

  “The heat?” Holmes stared at me as if he had not heard me. “I had not noticed it, Watson.” And he went back to his own thoughts, impervious alike to heat or cold, unconscious of the busy swarms of folk on land and sea, quite self-contained, his mind completely occupied by the problem that faced him, so that Tigran had to nudge him gently when we came to a halt before the entrance.

  Arshak showed Holmes and me to a couple of comfortable rooms. Although it is true that the heat did not trouble me overly, none the less I should have been grateful for the chance of a short rest, but Holmes was clearly in no mood for idleness. His room was across the corridor from my own, and through the door, which he had not bothered to shut properly, I saw him fling his bags onto the bed in a careless fashion that would have broken the heart of the poor little chambermaid who had tidied up the room earlier that morning. Without even a glance round at the interior of the room, he turned on his heel and hurried across to my door, rubbing his hands as he did so. “Still unpacking, Watson? Come along, my dear fellow, we have no time to waste. We can settle in later, when all is resolved.” And off he went along the corridor, seeking out Tigran Sarkies for more details of the case.

  Arshak, who had just shown me to my room and was standing by the door, raised an eyebrow. “Mr Holmes’ enthusiasm is admirable,” said he.

  “Oh, indeed it is. But it can be a touch wearing at times.” And I resigned myself to leaving my own humble arrangements until later, and Arshak and I followed Holmes to Tigran’s private office, where Arshak tapped on the door and looked in.

  “Ah, come in and sit down.” Tigran waved us to chairs, and offered his gold cigarette case.

  Holmes produced his ancient briar pipe. “Does anyone object?”

  I glanced hastily round, and was relieved to see that the windows were open, and that an electric fan turned lazily above our heads.

  Holmes was saying, “The more details you can give me at this stage, Mr Sarkies, the easier will be my task later, so pray tell me everything you know, and with your permission I shall ask any questions as they occur to me.”

  “Of course. Although I know little more than I have already told you.” Tigran removed his spectacles and polished them, as if arranging his thoughts in their proper order. “Very well. As I have said, my own interest in the case arises solely from the fact that Mr Derek Masterton was for a long time a resident here at the ‘Raffles’ …”

  Holmes raised a hand. “Forgive me, resident rather than guest?”

  Tigran inclined his head. “We draw a distinction between visitors, those guests who honour us only temporarily, and the residents who make the ‘Raffles’ more or less their permanent home during their time in Singapore. For the single men particularly … and there are lots of single men here, for the place is still somewhat of a frontier town, despite recent tremendous advances … here at the ‘Raffles’ we offer all the comforts of home with none of the worries, and that arrangement is highly agreeable to many of them.”

  “I understand perfectly.” Holmes smiled. “Indeed, were I here permanently, I have no doubt that I should be a resident here myself. Please continue.”

  “Mr Masterton has his own export agency,” Tigran went on, “and handles a variety of local goods, as I understand it. He first arrived here in Singapore, and at the ‘Raffles’, some four or five years ago, and took rooms here on a more or less permanent basis. I … and Arshak here … got to know him quite well. A couple of years ago, Mr Masterton visited England, and whilst there he met and married a Miss Anya Cardell. They returned here as man and wife, and for a time they resided here in Mr Masterton’s old rooms.” Tigran smiled. “I honestly believe that Mr Masterton would have stayed here indefinitely, but the new Mrs Masterton was naturally anxious to become mistress of her own domain, and soon after their return they secured a very pleasant house in the town, no great distance away. They now have two small children, so their decision to move out of the hotel was probably a wise one.” He smiled. “Despite their desertion of the ‘Raffles’ we all remained friends, and it is for the sake of that friendship that I would wish to assist the family in any way possible.”

  “I understand,” said Holmes. “And then, if I read it aright, Mrs Masterton’s sister has also married recently, her husband being this Mr Charles Gerard, and the young couple came here to visit their relatives, the Mastertons?”

  Tigran nodded. “As Arshak here said, we had no idea as to what other family the Mastertons might have, for they never mentioned the subject. Then, last week, Mr Masterton told me that his wife’s sister and her new husband … they had been married only the week before they left England … were arriving shortly. I asked, naturally, if they would be staying with the Mastertons, or if perhaps they would honour the ‘Raffles’ for the duration of their visit. Mr Masterton told me, with some embarrassment, that they would not be staying with him, nor yet here at the hotel, but that he … Mr Masterton himself … had found accommodation for them on the other side of the town.”

  “Oh?”

  The usually urbane Tigran shrugged his shoulders, and looked down at the blotter on his desk.

  “Mr Sarkies? Did you not find it rather odd that the Masterton family should not invite the newcomers, or, failing that, that they should not stay here, where Mr Masterton had been so happy?”

  “Well, then, Mr Holmes, regarding the Raffles Hotel itself, as far as I could make it out, the young couple had not very much money. We pride ourselves on our reasonable rates, of course,” he added, “but even so they wanted something a little … ah, cheaper. They were, as I understand it, lodged in a rooming house.” And he shrugged his elegant shoulders once again, as if to reinforce the fact that it was no fault of his. “As to their not staying with the Mastertons … well, no doubt they had their reasons, and it was scarcely for me to enquire into them.”

  “Indeed not. But you must have had some thoughts on the matter? Did you not suspect any family quarrel, some rift between the sisters, shall we say? Odd, surely, that Mrs Masterton should never mention the fact that she had a sister?”

  “I had no idea of any such thing,” said Tigran rather abruptly, as if he wished to close the subject. “The only reason that I could see was that apparently Mr Charles Gerard was of an independent turn of mind, and did not wish to be further beholden to his brother-in-law, Mr Masterton.”

  “Further beholden, you say?”

  “I gather that Mr Gerard had hopes that Mr Masterton would offer him some employment, and thus secure him a competence, enable the young couple to transfer to more salubrious surroundings, move up in the world, so to speak.”

  “I see. And did Mr Masterton happen to indicate …”

  Tigran raised a hand. “You understand, Mr Holmes, in my profession one does not pry into the private affairs of one’s guests?” He smiled. “Indeed, one spends a good deal of one’s time trying to forget little pieces of information which one has inadvertently come across.”

  Holmes laughed. “Of course. And the Gerards arrived a few days go?”

  Tigran thought for a moment. “Today is
Friday, and they arrived on Monday.”

  “And poor Mrs Gerard was murdered yesterday, that is, Thursday?”

  Tigran nodded. “She had thus been here a mere four days by the calendar … two full days only, if we discount the day of her arrival and that of her murder.” He looked keenly at Holmes. “Hardly long enough to make enemies here in Singapore.”

  “No, indeed not. And the police evidently share that view, for you say they have arrested Mr Gerard?”

  “That is so,” said Tigran. “And I must say that there is other evidence beyond the purely circumstantial, and it seems very damning. It appears that Mr Gerard purchased for his wife a box of sweetmeats. The climate here is not conducive to the storage of chocolate, you know, and there is a little firm in the town which makes a speciality, ‘Singapore Sugarplums’, which consist of a hard sugar-candy outside, with a variety of fillings, some soft, some hard, some liquid, as I understand, though I do not much eat them myself. It appears that some of these sweetmeats contained arsenic.”

  Arshak gasped, Holmes nodded, and I muttered to myself, too low to be audible, “The old poisoned chocolate ploy, once more?”

  Holmes, who has acute hearing, gave me a glance. “As Watson here so accurately says, it is a very hackneyed device,” he told Tigran.

  “To be sure,” replied Tigran, “but effective.”

  “H’mm. But if Mr Gerard is the perpetrator, he has been less than effective in hiding his crime?” Holmes shook his head. “And then, what motive would he have … especially when one considers … no!” He shook his head again, then rose to his feet. “Well, Mr Sarkies, you have admirably summarized the obvious facts for me. I wonder, is it possible to talk to Mrs Masterton? Is she at her home?”

  “She is,” said Tigran, “but she is much upset by this sad affair, as you will appreciate. Mr Masterton informs me that the doctor has given her a strong sedative, and she has not emerged from her own room as yet.”

  “And Mr Masterton himself? Where is he?”

  “He is with his wife, of course. I may add that he, too, is much unsettled by this dreadful affair.”

  “I see. And the police officer in charge of the case … a Superintendent Ingham, I think you said?”

  “Yes, you will find him at the police station. Arshak here will show you the way.”

  * * *

  “I have heard of you, of course, Mr Holmes.” Superintendent Ingham was a tall, solidly built man with a face burned brick red by the sun. He smiled at Holmes, and held out his hand. He waved us to chairs, and I was glad to see the little electric fan on his desk was full on. I moved my chair surreptitiously, to take advantage of the slight breeze it afforded. Ingham was saying, “And I’d esteem it an honour to work with you, sir, on any other case than this. Frankly, the matter seems open and shut, with little scope for the exercise of your talents.”

  “So I understand. But you do not object if I ask one or two questions myself?”

  “Go ahead, sir.”

  “Mr Gerard is in custody here?”

  The Superintendent nodded. “I have him in the cells, sir.”

  “Did you want to talk to him?”

  “He denies it, of course?”

  “Of course.” Ingham laughed, and then grew sober. “I must say that he does a very good job of pretending innocence.”

  “But you yourself have no doubts on the matter?”

  Ingham shook his head. “As far as I can make out … and this is on Gerard’s own testimony … they knew nobody here in Singapore, with the exception of her sister, Mrs Masterton, and I don’t think she’s a suspect, do you? And then Gerard undoubtedly took the poisoned sweets to his wife, according to the landlady of the rooming house, who has no good reason to lie.” He shrugged and looked at his desk. “And then the landlady adds that the couple quarrelled, a heated quarrel, the day before the poor lady died. Pretty open-and- shut, I think. Have you any doubts?”

  “Oh, I cannot say at this early stage. I am just a little curious as to certain points, that is all. The landlady did not happen to overhear the cause of this quarrel at all?”

  “I’m afraid not. But the cause hardly seems relevant.” Ingham looked at Holmes. “You’re still unconvinced, I see? Yes? So you’ll talk to Gerard? I was going to question him myself anyway, and together we may get the facts from him.”

  “I should prefer to see these peculiar sugarplums which are at the root of the problem, before I speak to Mr Gerard.”

  “As you wish. They are in our little laboratory here. I’ll take you, Gerard will keep for a while.”

  The Superintendent led us down corridors and up stairs, finally opening a door that led to a small but well-equipped chemical laboratory. “This is Doctor Oong,” said Ingham. “Doctor, a colleague, Doctor John Watson, and the famous Mr Sherlock Holmes.”

  Dr Oong, a cheerful Chinese gentleman, beamed happily at us. “Delighted, delighted! Even here, Mr Holmes, we know your name and your work. I take it that it is the poisoning which brings you here, rather than a social call?”

  “I confess that I am intrigued by these ‘Singapore Sugarplums’,” said Holmes.

  “Ah, yes.” Dr Oong indicated three or four boxes that lay on a bench. “Take a look, Doctor Watson, and you, Mr Holmes. Those boxes,” and he pointed, “were bought by my assistant, for the purposes of experimentation. That one is … ah, just a little bit more sinister. Look at the genuine article first, though.”

  I picked up one of the boxes he had indicated as being harmless. The lid was printed in bright colours, with a view of Singapore in the centre, and various dragons and other auspicious and mythical beasts lurking in the corners. It bore the legend, ‘Singapore Sugarplums, the Old, Original, and BEST!’ and in smaller letters beneath, ‘Singapore Sugarplum Manuf. Coy., (Pty.), Singapore’, and then a florid and illegible signature and a couple of Chinese characters, and finally, ‘None genuine without this signature and seal. ACCEPT NO WORTHLESS IMITATIONS’.

  “H’mm.” I opened the box. Within were ranged exactly twenty-four sugar-coated confections, all much of a size, but with variations as to shape and colour, some being round, some square, some oval, some diamond shaped; while as to hue, there were palest pastels alongside some very garish tones. I could see that there were six different centres – the inside of the lid bore a key to aid in the identification of these

  – with four examples of each nestling in the box.

  I tapped the hard outside of one of the sweets. “Just sugar?” I asked Dr Oong.

  He nodded. “Sugar and water, with a little gum and starch, and various colouring and flavouring materials.” He picked up another box and produced one of the confections. He rummaged in a pocket and took out a tiny penknife with a mother-of-pearl handle. “You see?” And before I had properly grasped what he intended, he had levered an irregularly shaped section of the coating from the base of the sweet, to reveal a white centre. “A child could do it. Would you care to try, Doctor Watson?”

  “Indeed I should.” I used my own penknife, and made a pretty fair hash of the first one or two attempts; but with practice I found that I could remove a tolerably regular disc from the base without damaging the rest of the sweet too much. “And for re-fixing it? Sugar and water?”

  Dr Oong nodded. “That, or ordinary gum. These confections are very sweet to the taste, and that would mask any foreign materials.”

  “And I suppose the same goes for the taste of the arsenic? I asked.

  Dr Oong nodded. He indicated a little dish, upon which rested four of the sweets, each with a little paper label, marked, ‘A’, ‘B’, ‘C’, and ‘D’.

  “Two of these are untouched, and two have been tampered with by me and my assistants,” he said. “Would you care to identify which are which?”

  I took a close look at each of the four in turn. It was no easy task, but I fancied that two bore some slight traces of having been tinkered with. “‘A’ and ‘C’ are innocuous,” I told Dr Oong, “but ‘B’ and �
�D’ are not.”

  He smiled at me. “It is perhaps fortunate that we did not make the experiment in earnest, Doctor,” he told me. “’A’ is indeed original and untouched, but ‘C’ is one which I have … if you will forgive the pun … doctored. Though not, of course, with real arsenic,” he added, as I hastily dropped ‘C’ back on the dish.

  “Good Lord! Well, I couldn’t have said which was which, not accurately. And the repairs are just sugar syrup?”

  Dr Oong nodded. “Sugar syrup in one case, a colourless gum in the other.”

  Holmes added, “I see that four of the sweets are missing from the offending box. What quantity of arsenic would they represent?”

  Dr Oong frowned. “Now, that is the curious thing, Mr Holmes. It is true that I found arsenic in some of the other sweets in the box, but not all.”

  Holmes raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

  Dr Oong picked up the box that he had earlier pointed out as containing the poisoned sweets and showed it to us. Four of the spaces were empty, and the other sweets all showed signs of having been examined by the police doctor, for the shells were all split and crushed where samples had been scooped out, taken for analysis. “You are right, Mr Holmes, to say that four are missing altogether. That is as we found the box, the others were originally found untouched but have, of course, been carefully examined here. Now, you will observe that the four sweets which are missing are all the same variety of centre, namely ‘Walnut Whirls’?”

  We nodded.

  “Very well,” said Dr Oong, “in the stomach of poor Mrs Gerard, I found traces of the ‘Walnut Whirls’, and a sufficient quantity of arsenic to kill her twice over. On examining the other sweets in the box, I found arsenic in only four, the ‘Violet Cremes’, and in the same sort of quantity, that is to say, two of the sweets would represent a lethal dose for an average adult person.”