I moved into 32 Westminster Avenue that evening. What Hopkins said about 'eccentric' might have been an understatement. The drawing room was a mess, littered with papers, newspaper clippings, books, small glass bottles of different chemicals, and what not. His tables and chairs were hidden under piles of papers and files. There were bullet holes in the walls, which I realized were the results of an indoor attack. The bedrooms and kitchen were relatively cleaner, but were still littered with papers.
Bell directed me towards the only clean room in the whole flat, the guest room. I settled down in half an hour and found myself in the drawing room, surrounded by his papers, helping him. Suddenly, he asked,
"Why did you lie about the note?"
I turned bright red with embarrassment. Of course he knew!
"I..... I..... It was..."
"Show it to me."
Without further argument, I removed the note from my pocket and gave it to him. He looked at it, looked back at me, and smiled. From inside his coat pocket, he fished out another note, similar to the first one. He looked at my note, long and hard, and compared it with the note he got. Then he handed both of them to me.
"But don't you have to report it to Inspector?"
"One advantage of being unofficial is that, technically, I do not have to report everything I find."
"Isn't that withholding information?"
He just shrugged his shoulders, and continued to sift through the sheets of records of previous cases he collected over the years.
Over the next few days,I started to observe him keenly. He might have been eccentric, but move a few steps backward, and you might start to notice a small pattern in his schedule. But that could change at the drop of a hat. During a case, or when there was something important going on, he would not eat. "Eating slows me down" , he said. He could also observe and deduct on the basis of these observations. For example, I asked him how he understood I was lying. He said,
"First, you answered the questions too fast. That is a sign indicating you lied. And secondly, I saw the envelope sticking out of your pocket..."
"But that could have been any note! It could have been a letter from my family, a prescription from a doctor, or an application from the Scotland Yard!"
"You forget, I had a similar note. The paper was similar. The ink was similar. Yes, a bit of the writing was visible too...
And after the reply, you looked around , nervously, looking at me, at Jenkins. And the pitch of your voice became higher... If I keep on naming indicators, we would be here all day! "
Thus was Joseph Bell. He was rude at times, but behaved like a gentleman if needed. He could be as agile as a cat, but in the flat, he rarely was. He needed stimulation of the brain, ie, he needed puzzles to keep himself busy. Otherwise, there would be shootings, sword fights, and martial arts, all inside the living room.
Anyway, back to the present. I took a look at both of the notes. The handwriting was similar, as if by the same person, but who put an effort to make it different. Both the papers were of the same make. The ink were also of the same colour, black. I read the second note. This was less like a poem, more of a note:
Second down, fourteen left.
Pinkerton joining the Yard, Ha!
A bunch of bumbling nitwits
Cannot destroy the all powerful...
So he was planning to execute his threat. God knows which poor soul this lunatic was going to take. The thought sent shivers down my spine. My train of thoughts were broken by Bell:
"So, what do you make of it?"
"Huh? Oh... Seems to be of the same paper. Semi good quality, quite dark ink... I don't know, Someone of a high status?"
"Maybe... Maybe not..."
"What do you mean? What more can you identify from a piece of paper?"
"Mr. Jones, have you heard about the study of graphology?"
"No, I've not given the matter any serious thought, no."
"The analytic study of handwriting... How would you describe this particular person's handwriting?"
"I don't know, neat? Slanting?"
"Lets see... It slants to the left. This usually indicates that this person likes to work alone or behind the scenes in left handed people. But this person is right handed..."
"Surely, you cannot say that from this person's writing!"
"Actually, the feathering on the 't' bar is on the right hand side. That shows he is a right hander. If a right hander's handwriting tilts to the left, that indicates a rebellious personality... Lets say he wants to move beyond the borders of society.
The letters are connected, which indicates logical thinking. The writing itself is fairly small, showing he is focused and concentrated. The 's' is pointy, showing he is an intellectual. There is quite a lot more, but lets just stop there. Do these descriptions remind you of anyone?"
I just shrugged my shoulders, moved to the table and decided to write a letter to Stuart, asking about the progress there and narrating about the murder here. A few minutes later, I asked him,
"Does this person's work remind you of any previous crimes?"
"Quite a few, actually..."
"Then why haven't you tried to find out if they did it?"
"Because, my dear Jones, all of them have either been executed, are serving life sentences, or..."
"Or..."
"The crime is similar to that of Jack the Ripper, with mutilations and gore. But where the Ripper targeted weak women, he seems to look at men."
"Were there any fingerprints in the site?"
"None at all... He knows quite a lot about planning a kill, but he seems fairly new. Maybe a person who has been around murderers for quite some time."
I continued writing my letter and decided to go to the post office to send it. I took leave of Bell and walked to the post office. On my way back, as I was entering Westminster Avenue, I met Inspector Jenkins on the street.
"So, how is the investigation going?"
"Not much to find, actually," he said in his big gruff voice, "But I thought Jones was doing fine."
"We are in a dead end too, Inspector."
"Then you better find a way out fast. There has been another one last night. A woman this time. We kept it out of the papers. Care to join us to the crime scene?"
Yes, I admit that two murders in a week is not a very pleasant experience, but something else was scaring me. It was the fact that Inspector Jenkins had blood on his left thumbnail.
