The Adventure of the McManus Murder Case

A Previously Unpublished Remembrance of Sherlock Holmes
By John H. Watson, M.D.
Edited By Jason Sudlow Hicks, M.S.

Editor's Note: The following document was found amongst a collection of the remaining Sudlow family papers. Interviews with family members still living in England reveal that a Dr. Jack Alan Sudlow, a psychologist and amateur criminologist who practiced in London during the early part of the century, was an intimate friend of the late Dr. John Watson, M.D. Over the course of their long friendship, they exchanged a number of letters and professional writings relating to the study of crime. It appears that Dr. Sudlow requested some information regarding Dr. Watson's celebrated friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes and was sent the following manuscript as a gift. A brief inscription at the top of the manuscript reads as follows:

To Jack...

I thought you might enjoy this brief episode as you are a collector of curiosities related to crime. As Holmes is unlikely to view it as worthy of publication, I entrust it to your care. I remain very sincerely yours,

John

When I look back over the many volumes of written notes that were the product of my long and fruitful friendship with Sherlock Holmes, I am often struck by the truly strange nature of many of the people, places, and events which they so carefully chronicle. Of the cases in which I was fortunate enough to be personally involved, only a select few have been made available to the public at large. The remainders, for various reasons not the least of which is the stern ethical code of my companion, have long languished in the old leather notebooks that I keep locked carefully away in my library study. Yet even now after all these years, I cannot suppress a thrill as I thumb through the worn pages of my journals and am drawn by the firm line of a younger and steadier hand back to those days on Baker Street where every telegram brought an invitation to danger and every footstep on the stair set agleam the dark eyes of my dear old friend.

I dare say that thanks in some small way to my clumsy attempts at describing for an eager public the gifts that my friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes possessed to such a great degree, I have perhaps painted a portrait that bears only a passing resemblance to its subject. The general populous no doubt think of Holmes as a man of action, his keen features marked with grim determination as he pursues his criminal prey through the dark streets of London. If this is so, I fully understand for truthfully, it is precisely how I choose to remember him. But it was not always so, as a brief description of the McManus murder case may serve to illustrate.

According to volume fourteen of my journals (1897-1899), the case in question occurred during a deep winter when all of London lay cloaked beneath the white mantle of Mother Nature. It was a cold spell of uncommon ferocity, one which brought the teeming modern metropolis to a state of relative inaction, where no person ventured out of doors without due cause. This seemingly unending period of ice and snow had the effect of increasing the workload associated with my own small medical practice, and I was to find that of all the men, women, and children who made up my roster of patients, there was none who was more difficult to administer to than Sherlock Holmes.

"I am dying Watson," my friend croaked as he lay in his bed early one morning.

"Nonsense, Holmes. You have a simple case of influenza. It will pass in a day or so."

"I wish I was dead," Holmes groaned. He then pulled the bed sheets over his head. "Would you be so kind as to hand me my pipe, Watson?"

"You need to rest, not smoke." I replied sternly. Holmes grunted his acquiescence and lapsed into a coughing fit.

"I have that damn O'Connel case to thank for my affliction, Watson. Waist deep in an Irish swamp for an entire evening clad only in a suit of sixteenth-century plate armor. The indignities that I endure to see justice done stagger the mind."

"A most remarkable series of events, my dear fellow. I am tempted to make an official record of that case, with your permission of course."

"Certainly not. What is it, Mrs. Hudson?" Holmes asked in annoyance as the full figure of our landlady appeared at the bedroom door.

"Inspector Lestrade would like a moment of your time, Mr. Holmes, if you are feeling up to it."

Holmes turned his bloodshot eyes toward the ceiling and let out a low moan. "Lestrade. No doubt he will be pleased to find me so close to the grave."

"Never mind, Holmes. I'll tell the Inspector that you are indisposed. I'm sure he won't mind trying you back in a few days." My offer had fallen on deaf ears, however, as Holmes rose from the depths of his sickbed and pulled himself up on his elbow.

"No, Watson. I'll see Lestrade. Only a man with a desperate purpose would set out of doors on a day like this," Holmes noted glumly as he peered out of his chamber window at the swirling snow that rushed madly against the frosted glass. "Show him in, Mrs. Hudson."

"Briefly, Holmes." I cautioned him for all the good it would do.

A moment later found the three of us there, myself standing near the wardrobe, Holmes reclining in his bed, and the dour figure of Inspector Lestrade seated in a battered old rocker with his hat clenched between gloved hands. "Nothing serious, I hope." he said at last. Poor Inspector Lestrade was not used to dealing with Sherlock Holmes on these terms, and the experience was obviously a jarring one for him.

"I am told by the good doctor here that I stand a fair chance of survival. Now," my friend said as his eyes narrowed to slits, "I expect that you have come to consult with me about the murder of Mr. Heath McManus."

Lestrade's jaw tightened visibly and he sat up rather stiffly in his chair. When he spoke, he sounded both weary and annoyed. "Just so, Mr. Holmes. You have heard something of the case then."

Holmes slumped back against his pillows. He was obviously pleased with himself for getting the better of the good inspector. "On the contrary, Lestrade, I know absolutely nothing of the matter."

I could not help but interject in hopes of sparing Lestrade any further embarrassment. "The portion of the evening Times you are carrying in the outer pocket of your overcoat, Inspector" I offered quickly. Lestrade lowered his eyes to the folded page of a newspaper that was visibly protruding from the depths of his black winter coat. It proclaimed the murder of a Mr. Heath McManus in the tall, stately letters that were so characteristic of the London Times Special Edition.

"Excellent, Watson." Holmes said with satisfaction.

"Oh, yes. Yes." Lestrade muttered in the hurt tones of the bullied schoolboy. "Mr. Heath McManus, aged forty-one years, found stabbed on Market Street only this morning."

Holmes pressed his long fingertips together and slowly closed his eyes. "And how can I be of assistance to you in this matter, Inspector?"

"Well, on the surface of it the thing seems perfectly clear. Mr. McManus, who works as a lending agent for the Great Northern bank, was walking to his place of employment this morning when he was approached by a young man who accosted him. McManus resisted this person's advances and was murdered for his troubles."

"A robbery then?" I asked. Lestrade nodded.

"It would appear so, Doctor. We have a witness who was standing across the street at the time the murder occurred. He gave us a good description of the assailant whom he described as a rugged young lad of twenty or so. From this Mr. Hunt's description of his clothing, it seems likely that murderer is a sailor. I have men from four divisions combing the city even as we speak in hopes of apprehending our man."

"And how did the unfortunate Mr. McManus meet his end?" Holmes asked in a languid voice that betrayed nothing of the keenness with which he was following Lestrade's narrative.

"Our witness saw the younger man stab Mr. McManus with a pearl handled, short bladed pocket knife."

"Pearl handed, you say?"

"Yes, Mr. Holmes. He was quite specific as to that point."

"It is unfortunate for the late Mr. McManus that this witness was unable to offer him any direct assistance." I mused.

"Not at all, Doctor. The witness, Mr. Hunt, is very nearly crippled. He requires a walking stick just to make his way around at all. At the speed with which crimes such as these occur, the poor old gentleman could hardly have offered Mr. McManus any practical assistance. A more feeble specimen of old age and ill health I've never seen."

"Fortunately for you Lestrade, his eyes appear to be properly working. At any rate, what were Mr. Hunt's actions following the murder?" Holmes asked.

"Let me consult his statement." Lestrade pulled a small pocket book from inside his mass of winter clothing. "Yes. Mr. Hunt saw the young man in question stab Mr. McManus, rifle through his pockets, and then run North down Market street. Mr. Hunt then crossed the road himself to offer what help he could to the stricken man, which was for naught as he was quite dead. At this point, Mr. Holmes, a young constable who was unfortunate enough to be on duty in this miserable weather happened to turn the corner and come upon the seen of the murder. The constable saw Mr. Hunt stamping wildly about in a state of obvious agitation and rushed to investigate. I was summoned to the scene soon after where I collected a very detailed statement from Mr. Hunt. Once I was able to calm the old fellow down, that is."

Holmes waved his hand quickly. "If I may interrupt, Lestrade, I assume from your description of the scene that Mr. McManus was facing south, looking down Market Street when he was attacked by this young man, who was himself facing north?"

"Quite so, Mr. Holmes."

"And Mr. Hunt, who witnessed the crime, was directly across the street." Holmes continued, speaking more to himself than to either Lestrade or me. "Did Mr. Hunt happen to notice whether the attacker wielded his pocket knife with his right or his left hand?"

Lestrade again glanced over his notes. "No, he did not. But I've seen a good many stabbings in my time, and judging from the way his clothes were torn, and the depth of the wound, I'd lay odds that our man was right handed."

Holmes nodded. "The law of averages would agree with you as to that particular, Lestrade." Holmes settled back into his bed and slowly smoothed the wrinkles from the old wool bed cover. "I must say, Inspector, that you seem to possess all of the information that is needed to bring this case to a successful conclusion."

Lestrade shook his head slowly. "I suppose so, Mr. Holmes, but there is something to this matter that rings false. Or perhaps it's imagination."

A smile played at the corners of Holmes' severe mouth and a red flush rose suddenly in his pale cheeks as he studied Lestrade. His visage at that moment conveyed to me the impression of a learned professor who is gently directing a student toward a moment of discovery. "Imagination is perhaps the most important tool that a competent investigator can hope to possess, Lestrade. You must never allow the facts, or rather what appear to be facts, to blind you to truth. As to the murder of Mr. McManus, your intuition is correct. All is not as it seems. We must reexamine the events of this morning as described by Mr. Hunt."

"How so, Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock Holmes rose to a sitting position and took his old clay pipe and a worn tobacco pouch from the bedside table. "Let us proceed from your assumption, Lestrade, that what we know of this crime is not in fact true. If we further employ our imaginations, we can construct a series of events that not only support what we know to be fact but also bring into relief those elements of the case which are most likely to be false."

Lestrade again shifted in his chair and sat for a moment rubbing his chin. "And how might this series of events begin?"

Homes puffed idly at his pipe. "Let us imagine," he said at last, "that these two men, Mr. McManus and Mr. Hunt were not strangers by any means. Let us also imagine that there was a disagreement between them that led our Mr. Hunt to kill Mr. McManus in cold blood. According to the article you have brought with you, Lestrade, the late Mr. McManus was a banker. From this information, it is not too much to suppose that any quarrel between these two men was of a financial nature."

"How did you arrive at the conclusion these two men knew each other, Holmes?" I asked from the foot of the bed. I confess that I had been following the entire exchange between Holmes and Lestrade and that the possibility that the two men might be acquainted had never occurred to me.

"Quite simply, Watson, I find the statement of Mr. Hunt rather too much to take, particularly his claim as to the type of weapon used. He described the murder weapon to Lestrade as being a pearl-handled pocket knife. It seems very unlikely to me that a pocket knife would be visible to an elderly man from across a wide city street, particularly if the murderer had been clutching it in his right hand. Observe." Holmes reached again across to the night table and took something up in his right hand. "This straight razor, Lestrade. From where you sit, can you tell me what color the handle is? No you cannot, for it's handle is well hidden by the outside of my hand. Mr. Hunt had provided too much information, and the only purpose for doing so would be to deceive the police."

"I must say that I too suspected Mr. Hunt from the start." said Lestrade.

"There are other elements in what we know of this crime that are also suggestive and serve to support our hypothesis. Do you recall what the young constable witnessed as he rounded the corner of Market street and came upon the scene of the crime?"

"The old man stamping wildly around in a state of shock," I said. "I see, Holmes. Mr. Hunt was in fact attempting to hide his crime by destroying the incriminating footprints in the snow."

"Indeed, Watson, as his footprints were all the more conspicuous for the fact that he required a cane to walk. It is also likely that he was attempting to create the illusion that another man had in fact been present. I suspect that Mr. Hunt had chosen this morning to commit this crime due to the fact that the ferocity of the weather insured that there would be fewer people on the streets than one would normally expect to find. Mr. Hunt, who is obviously not a particularly clever man, murders Mr. McManus but before he can flee the scene our young constable makes his appearance and Mr. Hunt decides that the best way to avoid being arrested for his crime is to claim to be the only witness to it."

Lestrade bolted up from his chair with such passion that he very nearly fell over backwards. "By Jove!" he exclaimed with all of the conviction of a converted man who had suddenly seen light where before there was only darkness. "You're right, Mr. Holmes! And to think how near I came to letting a guilty man slip through my fingers." Lestrade quickly gathered up his belongings and made for the bedroom door. He was halfway to the hall when he stopped and turned suddenly to face my reclining companion.

"I owe you a great debt, Mr. Holmes." he said.

"Nonsense, Lestrade. I have perhaps contributed to your investigation by helping you to organize your thoughts, but you have done all of the real work. You are to be congratulated. And now, I suggest that you go without further delay and put your hands upon the murderous Mr. Hunt."


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