The Closet of Possibility

Three Possibilities

Swandam Lane was a vile alley lurking behind the high wharves which line the north side of the river to the east of London Bridge. I had other adventures in the gloomy place beside the one I had embarked on that day, which I have written elsewhere.

Inspector Stanley Hopkins led us to a run-down housing establishment, situated between other houses of similar ilk and look. Two burly constables stood in attention before a narrow alley. They saluted when Holmes, Inspector Hopkins and I passed by to climb a flight of steep steps that led us to the third floor, where the Rances rented rooms.

Stanley Hopkins introduced us to a haggard, grey-haired woman, the widow of the murdered man, whose gaunt and deep-lined face, with the furtive look of terror in the depths of her red-rimmed eyes, told of the years of hardship and ill-usage which she had endured. With her was her daughter, a pale, fair-haired girl, whose eyes blazed defiantly at us as she told us that she was glad that her father was dead, and that she blessed the hand which had struck him down. It was a terrible household that Peter Rance had made for himself, and it was with a sense of relief that we found ourselves in the sunlight again and making our way to the alley where the dead man was found.

The body had been moved from the scene of the crime; only a large dark stain reminiscent of a slaughterhouse and the repugnant smell of death lingered. Holmes crouched before the dark stain, which covered much of the cobble and adjacent building wall, and examined it in his minute way. As I stood behind him, I couldn't help but notice the sheer volume of blood present; far too much to have come from wounds made by broken glass alone.

"I believe we can rule out accidental death by fall, Hopkins," said Holmes at last. "You can tell plainly from where the majority of the blood is present and the angle in which the blood had been splattered."

Hopkins groaned. "I had a feeling that would be the case. But that leaves us darker than we were before."

"Perhaps," said Holmes. "Now, why did you fail to inform me about this notch?"

He indicated a spot in the middle of the dark stain. I scrutinised the spot and sure enough, there was narrow puncture mark on the wall.

"I did notice the mark, sir, but the wall was pockmarked with such marks, so I didn't think much of it," the Inspector replied. "Do you think it's relevant to the case, Mr Holmes?"

"I think fortune is kind to us," said Holmes. Then he looked up to see the window on the third floor. As the Inspector told us earlier, it was at such a height that it would certainly cause much bodily damage if one fell from it. Holmes studied it for some time, and as he did so, he fiddled with his right ear. I had never seen my friend ever make such a gesture before.

"What was the exact posture of the body when it was found?"

"He was lying on the cobble, on his stomach."

"Where have you moved the body?"

"In the chilling rooms, sir. Do you wish to see it?"

Indeed he did. Soon we found ourselves in the chilling room in the police station, where the late Peter Rance lay upon a slab, pale and bloodless, his stomach torn open as if by a spear, and his face frozen in a rictus of fear and horror. Holmes stood before the gruesome sight for a moment, his hand again inexplicably cupping his right ear. Then he hovered over the body and studied not the mortal wound but around it, where one could see smaller and less deadly wounds.

"What do you make of these, Watson?" said he, pointing at them.

I studied the wounds carefully. Some were shallow, like the hand that made them didn't have the strength to do much damage. Others were deep, straight, and full of purpose. Yet others were mere glazes, breaking only the skin. I counted eleven total. Unlike the stomach wound, none of them bore signs of bleeding.