Sherlock Holmes Great War Parodies and Pastiches I

by Bill Peschel

  “To a lady in distress, who I can see has to earn her living as a shorthand typist, and has to snatch a brief hour from her employment in the City, my services are free”; and with a bow he showed her out, her face being full of blank wonder at his close description.

  “Really,” I cried, “why go at all to the house? If you can tell so much about her, why stir away at all?”

  “Your caustic wit is in the ascendant this morning,” he replied. “But really, it is very simple. Her shoes were pronouncedly Parisian, and as they had not been half-soled, evidently she has not worn them long. No snob ever puts on half a sole without showing where he cuts across the narrow of the foot. Had she not lived in an entirely opposite direction to us, she would have called here on her way to business, and she is in the City because in her fingers she twisted a twopenny ‘bus ticket. As to her profession, typists use a deep violet carbon tissue for duplicating purposes, and her fingers were discoloured with it. She would not be a typist without being a stenographer. There you have the whole story. I wonder what her story is!”

  A church clock somewhere was striking six as we drove up to the door of 46 Northumbrian Road, Bromley, and the door was opened by Miss Wryde herself, who forthwith led us to the suite of four rooms on the ground floor which was tenanted by herself, the deceased, Mr. Wryde, and Mr. Brenson. The doors of the men’s rooms were close together in one angle of the landing, the lady’s apartment was a little distance off, and the living-room occupied the front of the house.

  Opening the door of the room in which the dead parent lay, Coombes strode in, and I could see by the rapid glances which he shot hither and thither along the walls, then across the ceiling and over the floor, that he had summed up a quantity of details. It was a small room 12 ft. by 12 ft., and the window was nailed up, so that it was impossible to open it.

  Bit by bit, Miss Wryde was led on by Coombes to tell her story. It was at Brenson’s suggestion that her father used that small chamber, because he thought it would be cosier for an old man than a large one; and, by his kindly forethought, the window was fastened up securely so that the wind should not rattle the frame in the night and prevent sleep. Not a thing was disturbed in the room; it was just as she found it that fatal morning.

  “You noticed no smell, and the air did not seem misty?” queried my friend.

  “No,” was the ready response.

  “That broken pane?” he questioned, pointing to a square of glass in the window. “When was that done?”

  “I found it broken this morning, and a pebble and the damaged glass were on the table beneath. Some boy had doubtless thrown the stone at it. There are frequently a lot of wild and troublesome youngsters playing about in the road out there at the back.”

  Going down on his knees Coombes carefully examined the skirting inch by inch, thence he proceeded to the door, and by inserting his finger under it, measured the space between it and the floor. Immediately afterwards he went to the door of Brenson’s room and applied a similar scrutiny, and a second later his powerful magnifying lens was at his eye, and the floor between the doors was undergoing the closest observation. Then, ascertaining that Brenson was not in his room, he opened the door, and spent a few moments in glancing around, opening a cupboard, and then carefully closing it just as he found it. From the mantelshelf he picked up a few black grains, and the pocket microscope, without which he never stirred, was employed to examine them. Opening the window, he measured carefully the few feet it stood above the garden; then he passed through it, and made a detailed exploration of the soil, following an evident trail to the back wall, and looked up at the broken window behind which lay the subject of the tragedy. By the side of his feet were a number of broken bottles, each of which he cautiously smelled, and, at some length, took notes of what he read on the labels.

  “A simple case, Thatson,” he said as he swung himself back into the room. “By to-morrow all London will be ringing with the news of a sensational tragedy. I will rejoin you later at our rooms; in the meantime, I must see the local police.”

  It was very late when he came back to our lodgings.

  “By this time, I anticipate, Mr. Brenson has parted with his liberty for some weeks to come, at any rate; perhaps for ever. It was a most ingenious scheme he worked out, and the police detectives would never have blundered upon it, even by chance. The coroner’s officer has been working up details on his own account, and he had quite agreed to the idea that it was an instance of death from heart failure. Directly I saw the deceased I scouted that view. Such men as he, thin, wiry, and tough, have hearts that don’t fail in a hurry, especially during sleep.

  “I was struck at the very outset by the smallness of the room, the lack of a fireplace, and the nailed-up window, all factors in a case of poisoning by gas fumes, but there was no gas laid on, nor could I find any trace of a cut pipe near the skirting. The broken window, and the absence of any smell or coloured air, both combated the theory, until right in the corner beneath the door I saw in the dust signs of something like a rope having been dragged along. My magnifying glass failed to detect any shreds of hemp which would have frayed from a rope by the friction of dragging, but clearly before my eyes was testimony that something had been pushed or pulled beneath that door, and the trail also led under the door of Brenson’s room.

  “Once inside his room, I speedily found what I wanted to know, for hanging in a cupboard was a coil of rubber piping of a size just sufficient to be passed easily under the doors, where, as no doubt you observed, there was a space half an inch wide. There was no gas-bracket in the room to which the pipe could be attached, but on the mantel-shelf I found a few grains of charcoal.

  “Now, Thatson, a medical man like yourself knows how deadly are the fumes of carbon dioxide, and how they have neither smell nor colour. There was the key of the mystery. Evidently Brenson had been experimenting for some time with various chemical elements. The broken bottles in the garden told me that much, and as nearly every one bore a different chemist’s name, he had been at great pains to baffle any one who tried to trace his actions.

  “By some means he obtained the loan of an apparatus for manufacturing this fiendish gas; it was passed by the pipe into the dead man’s room, and in a very short time his last sleep would have commenced. Medical testimony will come to our aid at the inquest, because the blood, when carbon dioxide fumes are well absorbed, becomes of a very bright red colour, which it retains after death.

  “After allowing time for the gas to do the fatal work, Brenson withdrew the tube, and leaving his room by the window, as some new scratches upon it will attest, walked to the end wall, where he stopped and turned. Why? To pick up a little pebble and hurl, it through the window of the gas-laden apartment, and by that method allow the fumes to escape into the night air. He evidently made off with his plant through the garden, and over the wall adjoining Long Barns Lane. He must have met with an accident to his parcel, for I picked up a fragment of an induction tube, and I have satisfied myself that its discoloration was caused by carbon dioxide. The police have all this in hand, and will bring the whole story to light, taking, of course, the full credit to themselves.”

  “But the motive, Coombes?”

  “Ah! that the police must find out.”

  About a fortnight later he showed me a newspaper cutting.

  “With respect to the trial of the man Brenson for the wilful murder of Mr. Wryde at Bromley, the police have discovered that both men were members of an anarchist party. To Wryde was allotted the task of an attack on a crowned head in Europe, but at the last minute he washed his hands of the affair, though he promised full secrecy. The Society declared that he must pay the penalty of breaking his oath, and Brenson was delegated to execute what the Society termed justice upon him.”

  Taking no notice of my comments on this tragic news item, Coombes paced the floor with slow steps, an expression of abstraction on his face. Stopping suddenly, he darted to the corner where his bassoon leaned against t
he wall, and removed his favourite instrument from its case.

  Then, seating himself, he looked at me as one inspired.

  “This is an improvisation,” he said, dreamily. “I should value your opinion of it, Thatson.”

  Herlock’s One Mistake

  Henry A. Hering

  This story appeared in A Souvenir, a hardback book published by St. Paul’s Church in Sketty, a village on Wales’ south coast a few miles west of Swansea. In 1980, a limited edition of 27 copies was issued by Ferret Fantasy, Ltd., with some copies of A Spectrum of Fantasy, book collector George Locke’s bibliography of science-fiction and fantasy literature from the 19th and early 20th centuries. Little is known of Henry Augustus Hering (1864-1945). He wrote short stories between 1896 and 1930 and is best known among fans of British supernatural fiction for the dozen stories in The Burglars’ Club series.

  On turning over the notes I have kept of the many cases in which I was associated with the investigations of my late lamented friend Mr. Herlock Shomes, I am reminded that I have hitherto omitted to make public the only case in which he failed to display that marvellous deductive reasoning and quickness of perception which distinguished him, and which have, through the instrumentality of my poor pen, obtained for him a world-wide reputation. Perhaps the knowledge that in this case I was also at fault may have had something to do with my silence, but after long deliberation I have come to the conclusion that Shomes’ reputation cannot possibly suffer from the recital of one single fault in a career so long and extensive, and that I myself am fully able to bear any blame that may be attached to me; but that it was the cause of a display of temper towards myself, and the reason of a temporary estrangement with this remarkable man, will be for ever a source of sorrow to me.

  My practice was not of the largest, even after my marriage, and on one particular morning, after making up the solitary bottle of medicine called for by my consultation hour and viewing my blank engagement slate, I told my wife not to expect me back before dinner as I was going to see Mr. Shomes.

  “Better by far to attend to your practice, Jack,” she said.

  “Thank you, dear,” I promptly replied, “my practice seems to be quite able to take care of itself;” and with this I left the house.

  I found Shomes bending over a flask containing a pale green liquid which was boiling over a Bunsen burner. He looked up as I entered, and an expression of annoyance crossed his face.

  “You again, Spotson,” he said curtly. Some men might have taken offence, but I know Shomes far too well for that.

  “I again, as you say, my dear Herlock,” I replied blithely. “What’s your little game today? Dip the litmus in, man.”

  Something had evidently annoyed him that morning, for he growled, “There’s the sporting paper over there, Spotson. For mercy’s sake go to it.”

  I took up the paper, but had scarcely glanced at it when there was a rattle of a vehicle, which finally stopped before our door.

  “Hearse . . . pair of horses . . . near one white star on forehead . . . far one had staggers when a child . . . driver old horse-marine . . . called for dipsomaniac upstairs,” said Shomes.

  “Marvellous, marvellous!” I ejaculated, knowing it would please him. “Now, however do you know all that?”

  “Simple enough,” said Shomes, his face brightening up. “You can always tell a hearse by . . .”

  There was a knock. The door opened, and a young man dressed in deep mourning entered.

  “The wrong place, sir,” said Shomes. “Your grandfather died upstairs. Top landing, first door to the left.”

  “I beg your pardon,” said the stranger with evident astonishment. “Am I speaking to Mr. Herlock Shomes?”

  “You are.”

  “I have called to see if you will assist me in a most important matter, Mr. Shomes. Are you at liberty?”

  “Quite at your service,” said Shomes, placing a chair for him “But why come in a hearse with two horses, near one white star on forehead, far one . . .?”

  I looked out of the window to verify his details. There was only a hansom at the door. I told Shomes so, but he simply said:

  “Spotson, for Heaven’s sake let me go about my own business in my own way. I know perfectly well what is outside the door, and you will know even better in a minute if you won’t be quiet. Excuse my friend’s interruption,” he continued to his visitor. “You were about to say your grandfather . . .?”

  “Not my grandfather, Mr. Shomes. It is about my uncle, or rather concerning his will that I have come.”

  “Proceed, sir,” said Shomes, settling himself in his favourite attitude—body thrown back in the chair, eyes staring at the ceiling, legs crossed, elbows resting on the arms of the chair, and finger tips pressed one against the other.

  “My name is Mortimer Banks,” said the young man, “and I am a clerk in the city. My uncle, Edward Rawson, was a wealthy indigo merchant, who died four weeks ago. It was an open secret, since confirmed by his will, that on his death his wealth was to be divided into five portions, one of which was bequeathed to me, and the other portions to four different persons. Each has only a life interest in the bequest so long as any of the others live. As each of the legatees dies, such interest becomes divisible in equal portions among the survivors, the ultimate survivor coming into complete possession of the whole estate without reservation.”

  “A most interesting arrangement,” said Shomes, “and one fraught with many possibilities. Go on, sir.”

  “The legatees were Richard Wade, a retired malster living at Nailsworth in Gloucestershire; Mitchell Robinson, in business in Leicester; John Embsay, a Craven farmer; a Miss Arabella Dabb, living in Leeds; and myself.”

  Here Mr. Banks paused, and seemed to be labouring under considerable excitement.

  “Proceed,” said Shomes, “I am much interested.”

  “Well, Mr. Shomes, what do you think of this? Four weeks ago to-morrow, Wednesday, my uncle died. The following Wednesday, Richard Wade was found dead in bed, from heart disease according to the verdict of the jury. On the Wednesday after that, Mitchell Robinson committed suicide, apparently without any assignable reason. Embsay has been missing from home since last Wednesday; and according to yesterday’s paper which I have here, he was found on Sunday tied up in a sack in the river Aire.”

  Shomes leaned forward in his chair rubbing his hands together. “Go on, Mr. Banks. I am very much interested.”

  “That is all—so far,” continued our visitor. “To-morrow is Wednesday again. It remains to be seen what will happen. Frankly I have come to you for advice, and even for your protection.”

  “You have done quite right, Mr. Banks,” said Herlock, “and I will do the best I can for you. But before we go any further there is one little matter I should like us to be clear about. You have probably heard of me through the stories my friend Dr. Coyle—I mean Dr. Spotson—is continually writing. In the main, they are correct, but he generally omits to mention that I expect some remuneration for my services. An idea has got afloat that I do my work for the pure love of the thing. This is not the case.”

  “Anything in reason I shall be prepared to pay.”

  “Let me see, three deaths and a possible fourth. I think a preliminary fee of twenty-five guineas should not be too much.”

  “Certainly not;” saying which Mr. Banks pulled out a roll of notes and handed over the amount mentioned.

  “Thank you,” said Shomes carefully placing them in his pocket book. “Now we will proceed. The fifth legatee you say is a lady.”

  “Arabella Dabb, now living in Leeds, a former housekeeper of my uncle, whom at one time it seemed likely he would marry.”

  “Ah,” said Herlock, “this is indeed interesting, and throws a glamour of romance over an otherwise commonplace tale of crime. What would the world be without the romance of love? Think how it spurs on youth to fame and fortune; how kings have been content to lose their crowns for its sweet sake. Even members of parliament
have been known to forget the laws they helped to make at its behest.”

  Our visitor seemed considerably surprised at this sudden rhapsody, but I was only too well accustomed to that sort of thing happening at the most incongruous times. Shomes had sunk into a deep reverie. I went up to him and prodded him in the side. “Wake up, old man,” I said. “Here’s Mr. Banks waiting to tell you some more.”

  “Ah,” said Shomes, with a start. “Sit down, Spotson. Mr. Banks, I am listening.”

  “I may add,” continued Banks, “that during the existence of a previous will leaving all his money to his housekeeper, my uncle was once nearly poisoned by Arabella Dabb inadvertently putting arsenic in his soup instead of pepper.”

  “I am anxious to make the acquaintance of Miss Dabb,” said Shomes. “She is, I think, the only one who will benefit by the death of the male legatees under your uncle’s last will?”

  “That is so. Here is the copy of the will.”

  “You are an extremely intelligent young man, Mr. Banks, and are making matters very easy for me. Have you the newspaper accounts of the other events?”

  “No, but you can get them at any newspaper office. They appeared in the next day’s issues.”

  “I will make a note of the dates. There. And Miss Dabb’s address and your own? Thank you. Is there anything else you wish to say?”

  “Nothing, except that it seems to me whatever you must do must be done quickly. My own life may be in peril to-morrow.”

  “That has occurred to me. I shall lose no time in the matter. Spotson, please look up the trains to Leeds. I hope to have an interesting interview with Miss Dabb to-day.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Shomes, thank you,” said our visitor, warmly shaking hands. “I feel immensely relieved since I know you will take up the case. When may I expect to hear from you?”