Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Was Not

by Christopher Sequeira

  “Perchance, but the care of her calculation suggests otherwise. Consider the steps she has taken to plan this evening’s theatre, and her concern to avoid any charges of assault we might bring against her. I shall handle her—can you do the same for Pseudechis Porphyriacus?”

  I stroked the head of the snake, now wrapped around my forearm. “My riding crop would suffice in normal circumstances, but not if the Aboriginal’s trick is as effective as Miss Dalrymple claims.”

  “Then why don’t you order breakfast while I send for Parker. Afterwards I shall take a cab to Fitzroy Square and see what Von Herder can do for us on short notice.”

  Von Herder was a blind German gunsmith. I was pleased that it was going to be one of Holmes’s hands-on cases.

  IV

  Sherlock Holmes and I had no difficulty in engaging a bedroom and sitting-room at the Bridge Inn in Upper Woodford. He had selected the village over Wilton or Amesbury as it was located a mere mile and a half from Longmore. Our rooms were on the first floor, and our window commanded a view of the avenue gate to the estate with the naked eye, and of the cruciform manor house with my field glasses. It was a perfect evening, still and cold. The sun was near the horizon and would soon set, but there was no sign of the waning moon yet. Holmes and I sat together in the gathering darkness.

  “Do you know, Roylott,” he said, “I have really some scruples as to taking you tonight. There is a distinct element of danger.”

  “There always is.”

  “Yes, but the danger in this instance is the unpredictability of the situation. There are a large number of variables in play and the most important of them all is simply too capricious to second-guess.”

  “Lady Sarah?”

  Holmes nodded. “Leave her and her butler to me. You shall take care of the snake should it appear. You have your Eley’s No. 2?”

  I patted my pocket.

  “Capital. Take these five rounds. I suggest you load three of them, no more.”

  Holmes dropped five bullets into my hand. I picked one up and examined it closely. The brass cartridge was identical to my other shells, but the lead had been replaced by a glass bullet, inside of which were half-a-dozen tiny pellets. “Shotgun rounds for revolvers?”

  “The principle is the same. I anticipate that a frenzied snake playing amongst the stones of the Henge under a sickle moon will make for a difficult target. You can wound it with Von Herder’s snakeshot and then finish it off with your regular shot. He warned me that the snakeshot is only effective at very close range, but I expect that’s obvious. I have my own revolver to hand for our human antagonists.”

  I began reloading as instructed. “What’s your plan?”

  “We will leave as soon as you are ready. Proceed to the stones and take up our position before the curtain rises.”

  “What if the Aboriginal joins us before the crone and our client?”

  “Then,” said Holmes with icy calm, “we shall re-christen the Slaughter Stone before we begin our commission for Miss Dalrymple. Leave that to me. Your job is to ensure that the snake does not obstruct my movements.”

  “What about Miss Dalrymple?”

  “You have said yourself that the snake’s venom is not fatal. If you must let it bite her in order to get a better shot, do so. If she is wounded by the snakeshot, the damage will be no more than cosmetic. Just make sure you don’t injure her right hand. We don’t want the handwriting on the cheque contested by the bank.”

  I snapped the cylinder of the Eley No. 2 closed. “I’m ready.”

  V

  The plain looked weird in the moonlight. Weird and unfathom­able. It was easy to imagine the howls of prehistoric savages and their victims in the wind whipping across the earth. It was some distance to the nearest copse so the broken ring of stone afforded the only shelter from the intermittent gale. Despite the absence of trees and the flatness of the ground, I could see very little in the faint illumination of the moon, even with the assistance of my glasses. I could spy a faint light from Upper Woodford to the south, but not Longmore which, although much closer, was invisible behind a screen of trees. The view above was more revealing and the canopy of stars added to the eerie atmosphere of our hide. Holmes and I had been waiting for two hours and he had forbidden me to smoke in order to preserve my night vision.

  I passed the time by pacing to and fro instead, stomping the springy turf and alternating between slapping my riding crop against my gaiters and peering into the night with my glasses. Holmes sat on one of the fallen stones, displaying the red-Indian composure which had made his reputation as a machine rather than a man. Patience is one of the many virtues I lack and my mood soured at the start of the third hour of our vigil. Irritation gave way to anger and I began to worry about controlling myself when the action started. Anger provides me with a satisfaction that no other experience has afforded and I have little incentive to restrain myself, even had I the temperance.

  Holmes rose and stepped forward, pressing against one of the standing stones. “Roylott!”

  “What?”

  “The wind is in our favour. I hear a carriage in the distance. Can you see it?”

  I couldn’t hear anything, but I squinted out across the plain through my field glasses. At first, I saw nothing, then the outline of a human figure—a woman, about two hundred yards away. “A woman, running, either towards us or in the opposite direction, I can’t tell yet.”

  “Our client. She will be making for the stones.”

  Holmes was right. I couldn’t discern the details, but the form fitted Miss Dalrymple perfectly. “It’s her. She has stopped. She is looking behind her. Now she is running towards us again.”

  “Can you see the carriage yet?”

  I scoured the plain behind Miss Dalrymple and made out a dog-cart, about a hundred and fifty yards behind her and gaining rapidly. “Yes. Two people. One has white hair, the other is dark.” I heard the crack of a whip. “I think it’s Lady Sarah and her Aboriginal.”

  Miss Dalrymple stumbled and I started forward, but Holmes held his arm across my chest.

  “Wait.”

  I raised the glasses again. “Miss Dalrymple has fallen…she is back on feet, running again. I can see Lady Sarah and the Aboriginal clearly now. They will be upon her before she reaches us.”

  I threw down my glasses and reached for my revolver. “Let me get rid of Von Herder’s cartridges; we can ambush the dog-cart together!”

  Holmes gripped my wrist and the strength in his fingers was even greater than my own. “No!” I nearly seized him by the collar, but my fury was not sufficiently fuelled to risk death for no good reason. “Listen, Doctor, listen!”

  Miss Dalrymple reached the Slaughter Stone, some twenty yards from us, and collapsed upon it with a cry of despair. I could hear the gasps of her breath, the thudding hooves of the horse, another crack of the whip, and…hissing. A low, continuous hiss. There was a shout from the cart and Holmes leapt forward, dragging me with him.

  “The snake, Roylott, the snake!”

  We ran at the Slaughter Stone, revolvers at the ready, but the dog-cart reached it first. Holmes stopped and took aim. I saw the snake rear up to about two feet in height, its long body glistening in the moonlight. I stood over Miss Dalrymple, cocked the Eley No. 2, and took aim at the big black head as it drew back. A loud report rang out across the plain and Miss Dalrymple screamed. Lady Sarah had climbed from the dog-cart—she fired a second shot at the snake. She missed, its head lashed forward, and I fired. The head snapped sideways and I fired the rest of the snakeshot into it. The poor creature fell, now writhing in agony, and I administered the coup de grace with one of my own rounds.

  Lady Sarah stared at me, dropped her revolver, and ran to Miss Dalrymple.

  “Stay right where you are,” Holmes told the Aboriginal, who was still atop the dog-cart. He turned his revol
ver to Lady Sarah, who was now bent over our client.

  “Flower!” Lady Sarah’s face was very white and had a peculiar expression about it. “He is dead. I tried to shoot him with my own hands, but Dr Roylott succeeded where I failed. You have nothing to fear from me or from Little Blackie. Come!”

  The madness I had seen in her eyes in Baker Street had gone and she did not look unkind. “You are a plucky girl, and I respect you, but you do not need Mr Holmes anymore.”

  “My snakeshot is finished, Holmes, do you want me to take care of the Aboriginal?”

  “Do nothing.”

  Lady Sarah drew Miss Dalrymple to her feet and held her in both hands. “Hear what I have to say. Long ago I made a vow. I solemnly vowed before Almighty God that as long as I lived I would never allow my only son to marry. He knew that I had made this vow, and for a long time he respected it, but he met you and become engaged to you in defiance of his mother’s vow and his mother’s wish. When I heard the tidings I became wild with jealousy, rage, and real madness. I would not write to you, nor would I write to him.”

  “Why did you write at last, why did you ask me here?” asked Miss Dalrymple.

  “Because the jealousy passed, as it always does, and for a time I was sane.”

  “Sane!” cried our client.

  “Yes, little girl, yes, sane! But listen. Some years ago, when on the coast of Guinea, I was the victim of a very severe sunstroke. From that time I have had fits of madness. Any shock, or excitement, brings them on. With madness in my veins I watched you and David during this last week, and the wild desire to crush you to the very earth came over me. David went to London, and I thought the opportunity had come. I spoke to Samuel about it, and Samuel made a suggestion. I listened to him. My brain was on fire. I agreed to do what he suggested. My snake Little Blackie was to be the weapon to take your life. I felt neither remorse nor pity. There is a certain substance extracted from a herb which the Aborigines know, and which, when applied to any part of the dress or the person of an enemy, will induce a snake which comes across his path to turn and follow him. The substance drives the snake mad, and he will follow and kill his victim. Samuel possessed the stuff, and from time to time to amuse me, he has tried its power on my reptiles. He has put it on his own boots, but he himself has never been bitten, for he has flung the boots to the snakes at the last moment. This afternoon he put it on the coat which you are now wearing. He then terrified you and induced you to run away across the Plain, whereupon he let Little Blackie loose. Little Blackie followed you as a needle will follow a magnet. Samuel called me to the wicket-gate, and showed me his handiwork. As I looked, a veil fell from my eyes. The madness left me, and I became sane. I saw the awful thing that I had done. I repented with agony. In a flash, I ordered the dog-cart and followed you. I was too late. Had it not been for Mr Holmes and Dr Roylott you would be dead.” Lady Sarah wiped the drops of perspiration from her forehead. “You are quite safe,” she said, after a pause, “and I am sane. What I did, I did when I was not accountable. Are you going to tell David?”

  “How can I keep it from him?”

  “It seems hard to you now, but I ask you not to do it. I promise not to oppose your marriage. I go meekly to the Dower House. I am tired of the reptiles; my favourite is dead and the others are nothing to me. They shall be sent as a gift to the Zoological Gardens. Will you tell David?”

  “Miss Dalrymple,” Holmes interrupted, “would you be so kind as to take a pace to your right. I am an excellent shot, but I am sure that you would rather avoid adding blood to the grass stains on your ensemble.”

  “No!” Miss Dalrymple jumped in front of Lady Sarah, her arms outspread. “No, please, Mr Holmes, there is no longer any need. I have succeeded in my goal and you will be rewarded for your services as agreed.”

  Holmes and I locked eyes. “You are certain, Miss Dalrymple?”

  “Yes, I am certain. Lady Sarah has tried to save me, now I shall save her.”

  “The Aboriginal,” I snarled, “let me have him!”

  “We have no commission for Samuel, although I am prepared to make an exception for our client if she believes her life is still in danger. Miss Dalrymple?”

  “No, I shall deal with him myself,” she replied.

  Holmes nodded. “Very well. We do, after all, aim to give satisfaction.” He turned his revolver on me. “Roylott?”

  I replaced the Eley No. 2 in my pocket, disgusted at the turn of events.

  “Thank you, Mr Holmes.” Miss Dalrymple embraced Lady Sarah. “I will never tell him, if you will never tell him about Mr Holmes and Dr Roylott.”

  “You are worthy to be his wife,” replied Lady Sarah, her voice hoarse.

  “A charming domestic scene,” I spat.

  “Indeed,” said Holmes, “and one to which our presence is now entirely supererogatory.”

  VI

  Two months later the case had almost passed from my mind. In the interim, Holmes had received a handsome cheque from Mrs David Ross, I had been amply rewarded for my services on the plain, the newly-wed couple had gone abroad on their honeymoon, and Lady Sarah had repaired to the Dower House of which she had spoken. The affair had, in short, proved yet another startling success for my friend. Then one morning there came one of the enigmatic notes which appeared in our letterbox from time to time, usually anonymous and always in cipher. Mrs Hudson brought up the message with the first post and I watched Holmes page through Whitaker’s Almanac and scribble the results of his deduction with a pencil. I waited without word until he tossed the paper over to me.

  “There you have it,” he said, knocking the ashes from his after-breakfast pipe.

  On the reverse of the message, Holmes had written:

  DEAR MR. HOLMES,

  Lady Sarah Ross committed suicide last night. She had spoken of it several times to her lady’s-maid. She appears to have used her own pistol to shoot herself in the temple and death was instantaneous. The case is cut and dried. There is no doubt what the coroner’s verdict will be.

  FRED PORLOCK.

  Porlock was one of Holmes’s many agents, but I couldn’t fathom why he’d have thought Holmes would be interested in the old crone’s fate. “I thought you had been paid,” I said. Holmes nodded. “Then why did Porlock waste your time with this intelligence? For that matter, how did he know of your involvement with the Rosses at all? I thought you used Parker for the commission.”

  “And what was the commission?” he asked, refilling his pipe from the Persian slipper.

  The commission had of course changed that night on the plain. “I don’t know. To protect Mrs Ross? To make good her marriage? I’m not sure.”

  “I am a scientific criminal, Roylott. When I accept a commission there is neither margin for error nor room for ambiguity. My commission was to kill Lady Sarah Ross. That commission has been fulfilled.”

  “This was your work?”

  Holmes nodded again as he picked up a glowing cinder with the tongs and used it to light his pipe.

  “But why go to the extra lengths? You had been paid: Mrs Ross was content.” I said.

  “How long do you think I should last as the highest court of appeal in crime if it became known that I had accepted a commission for murder, and that the victim was alive, awaiting her natural end in the comfort of Longmore’s Dower House?”

  I considered for a moment. “Then you were lucky that she decided to keep her revolver with her.”

  “She decided no such thing.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I slipped it into my pocket at the end of our adventure on the plain. You were too enraged to notice.”

  “And rightly so, there was precious little reward in it for me, beyond the financial.”

  “That’s not entirely true,” Holmes pointed his pipe at my recent acquisition, which was coiled near the fireplace.
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  “It was always your intention to kill her?”

  “Of course. In this way Mrs Ross is no doubt indirectly responsible for Lady Sarah’s death, but I cannot say it is likely to weigh very heavily upon her conscience. A failure would, however, weigh very heavily upon my reputation, which must be preserved at all costs. You should guard yours with equal care.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I demanded.

  “Your new pet is a swamp adder. I have been reliably informed that its bite can kill a man in three minutes. My informant tells me that the brown speckles on the yellow scales are unmistakable.”

  The blood drained from my face. “Good God!”

  “Not to worry; it seems to have taken a liking to you, and may, as you remarked some time ago, prove useful in the future.”

  The Adventure Of The Walk-Out Wardrobe

  Julie Ditrich

  There are two colours I will always associate with the formidable Sherlock Holmes. The first colour is yellow but I will touch again on that presently. The second colour is luxurious purple, which had nothing to do with his leanings towards the arcane, simply because he had none. For he was the personification of a skeptic who had no time for fanciful notions about Fourth Dimensions or the Greater Mysteries. Indeed the doorway to his third eye and the majestic amethyst vibration that lay beyond that could have connected him to the Invisible Forces, was well and truly bolted and, despite my gentle rattling of it, he chose never to pry it open. No. The purple I will always associate him with came very much from the physical plane when I first spotted him from afar—his tall frame leaning into the doorway of his lodgings, puffing on a pipe, and completely oblivious to his natural surroundings, which underscored the grape-purple robe he was wearing.

  It was late autumn 1907. I was living in Hindhead, Surrey—some forty miles south west of London. I had left my understanding wife and two children behind in South Africa for a six-month sojourn in England so I could concentrate on furthering my esoteric studies in seclusion. For that purpose, I had rented a cottage in the woodlands not far from the local hospital where I volunteered several times a week. I had made the acquaintance of the hospital physician, the bespectacled and rather proper Dr Alexander Lambert, who recognised me at once as brethren. He had invited me to observe his varied approaches to conventional and holistic medicine. After a day of rounds attending to convalescing patients who had brought on their afflictions through misadventure, madness or microbes, I would need to flick off the pernicious psychic residue that settled on my skin like iron filings on a magnet. A ritual cleansing took care of that, preventing it from permeating deeper into my being and disturbing the balance I strove hard to maintain. Strenuous exercise often achieved the same results.