by Caleb Carr
‘That is not the pressing issue now, I fear, Doctor,’ Mycroft replied. ‘We must be able to explain the actual cause of this new and extraordinary fact, if we are to go on to explain the crime. Have you no theories at all?’
I puzzled with the question. ‘What is remarkable is that we find no marks on the skin to suggest an implement – even on a corpse, the head of a hammer should leave some imprint, or the wood of a cudgel some splintering or abrasion; and yet – nothing. I have seen some such damage to the skeletal structure in my career – but only as the result, for example, of the concussive power of an artillery burst. A fall, too, might explain it – but the height involved … It is simply incredible. A building several times the height of this palace would not provide enough velocity to achieve – this …’
Holmes had begun to pace about the cool, dark chamber, a solitary stream of smoke trailing behind him. After a few minutes he murmured several words, and both Mycroft and I listened closely – but he seemed only to be repeating what I had said:
‘Artillery … height …’ A moment more, and then he suddenly spun round. ‘And the wounds, Watson – what of those?’
I sighed once in admitted discouragement, and looked down at McKay’s now-exposed neck and chest. ‘Certainly, the stabbing was terrible – lacking a dozen men’s involvement, it could not have been quick.’
The wisp of Holmes’s smoke had grown into steadily larger clouds. ‘And yet the fractures, it seems, must have been so …’ He turned, and pointed what remained of the cigarette at Mycroft and myself. ‘That is significant – for it opens entire new fields of possibility …’
Mycroft Holmes studied his brother with great concern. ‘Sherlock – I am not easy, in this. The purpose behind your involvement – both of you – was to bring the business to a speedier and a quieter ending, not to make it more complex. How am I meant to report all this at Balmoral? The Queen is anxious enough.’
‘You must not report it,’ Holmes replied simply. ‘Not unless you wish this issue to involve us all for far longer than it need do. We have been given one additional question to answer, along with the rest. That is all – you cannot afford to view it any other way, brother. Make your report, and make it optimistically – and above all, tell none of those “keen young men” that surround you about any of it. If I understand this business correctly, Watson and I shall need a free hand here in Edinburgh tonight. Keep the attention of everyone else focused on Balmoral – in fact, you would do us no small service if you took Lord Francis with you. Return tomorrow evening – we shall doubtless need you by then – along with the young lord.’
Mycroft studied his brother sceptically. ‘You really believe that the matter can be resolved so quickly, Sherlock? Even with this new riddle?’
‘It is remarkable, gentlemen,’ answered Holmes, ‘how often clues are mistaken for riddles – and vice versa. Yes, Mycroft, so long as you and Dr Watson are willing to entertain any solution, then we can resolve it speedily. After all, we must remember the first rule of investigation—’
‘Yes, yes,’ Mycroft interrupted impatiently. ‘“The impossible, the improbable, and the true” – we are hardly likely to have forgotten it.’ His enormous frame seeming to become ever more of a burden to him, Mycoft began to move towards the door. ‘Very well, then – if you say that it can be done, then I must believe you. I have enough to take care of, as it is. I shall collect those young men, and make for Balmoral. As to Lord Francis – I shall do my best, invoking the call of royal service. But be warned, Sherlock – I have promised the police that they will be able to release McKay’s body to his family today. We have detained it long enough.’
‘Indeed we have,’ Holmes answered. ‘They may come now, for all that it matters.’
Opening the door into the dark hallway, Mycroft Holmes summoned Hackett with a single, authoritative bark that drained his energies still further. ‘I will be back tomorrow evening, then, gentlemen – and I will expect progress. Hackett!’ he snapped again. ‘Ah, there you are.’ As the shadowy figure of the butler became visible in the doorway, I could see Mycroft’s eyes narrow. ‘Rather close at hand, Hackett, were you not?’
‘Nay, sir,’ replied Hackett – a trifle uneasily, it seemed to me. ‘But I know these old stairs well enough, by now—’
‘I’ve no doubt of it,’ Mycroft said quickly, still dubious about the butler’s behaviour, but unprepared to pursue the matter at that moment. ‘Now, then – have a carriage brought round. Mrs Hackett has turned down these men’s beds?’
‘Aye, sir, and warmed them,’ came the response.
‘Good.’ Then, to us, Mycroft added: ‘Several hours’ rest, both of you – no more, no less. You shall need to be at the top of your form.’
As his brother departed, Holmes returned to the block of ice. Studying the body upon it, he finally shook his head and roused himself. ‘Come, Watson – do let’s cover this poor devil again.’
Taking up the bed-sheet, I spread it out over the corpse; and for the first time, I allowed myself to more closely study McKay’s bruised, tormented features. ‘A truly terrible end,’ I said. ‘And yet he did not have the appearance of a sinister man.’
‘Nor was he one – on that I would stake the whole of my reputation,’ replied Holmes.
It seemed somehow incredible. ‘But he appears, at the very least, to have led a double existence. And manner of death often tells us as much about a man as do appearances, Holmes.’
‘Indeed. But if you are reading evil into these wounds, rather than into those who inflicted them, I fear your imagination exceeds your judgement. Remember – poignarder à l’écossais: “stabbed in the Scottish mode”. Not “executed”, but “stabbed” – the onus is, as it should be, entirely on the perpetrator of the deed.’ Holmes glanced up and down the shrouded corpse. ‘In the unlikely event that there was only one … However – let us get up to our rooms, Watson. You must be exhausted.’ For his part, Holmes looked as though he had slept a full night through during the time we had been below ground: an effect that was not unusual when he came into contact with concrete evidence relating to a crime.
‘I am indeed,’ I replied as we made for the first of the cramped, darkened stairways. ‘And relieved, as well.’
‘Relieved?’
‘Yes. I haven’t heard you speak of ghosts and legends since we arrived.’
Holmes laughed once. ‘A temporary respite, I assure you, Watson! For the time being, we have more than enough facts to consider – but rest assured, we shall return to other-worldly characters soon enough. Or perhaps it is they who will find their way to us …’
Chapter VIII
THE MYSTERY OF THE WEST TOWER
I cannot say that I was altogether surprised to discover, when I awoke later that day in one of the palace’s charming oak-panelled bedrooms, that the sun was near setting. Mycroft’s admonition that we not waste too much time with sleep would, I knew, be ignored by his brother, who would choose to get no rest at all, while allowing me to get perhaps more than I should. The decision, I confess, was a wise one, for if I was slightly confused as to the precise time of day and just where I was, upon rising, my mind was not otherwise impaired: Certainly, it was alert enough that I could take fully in my stride the sight of Holmes perched in the sill of one of the room’s tall windows, dressed just as I had left him, and still smoking as he looked out over the lovely, haunting ruins of the old abbey.
‘Holmes,’ said I, swinging my feet out of the enormous, canopied bed and onto the floor. ‘What’s the time?’
‘The time,’ he replied cheerfully, still gazing outside, ‘is less important than the hour …’
‘Are you attempting humour, or mere obtuseness?’
‘Come now, Watson – you mustn’t discourage my efforts to be light-hearted! I was merely referring to the fact that it will be dark soon. And with the dark shall come’ – his voice became theatrical as he turned to me – “those things that love the dark …’
I was in no mood for such badinage. ‘With the dark shall come dinner, I hope,’ I said, standing. ‘I’m rather famished.’
‘I assumed as much,’ Holmes said. ‘I had Mrs Hackett bring you a plate of sandwiches – there – along with a pot of strong tea.’
‘That was good of you,’ I said, hurrying to my little repast.
‘I thought it best that you not eat too heavily,’ Holmes said, joining me, but only for a cup of the tea. ‘We may see or hear things tonight that you will find singularly unsettling. Indeed, I have already heard some of them myself.’
‘As I suspected, then, you’ve had no sleep. And where have your restless wanderings taken you? Out from under Hackett’s watchful eye, I hope.’ As I took my first bite of a princely mix of roast beef, watercress, and French mustard of some kind, I felt a momentary pang of regret. ‘I did not intend for that remark to sound as callous as it did. But—’
‘Yes, it’s quite a sight, that eye, isn’t it?’ Holmes replied. ‘Did you note the scarring? Quite distinctive.’
‘Is it? I noted the marks, but I can’t say it struck any particular chord in my memory.’
‘No? Well – perhaps I am mistaken. Hurry along, Watson, eat! You don’t want to miss her, after all.’
‘Miss who?’ I said, as I tried to get into my clothing and finish the last of the roast beef sandwiches.
‘Why, the mournful ghost in the west tower! You didn’t think Holyroodhouse would disappoint you – not after you’ve come all this distance!’
I was aware, as I finished dressing, eating, and making myself presentable, that Holmes was of course joking, must of course be joking; and yet … I was still without a satisfactory answer to the question I had asked on the train – was it hours or days ago? – concerning his personal opinion as to the existence of a malevolent spirit in Holyroodhouse, one that was responsible for the terrible things that we had heard of and, now, seen. Just the same, some such being would reconcile the apparent contradictions and impossibilities that had been on display in McKay’s corpse; and I cannot in all candour say that I had entirely ruled some such ghoulish explanation out of my mind. Just the same, Holmes’s persistent harping on the matter – whether because he himself believed it or because he realised the effect that it was creating in my spirits – was now becoming a distinct annoyance. I determined that I would give him a last chance with his ‘spirit in the west tower’: If such proved to be some grotesque joke at my expense, of the variety that I supposed had so angered Mrs Hudson the day before, I would have words with him, and sharp words, at that.
It was not until we had descended a relatively small flight of stairs in the eastern side of the building, turned a corner and were walking through the spacious and impressive Grand Gallery on the northern side of the main floor of the palace, among portraits of English and Scottish monarchs both real and (in the Scottish case) legendary, that it occurred to me to ask myself:
And if he is not joking? What shall you do then?
Without thinking terribly much more about it – for the idea that Holmes might be quite serious about a ‘mournful ghost in the west tower’ was now more than ever a thought I found too disconcerting and disorienting to be long countenanced – I came to a stop before the palace’s portrait of Mary, Queen of Scots.
‘The indifferent work of a Frenchman,’ Holmes said quietly, as he came to a stop next to me. ‘One sees little to justify the many stories of her beauty in it. It has, however, the advantage of having been a life study; there is a rather more attractive rendering of her in the next room, but it was painted a full two centuries after her death.’
‘And yet, Holmes,’ I replied, studying the portrait carefully, ‘how much do we really know of the things that constituted beauty then? Certainly, she has grace, and delicacy; and if the skin is so pale as to seem deathly, and the forehead far too high, well – such were fashions then, and may have been exaggerated. Who knows but that the great images of beauty produced by our own age will not be considered grotesque oddities in centuries to come?’
‘There you have me, Watson,’ Holmes said, moving on. ‘As we have often discussed, feminine beauty and feminine charms are your areas of expertise, and never has that knowledge been of greater use to us, I suspect, than it will be this night …’
He had reached the end of the Gallery, and stood by a thick, heavily moulded door leading into what seemed a distinctly private area of some kind – certainly, it was a portal scarcely used, and quite apart in style from the rest of the palace. ‘Beyond this door lie those apartments originally designated for Charles II’s queen,’ Holmes explained, in a hushed voice. ‘Which are within the medieval west tower. Charles’s wife quickly abandoned them, however – ostensibly because of the availability of better accommodations in other wings; but in reality, suspects butler Hackett, because they lie directly below Queen Mary’s infamous rooms.’
‘It seems that you and “butler Hackett” have struck up quite a fast friendship during the hours I was asleep.’
‘Oh, I should not say that,’ Holmes replied, pushing the thick, heavy door before us gently, so that it made little sound upon opening. ‘But I would say that he has confirmed my prejudice against trusting too much to initial appearances. Once Lord Francis was safely away and it became clear that we were not agents of the Hamilton clan, Hackett was quite a changed man. Nor is it difficult to see or say why. Incidentally – did you not find your warmed bed marvellously inviting?’
I had grown so used to my friend’s conversational rhythms, over the years, to his leaps from important information to mundane comments, that I did not even answer the question; nor was I at all surprised when he proceeded rather gingerly through the doorway, at that moment, without further explanation and into a sort of lobby outside what had once been, he informed me, the ‘new’ queen’s antechamber. As we crept on, steadily and silently, I noted, in the turret corner opposite the door through which we had come, the entrance to a stone spiral stairway. If this was indeed the floor below Queen Mary’s old apartments, then these must have been the infamous steps down which the Protestant Scots nobles had hurled the murdered body of David Rizzio: small wonder that later queens had decided against lodging in such close proximity to the scene of the infamous killing. The antechamber, like all the rooms on this floor of the tower (including a large bedchamber, off to our left), was much as I had expected to find it, with panelled floors and ceilings, each section of the latter featuring handsomely carved and painted coats-of-arms. Nonetheless, time, neglect, and Nature had done their work, particularly on the tapestries that yet hung from many of the walls: complex weavings that must have dated to before even Mary’s time, and that would no doubt have been worth a considerable sum, had not insects and rodents been allowed to go about their destructive business for generations on end. The windows were shuttered, and heavily draped, as well, with ancient silks: more food for the vermin to feast on at their leisure. In the process they had created holes of varying size, and where these openings corresponded to cracks in the shutters, the last rays of the nearly vanished sun did what they could to cheer these long cheerless chambers—
It was just as these melancholy observations were registering upon my senses that I began to hear the sound: As Holmes had said, it seemed to be a woman weeping, sometimes mournfully, occasionally fearfully and even desperately: a sound such as would have chilled the most hardened of souls.
‘Holmes!’ I whispered urgently, no little unsteadiness in my voice; but he had anticipated the reaction, and was holding his hands aloft like some successful conjurer.
‘Did I not promise her?’ he said, also in a whisper. ‘Actually, I came to you as soon as I heard it – I knew that you would want to share in the moment of discovery.’
‘My thanks for your consideration,’ I said, feeling suddenly quite cold and allowing the sensation to register in my voice.
‘Come now, Watson – take heart! Only listen a little more, and then tel
l me what is wrong with the sound.’
I did as instructed, and then noted something unexpected: the sound was emanating from the adjacent bedchamber – not from the stairway or the rooms upstairs.
‘In Heaven’s name, Holmes,’ I declared. ‘Why, this is no ghost, it is some poor creature in distress – perhaps desperately so, from the sound of it!’
‘Indeed it is – and that is precisely why I went to fetch you.’ Holmes moved towards the bedchamber door. ‘There is someone in there, I believe, who is in great trouble – Hackett would tell me no details, but he let slip several hints that led me this far. I might have entered, myself – but as I have said and we have long acknowledged, the weaker sex are your area of expertise – and if I am right, you shall need great expertise, to keep this woman from bolting.’
‘Bolting? But surely we bar her way.’
‘Perhaps, Watson – but I think not. I have reconnoitred already – there is no apparent stair by which she may try to run, save that behind us. Palace lore, however – related to me by Hackett – says that the secret stair by which Queen Mary was known to move between floors, and which her husband revealed to the men who murdered Rizzio, still exists. It was supposed, by all in the palace, to have been sealed after that crime, but Hackett says that he knows of at least one aged servant who swears that the stairs remain passable, behind quite secret mechanical panels. If this woman has taken refuge here and avoided detection, she must know of the existence of those stairs and be using them to escape detection. And so, it would seem that we cannot physically prevent this creature’s escape. Can you devise some other method?’
‘You know, Holmes,’ I answered, perhaps a bit curtly, ‘there really are moments when you make the simplest of propositions quite complex. I suggest that you remain here – at least for the first few minutes.’
‘Ah!’ Holmes replied, as I approached the door to the bedchamber. ‘You will rely on charm alone, then?’