by David Marcum
“The doctor replied automatically, ‘Only to my assistant, Mr. Boone here, a few weeks ago. Why do you ask?’ He looked around the room, noticing the inspector standing quietly to one side, and then, taking a step toward Mr. Holmes, he asked, ‘Who are you?’
“Mr. Holmes replied vaguely. ‘A friend of the family.” Then he turned to Boone, standing near the doorway. It had been all that I could do not to rush forward and strike the man when he entered my home. Seeing him there now, a fearful look in his eyes, I wondered that he’d been bold enough to attempt to kidnap my son.
“Mr. Holmes also seemed aware of this. ‘Are you well, sir?’ he asked with a smile. The inspector shifted slightly toward the doctor’s assistant.
“ ‘Of course,’ replied Boone, swallowing nervously. ‘Why not?’
“ ‘It seems as if you’re listening for something.’
“ ‘Listening?’ asked the doctor, looking back and forth between Holmes and his assistant. ‘What for?’
“ ‘Possibly,’ replied Mr. Holmes, ‘for the sound of young Albert being discovered in the upstairs store-room, where Mr. Boone left him just an hour or so ago after drugging him.’ He turned squarely to face Boone. ‘Knowing that the man driving the cab was prevented from climbing up and retrieving the boy must have stretched your nerves to the breaking point. At what point would he awaken and identify you as the man who must have locked him in the store-room? The decision to stay or flee must have been agonizing. You were really quite foolish to return here - and yet, you must have hoped to somehow repair the situation. Even now, you were considering how to slip upstairs, if only for a moment - to re-administer more chloroform to the boy... or perhaps worse. If we search you, Mr. Boone, will we find the skeleton key? Or other more questionable tools that let you lock the store-room after you’d hidden Albert there? Will we - Catch him, Lestrade!’
“With that, the man’s courage broke, and he made a dash for the doorway. The inspector grabbed his arm as he passed, and the two constables suddenly appeared in the hallway, blocking his path. With a sob, the man gave up.
“Dr. Saintsbury was shocked to the core to learn the truth about Boone, or Reynolds, as he was known as in America. He turned out to be a wanted criminal who had fled to England to escape the gallows. He’d murdered at least three people there, and had robbed dozens. After his arrival in England, he’d found employment with the doctor, but his natural inclination was to make associations with the criminal element, including men who worked for this mysterious ‘Professor’. Learning from the doctor some of Albert’s past, and specifically the story of the old debt, he had conceived the idea of kidnapping him for ransom.
“He’d planned the crime with the two other men, both of whom were quickly caught. The man thought to be a cabbie was in nothing of the sort, and was quickly found using my sketch. He was a paroled thief, while the other was his brother. Both of them had initially beaten Albert on Boone’s instructions, and then they had entered the house by night to leave the message on our dining table demanding money, simply as a way to prepare me for when Albert was kidnapped, so that I’d be more likely to pay the ransom without question.
“The amounts demanded, which didn’t match the original debt, were yet another indicator to Mr. Holmes that this affair had nothing to do with the original debt owed by Albert’s father. Inspector Lestrade was very pleased to have Boone and the others under arrest, and Mr. Holmes magnanimously diverted all credit to Scotland Yard.
“And that, Dr. Watson, is the story of how Mr. Holmes saved my family,” Brown concluded, smiling beatifically. “Is he not a most impressive man?”
I returned his smile. “That he is,” I replied.
Holmes chose that moment to enter. “Ah, Mr. Brown,” he said, spotting his guest. “Forgive me, I’ve kept you waiting. I see you have met Watson already.”
Brown greeted my friend enthusiastically, adulation shining in his eyes. “Not at all, Mr. Holmes. The fault lies with me for calling upon you so suddenly. Dr. Watson and I had a nice chat about old times. I apologise for the intrusion. It really is very gracious of you to accommodate my request at such short notice.”
Holmes regarded the strange man with a slight smile. “How is your son?” he asked fondly.
Brown’s eyes shone with pride. “Albert sends his regards. He’s doing very well, thank you. He was quite eager to see you too, but an urgent patient called him away at the last minute.”
Holmes’s smile was affectionate as he nodded.
With a start, I realised that Holmes was genuinely fond of this person, which was quite unlike him. I knew my friend was a kind man despite his cold and reserved exterior, but it was unusual for him to display affection. I wondered what about this gentle person with such a repugnant exterior made Holmes uncharacteristically fond of him. Perhaps Holmes found the contrast between Brown’s appearance and personality interesting. I certainly did. For such an unaffected, innocent soul to be trapped in such a repellant body... I felt a wave of pity for the poor man. Had he been comely, I am certain he would have no dearth of wooers.
Some of my thoughts must have shown on my face, for Holmes sent me a warning look surreptitiously. Brown, however, remained oblivious.
“I understand now why you hold Dr. Watson in such high regard, Mr. Holmes,” he said enthusiastically. “He is so very kind. He treated me like an ordinary person at first sight!”
I felt a stab of guilt. “Surely you exaggerate, Mr. Brown. I have done nothing praiseworthy,” I mumbled.
Holmes smiled fondly. “Watson is a most modest person, Mr. Brown,” he said. “And I do wish you would cease demeaning yourself in such a morbid fashion. Believe me when I say that you are one of the best and kindest men I know, for I do not say these words lightly.”
I stared at my friend in shock. So did Brown. Then his face crumpled as he wept again like a child. To my shock, Holmes stepped forward and lay a gentle hand on the man’s shoulder.
“Come now, Mr. Brown,” he said quietly. “Surely there is no need to get so emotional. I know Albert holds you in an even higher regard than I do.”
“My apologies,” Brown sobbed. “You have always been so kind, Mr. Holmes. Not only have you saved my life several times and looked out for Albert, you have even boosted my morale on more occasions than I can count.”
Pale cheeks awash with colour, Holmes expertly guided the man back to his seat. I smiled.
Holmes caught my eye and chuckled, as if reading my thoughts. “Brown is an unusual person, Watson.” His keen eyes fixed on my face. “I have almost as much faith in him as I have in you, my dear doctor,” he added softly.
I could feel colour seep into my cheeks and I hastily looked away. Brown’s excessive sentimentality had clearly affected us both.
Holmes turned to Brown. “How can I help you today?”
“There has been an attempt on my safe.”
“The same one that you’ve always had?”
“Of course. It’s served me well for nearly three decades without missing a single penny.”
“As I recall, you keep large amounts of money in it, and it’s opened by a simple key. May I see it?”
Brown handed it to him, and he examined it carefully. He sniffed at it - “Lavender,” he muttered - and scraped a miniscule amount of residue from the key onto a piece of paper. He then handed it back to Brown with a serious expression. “Someone has made a copy of your key.”
Brown stared at him in shock. “How? It is always on my person. Besides, my staff is entirely trustworthy. As you know, I’ve never had any reason to doubt them.”
Holmes studied the residue with a frown. “This key is easy to replicate. One would merely need to press it into a bar of soap to make a cast - as someone has done. The design is quite simple.” He looked up. “Does anyone in your house use lavender-scented soap?”
>
“I believe that Mrs. Hatcher put a new bar of lavender soap in the master’s bath a few days ago. She indicated that the shopkeeper said it was a nice new product he’d obtained from France, and she thought that I would enjoy it. It was missing from the bath this morning.”
Holmes cleared his throat and turned to me. “We have another case waiting for us, Watson, if you would care to join me.”
“I shall be delighted to accompany you, my dear fellow,” I replied earnestly.
Holmes’s smile was proof that he had missed my company as much as I had missed his.
“... the most repellant man of my acquaintance is a philanthropist who has spent nearly a quarter-of-a-million upon the London poor.”
Sherlock Holmes - The Sign of Four
The Singular Adventure of the Extinguished Wicks
by Will Murray
Among the myriad items at the bottom of my little tin dispatch box, to which I have referred so frequently, lies an oilskin packet containing the accounts of cases of Mr. Sherlock Holmes which, for various reasons, my esteemed friend has preferred to keep out of the public eye.
The reasons are many. Most have to do with strict confidences and the respect for privacy of notable persons, or like delicate matters. A few refer to individuals who, whilst they may have transgressed early in life, had redeemed themselves in later years.
There is one that I never believed Holmes would give me leave to write up for the edification of the general public. I do not mean to say that this was a case that was not brought to a successful conclusion. For it was.
Solving crimes is not the only kind of matter to which my friend’s keen brain bent its energies, as I will relate.
I fear that the chief reason Sherlock Holmes has acquiesced to this revelation has more to do with his increasing age and the prospect of the nearing conclusion of an illustrious life.
Although I am glad to report on the matter now at hand, I am forced to conclude that Holmes is allowing me to offer it up, as it were, because he has concluded that a final resolution of the overarching problem is not within his power. At least, not insofar as his allotted span of life can be projected.
The matter opened, as nearly as I can recall, in the year 1881. It was the month of May. Of that, I am certain. I had not been living with Holmes for very long, and his recondite ways were still unfamiliar to me.
Returning home one evening, I was nearly knocked off my feet as I attempted to enter the door at 221b Baker Street. Sherlock Holmes abruptly flung the panel open and charged out.
“My dear Holmes!” I exclaimed. “Wherever are you bound in such an infernal hurry?”
“A woman has been found burnt to death in a most uncanny way,” he replied urgently. “I would like to see her rooms before the corpse is carted off.”
“What - Do you suspect murder?”
“Murder,” replied Holmes cryptically, “is a commonplace compared to what had transpired. I am keen to see what remains. You may accompany me if you wish, Watson. Hallo! I spy a cab. Well, come along, if you are coming along.”
Following him at great speed, I climbed into the hansom cab whilst Holmes gave an address in a neighborhood I did not hold in very high esteem.
“How did you hear of this?” I inquired.
“A fellow of my acquaintance in the fire brigade informed me. I have been awaiting such a case for several years. As you know, Watson, I make it my business to converse with tradesman of various types. A fire officer is, in his unique way, a tradesman. Much can be learned by conferring with people who do interesting work.”
As the cab reeled around corner after corner, I asked, “Why would the prospect of so horrible a demise interest you?”
Holmes continued as if he had not heard the question, yet managed to answer it nevertheless.
“During the course of my conversation with the fellow, I was astonished to learn that such cases happen two and three times a year, but the fire officials go out of their way to cover them up with commonplace explanations.”
“Death by fire is a distressing consequence of dwelling in these modern times in the metropolis the size of London,” I offered.
“I am not referring to the consequences of failing to extinguish a candle, or of falling asleep whilst smoking a pipe or cigar,” Holmes continued. “This type of mystery is much more impenetrable. Rarely do the facts get into the newspapers. And when they do, they are papered over with generalities and ambiguities.”
“I confess that I cannot imagine what you are discoursing on, Holmes,” I frankly admitted.
“You should see it with your own eyes,” said my friend. “As will I. As a medical man, as well as a veteran of the British campaign in Afghanistan, you are no doubt inured to the horrible things that can befall a human being in the last ditch. But I must warn you: If I understand the situation correctly, we are about to witness the uncanny.”
I cried out, “My dear fellow, you have piqued my interest! And rest assured, you need not fear for my nerve, or for that matter for my stomach.”
A curl of a smile warped Holmes’s austere profile.
“Consider this a test, Watson. For if you intend to accompany me on future excursions, you will need iron nerve and a stomach of steel.”
His words evoked in me a nerve-chill I can still feel all these decades later. If I believed in supernatural presentiments, I would have regarded it then as a subconscious inkling of what I was about to experience.
Presently, the cab dropped us before a rather slatternly rooming house in congested Southwark, which only a few decades before, mature readers will recall, had been the site of the Great Fire of Tooley Street. The bitter odor of burnt timbers could yet be recognized on rainy days.
Brigadiers of the Metropolitan Fire Brigade stood about an idle scarlet parish steam engine, signifying that the blaze had been quenched. As we stepped to the ground, the grey-uniformed official in charge acknowledged Holmes with a rather grim wave.
“Hello!” Holmes responded, striding up to the man in his brisk, nervous way.
“It’s a sad case, Mr. Holmes. A very sad case.” He shook his helmeted head with a grave ponderousness.
“Has the body yet been removed, Mr. Clavering?”
“What remains awaits your pleasure. I would apply a handkerchief to my nostrils, were I you. Now come along.”
Calling over my shoulder, Holmes said, “Watson!” I needed no more encouragement. I drew out a handkerchief as well, and applied its thick folds to my nose and mouth.
The room was on the second floor. No sooner had we ascended to the landing than I became aware of a faintly bluish haze in the air. A sweetish smell accompanied it. I did not care for the odor, despite its sweetness.
“Brace yourselves,” said Clavering. Then he threw open the door. We entered.
We found ourselves in a parlor. It was neat and tidy. Possibly it could be called fastidious. It was clearly the apartment of a woman of conservative taste, if its appointments were any guide.
A maple rocking chair stood by one window. It bore scorch marks, and the unburnt wood showed an unusually thick coating of soot. As I looked around, I noticed the wallpaper was greyish with some oily deposit. A yellowish liquid clung to the solitary window. I recognized the color as similar to that of human fat, with which I was had been acquainted since my first dissection of a cadaver in medical school.
In my searching, I missed entirely the shoe that lay upon the hardwood floor. Or should I say the human foot, which was shod. It was only the one foot.
Giving forth a strange murmur of excitement, Sherlock Holmes went to it, knelt, and examined the member carefully, all without touching the grisly relic.
“This is all that remains of the poor woman?” he asked.
“There are fingers as well,” Clavering added. He
indicated three human digits from which the phalanges protruded. They made a loose pile on the floor, like gruesome kindling. One bore a ring of gold, set with a garnet. The scorched metal was deformed by the intense heat.
I examined them all. “Remarkable!” I exploded. “The finger bones appear to be calcined.”
Holmes nodded shortly. “Exactly as was the case in previous occurrences of this sort.”
“Of what sort?” I demanded curiously.
“The phenomenon of inexplicable human combustion. What you see on the floor here, Dr. Watson, is all that remains of the woman in question, Kathleen Wick.”
“Unfortunate name,” grumbled the fire officer through his handkerchief.
“What is this pile of ash in the chair?” I asked.
“The greater portion of Miss Wick,” advised Holmes. “She was incinerated as she sat rocking.”
Turning abruptly, Holmes swept about the room. He applied a finger to the wallpaper and the fingertip came away greasy and grey.
“She lived alone?”
Clavering nodded. “So I understand from the landlord. Would you like to speak with him?”
“Presently,” said Holmes distractedly. I was astounded by the diffidence with which the fire official treated my friend. He was early in his long career in those days, but apparently had made a great impression upon certain persons in greater London.
A bottle of gin, three-quarters full, rested upon a taboret. A short glass stood beside it, its contents dirty and discolored.
“I am not surprised,” murmured Holmes. “Spiritist liquor is typically found in such cases.”
At that point, my mouth and nose protected by my handkerchief, and struggling with a compulsion to gag, I drew up to the rocking chair and studied the ashes. They lay moist and greasy upon the maple back and arms. Additional ash residue had formed a film on certain horizontal surfaces about the room, not quite so thickly as coated the rocker.
There was a fireplace, but it was cold, as this was not the season for keeping a fire.