by David Marcum
After the man had fallen to the floor, Holmes said, “Inspector, I believe Mr. Merridew will not resist arrest if you consider his guilt clearly established.”
“I do, Mr. Holmes. And I thank you most sincerely.”
After Merridew was handcuffed, Lestrade strode up and asked, “What do you imagine is back of all this horror, Mr. Holmes?”
“This is supposition, but I imagine Mr. Merridew became infatuated with the Miss Wick, and she rebuffed his advances. Perhaps they were more forceful than prudent. But if you will look at the cranial remains of the poor woman, you will see an indentation suggesting a sharp blow from a heavy object. If my surmise is correct, having severely injured, if not slain Miss Wick, the abominable Mr. Merridew conjured up a novel way to cover for his crime. He surreptitiously bore the body to some other location and literally roasted it, at some point hacking off an arm and disposing of it.
“In his mind, he contrived to falsify an example of spontaneous human ignition. Although he had read deeply into the literature, he had not thought through his scheme quite so thoroughly. He failed to understand that in almost all cases, including that of the first Miss Wick, the trunk is typically incinerated, yet the extremities survive. The ashes that marked the spot of the missing limb, Inspector, you will find to be ordinary wood ash scooped out of the fireplace and arranged in the rough semblance of an arm. This would not fool an intelligent child, and it did not fool me. In the previous tragedy, particles of bone were found among the ashes. Although they were minute, they were still yet distinct from the ashes themselves. The ash I speak of is dry powder. Hardly a suitable substitute under the circumstances.”
Lestrade nodded. “You will be expected to testify at the trial, Mr. Holmes.”
“I look forward to it, inspector. But not as much as I look forward to the prospect of Mr. Merridew hanging for his abominations.”
Merridew did hang. But not before he confessed, and revealed where the missing arm of Elizabeth Wick could be found. She was buried more or less intact beside her late sister.
As for the matter of the first Miss Wick, the inquest of 1881 returned no verdict. That mystery was never solved. Nor was Merridew implicated in that tragedy. It was an uncontested example of spontaneous human combustion and remains unsolved to this day.
In the intervening years, Holmes investigated several other such cases, including the remarkable one where two brothers, going about their business several miles apart, simultaneously ignited without a reason. They perished, alas.
In time, Holmes wrote a monograph on the subject of spontaneous human combustion. He put forth certain tentative theories, based on his observations and reading, and whilst the pamphlet was widely circulated, it came to no definite conclusion. Holmes himself confided to me that even his theories amounted to “educated rubbish”.
I clearly recall him once lamenting, “It is as if I am faced with a mathematical equation to solve and some of the key integers are not numbers that I recognize, but alien symbols. The familiar numerals reassure me that I am facing a valid equation. Those that are not make it impossible for me to solve it. I’ve gone around and around on this matter. But I am stumped.”
There the matter stands to this day. Holmes is quite certain that there is an explanation for the phenomenon. Yet every new example, every succeeding tragedy, merely adds fresh strands to the tangled web of mystery. The pattern fascinates him, but the solution continues to elude him.
Time and again, I have heard Sherlock Holmes lament, “If I could but eliminate the impossible, I would have something to go on. And yet, I cannot. I simply cannot.”
I am forced to conclude that his willingness to release the singular matter of the two Wick sisters at this late date signifies that he is throwing in the towel, as it were. I cannot blame him. Perhaps future generations will unravel the riddle.
I am content to pen these words and note that whilst the problem of the two Wicks sisters was never satisfactorily concluded, Sherlock Holmes took great pride in the exposure of Mr. Merridew and his abominations.
“My collection of M’s is a fine one,” said [Holmes]... [H]ere is... Merridew of abominable memory...”
Sherlock Holmes, “The Adventure of the Empty House”
Mrs. Forrester’s Complication
by Roger Riccard
Chapter I
The events of this case took place in the spring of 1881, shortly after I had taken up lodgings with the consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes, in our new Baker Street digs. I was not privy to the details at the time, as I was not sharing in many his adventures as of yet. However, it was this case that would be the catalyst for the happiest years of my life.
It was only years later that a celebratory dinner party for my engagement to Miss Mary Morstan brought Sherlock Holmes and his former client, Mrs. Cecil Forrester, into the same circle again. As we sat around the table at Simpson’s in the Strand, the subject of that old case came up. Because it was this event that caused Mrs. Forrester to recommend Holmes to her young governess, now my fiancée, we implored him to tell us the details.
The detective attempted to demur, but with Mary seated on one side of him and Mrs. Forrester on the other, he was surrounded. Add in myself and Mrs. Hudson rounding out the table, and he was at quite the disadvantage, as four eager faces entreated, prodded, cajoled, and pleaded.
“Doctor, ladies,” he objected. “Do you really expect me to recall the details of a case from seven years ago?”
“Yes!” came the simultaneous answer from Mrs. Hudson and myself, who had spent those seven years in his daily presence and knew exactly what his capabilities were as to memory of even the most trivial data when it concerned a case.
Taken aback by this immediate onslaught of denial of his excuse, he acquiesced and began to tell the story.
“If you remember, Doctor, my practice was not quite so lively then. Other than occasional tasks for my brother, Mycroft, in his government capacity, the majority of my work came from assistance offered to Lestrade and Bradstreet at the Yard. Fortunately, they would steer clients my way whose puzzles were inappropriate for police resources, and the rewards they offered allowed me enough to pay my share of the rent,” he said, nodding to our landlady, Mrs. Hudson.
“It was in this way that my practice began to grow, as word of mouth spread my reputation,” he continued, then looked at me pointedly. “Unlike today, when I have to worry that any of my adventures might end up being published, as was the Jefferson Hope business last year.”
I lifted my wineglass in his direction and merely replied, “You’re welcome.”
Not having gotten a rise out of me, he went on. “As I recall, Mrs. Forrester, you were referred by a cousin who lived here in London and was an acquaintance of Lestrade.”
Mrs. Forrester, now in her mid-forties, with chestnut hair which curled down her cheeks and across her shoulders, nodded her winsome face. “Yes, Mr. Holmes. My cousin, Bruce McNab, was the one who thought you might be the man to solve the mystery of my missing husband.”
We all started at that statement. We had only heard it referred to in the past as “a little domestic complication”.
This immediately caused my Mary some concern and she looked apologetically at her employer and said, “Oh, Mrs. Forrester, I had no idea. If this is too painful for you, I insist we stop now.”
Mrs. Forrester smiled and shook her head, “Not necessary, my dear. I have put the incident behind me long ago. I am just as anxious to hear how Mr. Holmes solved the case as any of you, since, when he did so, he only shared the results and not the methods.”
She waved her dainty hand in Holmes’s direction, bidding him to continue, and the detective did so.
“At the time of the incident, my client was living in Leith, on the north shore of Edinburgh. Her husband, Cecil, was a solicitor with a modest practice
. When McNab came to me on her behalf, it was in regards to the fact that her husband had disappeared without a trace and the local police were stymied. This left her in a precarious position financially, as her brother-in-law was determined to have her husband declared dead and claim the inheritance, which included her assets under the old laws.”
I spoke up and asked, “Wasn’t 1881 the year the Married Women’s Property Act went into effect in Scotland? Shouldn’t that have protected her?”
Holmes shook his head at my interruption, like a schoolmaster correcting a pupil.
“This was late June, Doctor. The Act did not go into effect until mid-July.”
I bowed my head, held my palms up from the table top in supplication, and he resumed.
“McNab came to me at the recommendation of Inspector Lestrade. I doubt you’d remember him, Watson, as he only visited Baker Street once and you merely passed through our sitting rooms at the time on your way to perform rounds at St. Barts. He was an ordinary looking fellow, whom I discerned as being a divinity student by the creases in his shoes, the wear pattern of his trouser knees, and the ink-stained fingers common to those who take copious notes.
“He told me of his cousin, Morna Forrester, her precarious position, and how the brother-in-law, Barclay Forrester, was attempting to use it to his advantage.
“As I had no pressing matters in London at the time, I agreed to travel up to Edinburgh and conduct a private investigation. Thus, with a letter of introduction from Lestrade in hand, I made my way north and met with the Edinburgh police.
“I was pleased to find that an old schoolmate of mine, Ewan Gibson,[1] was working the case, and he took me through all the facts. Cecil Forrester was a hard-working solicitor of a sound legal mind with a fair reputation for success in the courts. He was a sole practitioner with no partners, though he did have a clerk who handled the more mundane tasks of the office, a fellow named Donald Duncan.
“The main facts were that Solicitor Forrester had left on a Friday afternoon to meet with a client in Eyemouth. As rail travel was not convenient, he took passage on a cutter bound for London which would drop him off at that coastal village, where he would meet his client the following morning. He was then planning to seek out a passing vessel to return home on Saturday afternoon or Sunday.
“The weekend came and went with no word. On Monday, a telegram arrived at his office from his client asking his whereabouts, stating he had not kept his appointment and the client wished to re-schedule.
“Duncan sought out Mrs. Forrester, who had not seen nor heard from her husband since lunchtime on Friday, and was concerned at the lack of communication. His disappearance was reported to the police and Her Majesty’s Coast Guard.
“The cutter was a forty footer called Harmonique, owned by one Alick Lusk. Lusk was a young man who had taken over his father’s small shipping business, ferrying goods and people back and forth between Edinburgh and London. Being a coastal vessel, he generally sailed alone, though occasionally he’d sign on a crewman or two if the weather called for rough seas, or if he had a heavy load. He had a reputation as a hard worker, but was also owing to a handful of creditors.
“The ship set sail on calm seas on Friday at one o’clock with just Lusk and Forrester on board and was expected to dock in Eyemouth that evening. According to the Harbor Master there, no vessel of that name or description arrived at any time on either Friday or Saturday. On Sunday morning, a life preserver with the name Harmonique was found by a fisherman just a few hundred yards off the coast. A search party was organized, and the waters around Eyemouth were searched all that day with no sign of the ship. Some few wooden planks that appeared to be from a ship’s hull were retrieved from the sea about a mile out and a quarter-mile south from where the life preserver was found.”
We all looked at Mrs. Forrester with sympathy at the obvious conclusion, which Holmes now stated in a most matter-of-fact tone.
“Until ports farther south could be contacted and searched, the Harmonique was presumed lost at sea with all hands.”
“How horrible for you!” cried Mrs. Hudson, reaching out to place her hand on Mrs. Forrester’s arm as it lay on the table, fingers loosely wrapped around the stem of her wineglass.
The employer of my fiancée patted my landlord’s hand and replied.
“It’s quite all right, dear. There’s much more to the story, thanks to Mr. Holmes investigations.”
Chapter II
I shall now endeavor to continue my friend’s adventure in the manner to which my readers are accustomed.
Having read all the reports that Gibson had compiled, Holmes decided his next step would be a physical examination of evidence. Learning that the life preserver and hull planks were still in Eyemouth, it was decided that the first investigation would take place at Forrester’s office. He and Constable Gibson arrived to find a harried Duncan with multiple papers and folders sorted into seemingly haphazard piles.
Duncan was a young man, still attending classes toward his final examinations to receive his law degree while he apprenticed with Forrester. His spare frame was just under six feet in height, and his youthful face sported a scraggly brown moustache of a military style, so common among young men of that era. His waistcoat was unbuttoned and sleeves rolled up to his elbows as he sat, feverishly attempting to bring about some order to the apparent chaos of the room.
Upon the entrance of Holmes and Gibson, he looked up in surprise, then resignation that he could not excuse the messy appearance of the office.
“Constable, I was not expecting anyone,” he said, running his long thin fingers through his unkempt hair. Then he looked around and added, “Obviously.”
The policeman waved his hand and replied in his Scots brogue, “Quite all right, Mr. Duncan. This is Sherlock Holmes from London. He has been engaged to look into the disappearance of yer employer.”
The fellow stood up and came around the desk to shake the detective’s hand, “Oh, thank you, sir! It would be a godsend if Mr. Forrester could be found alive.”
Holmes took the proffered hand firmly and looked the young man over. His assessment complete, he expressed his opinion.
“I’m no miracle worker, Mr. Duncan. I shall investigate without prejudice to determine the true facts of the case, no matter where they lead. But your statement intrigues me. Do you have reason to believe that Forrester is still alive?”
The clerk went back behind the desk and sat before answering. “I suppose it’s more wishful thinking. I know the evidence is against it, but Mr. Forrester was willing to take me on when a lot of law firms wouldn’t because of my left-handedness.”
Constable Gibson spoke up, “Why would that matter?”
Holmes replied for the young man, “Remember our old classmate, Colin Slattery? He always had to have a certain seat so he wouldn’t be bumping his writing arm into his desk mate because of his left-handedness. His gyrations to avoid his hand smearing the words of what he had just written were painful to behold.”
“Aye,” replied the policeman. “I do recall that.” Turning back to Duncan he continued, “I imagine, with all the documents ye must have to write, being left-handed would make for some difficulty.”[2]
“A difficulty Mr. Forrester was willing to let me work around,” replied the clerk. “Just tell me what you need, Mr. Holmes. I am at your disposal.”
Holmes wanted to examine the room, and he asked some few questions of Duncan as he did so. After about twenty minutes of this, he gave the man a list of what he desired.
“If you can have those for me by four o’clock this afternoon, I should be grateful.”
Duncan agreed that he would be ready upon Holmes’s return, and the detective and constable went off to their next stop, the home of Mrs. Cecil Forrester.
At that time, Mrs. Forrester was a mother of two young children, bo
th under the age of four. As such she had her hands full, keeping up the modest row house and looking after the little ones. When Holmes and Gibson arrived, she had just put them down for naps and was fixing herself a late lunch. Answering the door, she was accompanied by a black Labrador Retriever who stood warily on guard at the sight of two strangers. Emitting a low woof, he received a pat on the head from the plump young lady with the cherubic face. “It’s all right, Pepper,” she said in a soothing tone. “You remember Constable Gibson.”
Gibson knelt down and scratched the dog behind the ears, speaking softly to it. He could see through to the kitchen and, noting the preparations, insisted that Mrs. Forrester not forestall her meal on their account. He then introduced Holmes as the detective that her cousin had sought on her behalf.
“I am so grateful that you have come, Mr. Holmes,” she said, after inviting them to sit at her dining table. “Bruce said you were highly recommended by Inspector Lestrade as a very promising detective.”
The young version of Holmes chuckled at that, “How kind of him. I have been able to steer the inspector in the right direction on some of his more puzzling cases. But your situation arouses my curiosity, Mrs. Forrester. The evidence, if you’ll forgive me, seems fairly conclusive. What are your expectations of me?”
She set down the teacup, from which she had just taken a sip, and folded her hands above the table. “Something about the whole situation does not ring true. My brother-in-law’s eagerness to claim the inheritance is highly suspicious. He has very heavy debts, and the timing of this incident appears too coincidental to my taste.”
She paused, pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve, and held it at the ready against her cheek. “It would be no great surprise to me if Barclay had something to do with my husband’s disappearance.”
She reached out and placed her hand upon Holmes’s forearm. “I need the truth, Mr. Holmes. Even if it means Cecil is... dead. The pain of not knowing is more than I can bear.”