by David Marcum
Gibson demanded, “Just who are ‘they’?”
“That’s just it. He wouldn’t tell me. He just kept insisting that the only way he and his family would ever be safe was to fake his death and move to another country. When he thought he was in the clear, he would send for Morna and the children, but until then they were to know nothing about it, for their own safety.”
“There is nothing in his papers to indicate that anyone was after him,” countered Holmes.
“All I know is what he told me,” replied Barclay with pleading in his eyes.
Gibson was not satisfied, however. “Then why all the fuss at the office, and why did ye break into your brother’s house?”
Forrester wrung his hands and looked at his captors. “Cecil wanted me to send him money to live on, but he forgot to give me the letter of authorization and his bank account number before he left. I tell you, he hasn’t been thinking clearly. I had hoped I would find it amongst his papers.”
“I’ve been through all his papers,” replied Holmes. “There is no such document.”
The brother raised his fists in the air in exasperation and cried, “I tell you it was his plan! I cannot explain it. I only agreed to go along with it because he felt so much in danger.”
“Sit down!” ordered Gibson, looking down upon the smaller man. Slowly, Forrester obeyed.
Holmes added, thoughtfully, “We’ll attempt to verify your story, Forrester. But rest assured, the truth will be revealed.”
“Then I shall soon be free, Mr. Holmes, for that is what I’ve told you.”
Chapter VI
Back at Gibson’s desk, the constable turned to his friend and asked, “When did ye find out about Mrs. Forrester and the laddie seeing Barclay’s ring?”
Holmes took out a cigarette and lit it, replying “They did not. It was a calculated bluff on my part, and Forrester took the bait.”
The big man slapped his desk and let out a loud guffaw, “I suppose that bit about the dog’s teeth marks was a lie also?”
“That,” replied Holmes, “can actually be proven scientifically. I just haven’t had the opportunity yet to make those comparisons. Remember, Gibson, when dealing with the criminal class you must be more clever than they. If that includes using their methods of prevarication, then so be it.”
Gibson folded his hands and leaned forward on his desk. “How will we prove his story, what with Cecil being dead?”
“I have a thought, but it requires more research. The autopsy results will be critical.” Suddenly, Holmes stood and announced, “I shall be at the university library. If you hear any more, you can reach me there. If not, I shall meet you for dinner at my hotel.”
That evening, Constable Gibson found Sherlock Holmes sitting at a corner table with papers and telegrams next to his coffee cup.
“I see ye’ve been busy, Holmes.”
“Testing theories, my friend,” answered the detective. “Have you any news from Rotterdam?”
“No. I suspect the autopsy may take a day or two. No word on what they’ve done with Lusk. Do ye believe he’s involved in Forrester’s death?”
Holmes shook his head, “If my suspicions prove correct, Lusk may only be guilty of accepting an unusual commission. It’s possible he may have even been unaware of Forrester’s activities in throwing the life preserver and planks overboard, if he were busy at the helm.”
“I don’t know,” pondered the constable as he accepted a menu from the waiter. “The timing seems awfully convenient.”
Holmes lay his long fingers upon the stack of papers in front of him, “The timing may have been entirely up to Forrester, likely without Lusk even knowing it.”
“Ye be talkin’ in riddles, Holmes. What have ye found?” queried his old friend.
“Enough to make a special request of the Rotterdam coroner. The results may tell us all,” was all the detective would say on the matter.
Frustrated, Holmes’s fellow alumnus tucked his napkin into his collar and prepared to delve into his dinner. As he was cutting his meat, he asked one more question, “What of the paper ye found at Cecil’s office? How does that fit in?”
Holmes smiled, “Again, a little prevarication on my part, just to judge his reaction. That paper was indeed an authorization letter signed by Cecil to allow Barclay temporary access to his brother’s funds. However, until this cloud of suspicion dissipates, I think it is in the best interest of my client not to permit any such thing.”
Gibson smiled, “Aye and the law would take a dim view of a suspected murderer being able to use ill-gotten gains for his defense. I think we can safely declare that letter as evidence until the investigation is complete.”
Holmes raised his wineglass in appreciation of Gibson’s grasp of the situation and the two drank a toast of silent agreement.
By the next afternoon, Holmes had pieced together an extraordinary and most unique hypothesis while sitting in Forrester’s office with young Duncan. Armed with a myriad of facts derived from a new interpretation of certain papers and verification from Duncan of his employer’s skills in certain areas, the detective now proceeded to Edinburgh police headquarters.
Finding Gibson at his desk, he started to announce his discoveries when the big Scotsman held up a new telegram.
“The autopsy results are in, Holmes,” he declared. “Forrester died of a brain tumor.”
“Located in the frontal lobe, no doubt,” replied Holmes.
‘Why, yes. How could possibly know that?”
Holmes sat at the side chair of Gibson’s desk and proceeded with his findings. “As I told you, my new roommate is a doctor. As such, he leaves medical journals lying about, which I occasionally take up to read when the London press is lacking in anything pertinent to my profession. Remembering a recent article about brain tumors and their effect on personality, I researched the topic further at the University of Edinburgh’s most excellent library yesterday.
“In my wire to the Rotterdam coroner, I suggested such a condition may have been a cause of death. I am gratified that my suspicions have proven correct.”
“But what does it mean, Holmes?”
“Cecil Forrester was not responsible for his actions. The tumor affected certain cognitive areas of his brain and, while suppressing some, it also caused paranoia. He truly believed that he was in danger. The brother’s story is very likely true. I found papers establishing multiple identities, and Duncan has confirmed that his employer was fluent in Dutch and German. No doubt, he would have left Rotterdam for Germany, leaving Lusk to tell anyone who asked that he was still in the Netherlands.”
“Where does that leave our case, then?” asked Gibson.
Holmes leaned forward with his sharp elbows on his knees and fingers steepled in front of his lips. His countenance was almost prayer-like. But instead of supplicating to a higher power, his brain was calculating a variety of possible scenarios. Finally he focused on a singular outcome and sat up.
“Morna Forrester is my client. Barclay committed a crime against her, and I’ve no doubt would have committed even more reprehensible, if not illegal, acts, should he have gotten his hands on the inheritance. He needs to remain jailed for the time being, as his guilt for burglary is in no doubt.
“I presume the Rotterdam police will need an official identification of Cecil Forrester before they will return the body and issue a death certificate in that name?”
The constable nodded his head. “Yes. Either a relative or a British government official will be required to make a positive identification, I’m sure.”
“Then I suggest we can use government ‘red tape’ to our advantage for once. With Barclay in gaol, Mrs. Forrester is the only next of kin who can identify her husband. I believe that I can persuade her to not be in any hurry to do so.”
Gibson look
ed askance at his friend, “Why on earth would she not want to bring him home immediately for burial?”
Chapter VII
Back at Simpson’s restaurant, Holmes looked across the table at Mrs. Forrester, and with one of those flashing smirks of his that one would miss if one blinked, he continued, “Because it was in her best interest to do so.”
She nodded and he turned to me and declared, “You brought up the ‘Married Women’s Property Act’, Doctor. Section 5 deals with the Husband’s consent, dispensed with in certain cases. It goes something to the effect of:
Where a wife is deserted by her husband, a judge of the Court of Session may dispense, with the husband’s consent, to any deed relating to her estate.
“By delaying Mrs. Forrester’s identification and having brother Mycroft tie up the government’s expediency for three weeks, the Act went into effect. Her estate, and that of her deceased husband, remained in her control.”
“What of Barclay Forrester?” asked my fiancée. “I’ve never heard of him before this.”
Mrs. Forrester answered. “Brother Barclay agreed to sign a contract releasing any claims upon Cecil’s estate in return for my dropping the burglary complaint against him. I gave him one-hundred pounds to assist with his debts, and demanded that he never contact me or my children again.”
“What of that young Duncan fellow?” asked Mrs. Hudson, ever the mother hen.
Holmes replied, “Donald Duncan managed to keep Forrester’s clients satisfied with his work, and is now a successful solicitor in his own right.”
Mrs. Forrester picked up the conversation from there.
“And you know the rest. I moved to England to be near my cousin in Vauxhall, and hired Miss Morstan as governess for my children.”
She looked at Mary, took her hands in both of hers and said, “The children and I are very sorry to lose you, my dear. But I could not be happier in your choice of husband.”
They both turned and gazed upon me, with such love, admiration, and respect as I have ever had thrust in my direction. I’m sure my face was coloring when I was rescued by the voice of my friend as he stood with wineglass in hand.
“Friends, all, may I propose a toast?” said Sherlock Holmes in his most gracious tone. “To the future John and Mary Watson. Here’s to the groom with a bride so fair, and here is to the bride with a groom so rare. Congratulations, my dear friend, whom I shall sorely miss. Miss Morstan, I do hope you will let me borrow your husband from time to time, for I am lost without my Boswell.”
Such praise from my usually taciturn friend did not help my embarrassment. Then Mary replied, “I should not be so selfish as to deprive you of his talents, Mr. Holmes, so long as you promise to keep him safe during these ‘interesting little problems’ that come your way.”
Holmes saluted her with his wineglass, replied, “My word of honor,” and we all drank to the future, blissfully unaware of the joys, heartaches, and adventures that would come our way.
“I have come to you, Mr. Holmes,” she said, “because you once enabled my employer, Mrs. Cecil Forrester, to unravel a little domestic complication. She was much impressed by your kindness and skill.”
“Mrs. Cecil Forrester,” he repeated thoughtfully. “I believe that I was of some slight service to her. The case, however, as I remember it, was a very simple one.
“She did not think so...”
The Sign of the Four
1Watson will meet Gibson years later when he is Chief Constable for Edinburgh and requests Holmes’s help in a case that is written up by the Doctor as “The Eleven Pipe Problem “, found in Sherlock Holmes Adventures for the Twelve Days of Christmas by Roger Riccard (Baker Street Studios, 2015).
2The typewriter, invented in 1874, would go a long way toward alleviating this issue. However, its commercial use did not become widespread until the mid-1880’s.
The Adventure of Vittoria, the Circus Belle
by Tracy Revels
“It is disaster, Mr. Holmes! Catastrophe! You must come to my aid or all is lost - and not just for myself, but for more than a hundred poor souls who depend on me for their livelihoods. Name your price, sir, but drop whatever business you have and come with me to Oxford. There is not a moment to lose. When I think of what, even now, might be happening to my poor dear girl, it is more than my heart can bear!”
The speaker of these impassioned words, which had come between great sobs and hard gasps for breath, was a short and stout gentleman of some sixty years. He had burst into our rooms just as we settled at the breakfast table, a perfect cyclone of garish clothing and long, grizzled hair, reeking of gin, and none too steady on his feet. I had been on the verge of heaving him bodily through the doorway when Holmes halted me, intrigued by this ungodly apparition’s mention of a single name: Vittoria.
“So the famous circus belle has gone missing,” Holmes said, making an aimless ramble around the room as our visitor, at my friend’s invitation, wolfed down the remains of our morning meal. “Surely, Watson, you have heard of the lady?”
I confessed my ignorance. Holmes waved me toward the Index. Our guest, who bore the rather unlikely moniker of Sebastian Marvela, spoke through a mouthful of half-chewed rashers.
“The finest lass who ever stood upon the sawdust! She is star of our show, the most talented thespian of our age! A wonder of the universe! She has performed before more crowned heads than the Swedish Nightingale! Given dozens of benefit concerts for orphans and their schools! And at least five gentlemen of noble rank and immense wealth have bid for her hand in marriage, yet she has turned them all down, for she belongs, body and soul, to our little family - Marvela’s Marvelous Menagerie and Circus.”
While the gentleman waxed eloquent, I quickly located the entry for Vittoria. It was at the bottom of a page, and revealed that she was a noted sideshow performer, famous for singing, dancing, playing the flute, and reciting Shakespearean sonnets.
“You have found her?” Holmes asked.
“I have. If you will forgive me for saying so, it seems she has a most unusual résumé for a circus performer. Surely a lady this gifted should be in the legitimate theater.”
Marvela’s face went crimson. Clearly, I had insulted his trade. Holmes, however, held out a placating hand to him, forestalling an outburst.
“If you will be so kind as to turn the page, Watson, I believe you will find her carte de viste pasted on the other side.”
I did as Holmes instructed. A gasp of horror escaped my lips, and I nearly dropped the book on my toes.
“Good heavens! She... she is...”
“The Circus Belle!” Marvela thundered, pounding a fist on the table. He winced. Clearly, his outrage had made him forget his obvious overindulgence of the night before, but the violent action had recalled it to him. “You must not judge her by her appearance,” he whimpered. “A nobler soul has never lived.”
Holmes strolled to my side. “Her condition is called hypertrichosis, I believe. It is fortunate that she lives in such an advanced age. Surely employment as a circus exhibit is better than execution as a werewolf.”
I could not repress a shudder. The woman in the photograph was identifiable as a human female only by the shape of her evening dress. Her head and face were covered in long, tangled locks of hair, and wild brows sprouted out above her dark eyes. No lips were visible, yet I could easily imagine that if she were to smile, savage fangs would be revealed. Her gown was low, and her shoulders, bosom, and upper arms were all covered by shaggy fur. One foot protruded beneath the folds of the skirt. It too was hairy, with indecently long, canine-like nails that seemed to scratch the floor. I shut the book in a rush, but the image lingered. I feared that the beast-woman would follow me, howling for blood, into my nightmares.
“You say Miss Vittoria has disappeared?” Holmes said.
&nb
sp; “No - she has been kidnapped! Abducted! Perhaps even ravished and murdered!”
Holmes crossed the room and poured more coffee. “Calm yourself, Mr. Marvela. We can make no progress until you gather your wits and tell us your story, from the beginning.”
He groaned but nodded and, after downing another cup, began to speak with greater clarity and dignity.
“Vittoria is like a child to me, Mr. Holmes. I am, as you may have guessed-”
“Originally from America, but of Irish lineage, a former blacksmith, and a veteran of Union Army who spent much time in the southern states.” Holmes made a quick motion to brush aside the man’s astonishment. “It is as clear as your vowels, your thumbs, and the tarnished buttons on your coat. These things are as obvious to me as your stage name is ludicrous to your patrons. Continue.”
Marvela swallowed. “Yes... and it was in Georgia that I found her, on a farm near the town of Valdosta. She was the youngest daughter of a family of what we called ‘trash’ people - poor, dirty, uneducated - who kept her locked away in a barn. I rescued her from that terrible situation.” Marvela offered a sickly smile. “I paid almost a thousand dollars for her to... ahem... for her to become my ward.”
The man disgusted me. “And she has been your prisoner ever since?” I snapped. “I thought the Americans had abolished slavery of all varieties.”
Marvela waved a limp hand. “Of course she is not my prisoner. She has been free from the day she came of age - but I educated her, provided for her, brought her to Europe, and made her famous. She is a good girl, and would never willingly leave me.”
Holmes had turned to a newspaper, flipping through it as if the gentleman’s distress was invisible to him. “Yet now you have lost her. Please be precise as to the details.”
“It was yesterday morning that she was abducted. We had made camp the night before in a field just outside of Oxford. Everything was normal, ordinary. We put up the tents and arranged our little caravan of wagons, fed the animals, and enjoyed our evening. Vittoria sang for us, some of those old and sad songs she learned from the Negroes in the South. But the next morning, she did not appear for breakfast. I thought nothing of it - she has the soul of an artiste, you see, and sometimes stays in her van until just before she comes on stage - and we had already experienced quite a shock that morning, for our oldest, dearly beloved lion, Leo, had died in the night. But, as we say, the show must go on! At one, we opened up our sideshows for the youth of Oxford, and we had quite a crowd of boys, all of them very excited to behold Vittoria. But when the curtain parted, she was not there!”