Sherlock Holmes and The Adventure of The Cold-Served Revenge

by Petr Macek

  “They are taking fine care of you,” I said. “There is not much more that I can do now. Rest and take the medicines and you ought to feel better soon. I shall personally oversee your recovery.”

  The detective grew thoughtful.

  “That will not please some people,” he said mysteriously.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I haven’t said a word to anyone yet, because I do not know whom I can trust. Besides Mrs Hudson, whom I did not want to frighten, you are the only one.”

  Then, in a conversational tone, as though he were assessing the quality of the roast, he leaned over to me and said: “I suspect that my heart ailment is no accident. I believe that I have been poisoned.”

  It was a moment before I understood the import of his words.

  “Someone wants to kill you?” I cried. “Who? Why? How?”

  “As yet I have no answers, but I presume that that package has something to do with it,” he said, pointing with a tremulous finger at the wardrobe, on which lay a decorated ivory cigarette case.

  “Your pipe tobacco?”

  “Ironic, is it not? You always warned me of the dangers of smoking. It seems you were correct.”

  “I do not understand!”

  “In the cigarette case you will find the last remains of some tobacco that I recently received as a gift. It is an exotic variety from India, about which even I knew nothing[8]. I was therefore unable to taste whether everything was as it should be. Nevertheless, the first signs of my angina pectoris appeared only after I began to smoke it. It certainly contains something that sapped my energy. It was some time before I connected the dots, but I did not have the opportunity to examine the tobacco, because the illness weakened me and confined me to bed. The rest you know.”

  “Who gave you the tobacco?”

  “Pastor Barlow,” said Holmes gloomily, closing his eyes for a moment.

  Talking for long stretches evidently taxed him. He shook his head and rubbed the base of his beaklike nose drowsily. “I have not succeeded in piecing it together. Nevertheless, I do not think it was his intention and I believe he is unaware that he has become death’s messenger.”

  Indeed the involvement of the good pastor in a conspiracy seemed farfetched, though I knew him but little and could not vouch for him.

  “Why would someone want to kill you? You have not been working for years!”

  “It is probably connected with a little puzzle that I have been asked to solve. The first request came around Christmas, and though I insisted that I would under no circumstances take on the investigation, after much persuasion I accepted. But then due to my health I was unable to undertake it. The letters are still in my desk.”

  “What was the case?”

  “An Italian millionaire sought my advice. He suspected that someone wanted to kill him. He would only discuss the details in person and he asked me to come see him in order to uncover the menace and thwart it.”

  My thoughts raced as I tried to piece together the scattered bits of information.

  “This Italian, what was his name?”

  “Vito Minutti,” said Holmes.

  I rummaged feverishly through my bag, searching for the Times. I had already seen the name which Holmes had just uttered and I needed to confirm it. In a few seconds I confirmed that my memory was correct.

  “Holmes, look!” I said, showing the detective the newspaper.

  The detective read the first lines about Minutti’s murder and turned even paler. His eyes widened and beads of sweat formed on his brow.

  He finished reading and the paper fell from his limp hands to the floor.

  “My God,” he whispered. “Had I acted sooner I could have saved him!”

  “You cannot prevent all the evil in the world, you cannot be everywhere at once,” I said, trying to console him, but Holmes no longer heard me. His blood pressure rose sharply and he grimaced as the pain shot through his left side.

  It was bad.

  I jumped up and began trying to bring him around.

  “Mrs Hudson, come quick!” I shouted into the hallway. “Holmes is having another heart attack!”

  1 This is the second or third Mrs Watson. The wedding took place on October 4, 1902. The first (or second) Mrs Watson, née Mary Morstan, died sometime between 1891 and 1894, perhaps on December 27, 1892.

  2 Edward VII (1841-1910). He was the son of Queen Victoria and ruled from 1901 until his death. His successor was George V, who ruled during the time when the events in this book take place.

  3 An alliance between France, Russia and Great Britain, entered into in 1907 in response to the expansionist tendencies of Germany and Austria-Hungary.

  4 Great Britain’s foreign policy at the end of the 19th century under conservative prime minister Benjamin Disraeli and the Marquess of Salisbury. The term referred to Britain’s involvement in European affairs.

  5 A militant feminist movement that fought for women’s rights. It was established in about 1900 and used extremist methods to achieve its ends.

  6 According to Holmes researcher Christopher Morley, Cuckmere Haven is not the name of Holmes’s farmstead, but the real name of the village of Fulworth, which lies between Seaforth and Eastbourne on the south slopes of the Sussex lowlands.

  7 This disease is caused by the most dangerous bee mite Varroa jacobsoni. It’s a creature 1.5 to 1.9 mm long, which preys on bee broods and lives on the bees after they hatch. Young bees that hatch from infected larvae suffer from various defects, such as lacking wings and legs, and soon die.

  8 Holmes was an expert on tobacco and in the study of cigar ash. In 1879 he published a monograph entitled Upon the Distinction Between the Ashes of the Various Tobaccos.

  II: A Funeral

  The funeral of a legend is always a sad affair, especially for those who have spent a part of their lives or career with him. Pastor Barlow gave a eulogy for Sherlock Holmes in Fulworth church and many of the detective’s friends attended. His brother Mycroft, a high-ranking government official, came from London together with Inspector Lestrade and several other police officers from Scotland Yard. I was especially touched and surprised to see the Countess Marie Framboise de Plessis-Bellie`re, with whom I had first become acquainted years ago during a certain infamous case in Bohemia. She must have been invited by Mrs Hudson, who had made a list of funeral guests according to my suggestions and from Holmes’s address book.

  After the eulogy the ceremony continued at the rustic local cemetery, under the vast blue sky. We gathered in a small open space near the oak coffin, the air smelling of elder and cut grass.

  Watching Holmes’s coffin slowly disappear into the earth was hard for all of us. Nobody tried to hide their tears. The words which Barlow uttered on behalf of the detective were no doubt beautiful and touching, but I do not remember any of them. In my head I was replaying everything that had happened in the last ten days, ever since I had received a telegram from Mrs Hudson about the dire state of my friend’s health. The silence cut me off from the surrounding world with its merciful robe, giving me the opportunity to finally sort my agitated thoughts.

  It started to rain. Umbrellas were pulled out and opened.

  “If Holmes is looking at us from Heaven it must appear to him that black flowers are growing in his last resting place,” said the Countess, grasping me by the arm.

  At the funeral we all bade each other farewell. Nobody felt like sharing their mood with the others at dinner. Barlow accompanied us to the gates of the cemetery and scurried off to find shelter. Our London friends, including the Countess, made ready for their departure to the station to catch the afternoon train.

  “Perhaps next time we will meet under happier circumstances,” said the Countess, squeezing my hand as
Mycroft helped her into the carriage.

  “I fear that we will never get over this loss,” said Lestrade.

  Mycroft and I exchanged silent glances and left his remark unanswered. The spring storm and wind scattered us, the carriage disappeared behind the trees and I took a hansom back to Cuckmere Haven, the rain drumming on the canvas roof.

  Mrs Hudson, who had not attended the funeral, already had food prepared. While she set the table and chased flies out of the dining room I stepped into Holmes’s bedroom.

  The detective was standing at the window with his hands behind his back, listening to the howling of the wind between the casements. He did not so much as glance in my direction when I greeted him.

  “I trust that you buried me with all honours,” he said, his gaze fixed on the glistening leaves in the garden.

  “You and your charades. Are you aware that the Countess Framboise was in attendance? It almost broke her heart. I presume that you are enjoying yourself?”

  “No indeed, Watson. My enemies have already buried me so many times that I fear no one will notice when I finally do pass on. I will personally visit the Countess once this matter has been resolved.”

  “Enemies?” I cried. “You have arranged most of your funerals yourself!”

  “But only in order to confuse the criminal element and take advantage of their reduced vigilance. But this time it is different, my friend. This time it is personal.”

  The last time I had seen Holmes express such hatred was after the death of Professor Moriarty. Back then he had disappeared and been considered dead for three years.

  In his retirement Holmes never would have anticipated such an attack, and if the murderer had been provoked merely by the request of the deceased Minutti, something big must have been afoot. For this reason the detective decided to “succumb” to the poison that was hidden in the tobacco and arranged his funeral so that his unknown enemy would lower his defences.

  Only I, Mrs Hudson and Mycroft knew the truth.

  For several days Holmes lay concealed and recovered under my careful watch. In less than two weeks I managed to restore his blood pressure and heart rhythm to normal. I adjusted his regimen so that he would gain strength and return to the world of the living.

  Today was his first day out of bed, and while I participated in the tasteless theatre for the outside world, he conducted an analysis of the poisoned tobacco.

  “My suspicion has been confirmed, it indeed contains traces of digitalis,” he said dryly. “Somebody wanted to prepare a sweet death for me.”

  “It was ingeniously planned,” I said, nodding.

  Like every man of medicine I was well acquainted with the digitalis plant family, and I had to concede that mixing the dried leaves into Holmes’s tobacco was brilliant. Except for a slight sweetness the herb is practically tasteless. The symptoms which the detective suffered also suggested its use: headaches, lack of appetite and irregular pulse. From my medical practice I knew of cases where people had made tea out of digitalis, mistaking it for the harmless comphrey, or children who had been poisoned by drinking water from a vase containing the plant. Fortunately Holmes’s murderer had endeavoured to use subtlety and had prepared the deadly tobacco in such a small concentration that my friend’s heart was only gradually weakened.

  Thus Holmes had succeeded in uncovering the plan at the last moment.

  “We have confirmed how,” I said. “Now all that remains is to determine who and why.”

  “Yes, I admit that I am overwhelmed with curiosity,” said Holmes, rubbing his chin. “Well then, we might as well start with our dear Barlow.”

  “But there is one more thing...”

  “Which is?”

  “Who will conduct the investigation? You are officially dead and cannot appear in public. And I can hardly catch the murderer by myself.”

  “My dear fellow!” laughed Holmes. “It is but a trifle!”

  ***

  The next morning, a certain Mr Cedric Parker of Stone Terrace, Weston-Super-Mare appeared in the vestibule of Holmes’s house. The detective had selected the identity of his cousin, coming to arrange his estate, as the ideal disguise to assist him in moving freely and inconspicuously during the investigation without being disclosed.

  He had not shaved for several days and he trimmed his full beard into an elegant grey-flecked point. He stopped brushing his hair straight back and instead parted it to the right and smoothed it with brilliantine. He left the greying in his temples, but coloured his eyebrows in order to give his face a different expression. He also donned round spectacles with transparent glass. His attire consisted of a summer suit with a vest, which was quite a contrast to his usual rather homely clothes. Taking into account the family resemblance, which nobody would think twice about, an entirely different person now stood before me.

  “Holmes, I do not recognise you!”

  “Then I am satisfied,” said the detective, studying his new appearance in the mirror. “But I still do not much resemble the real Cedric. Let us hope that no one takes it into their head to look for his photograph.”

  “This cousin of yours really exists?” I asked. “I thought you had invented him! You never mentioned him before!”

  “Indeed, Cedric Edward Parker is an actual member of my extended family[9]. I wanted to give my alter ego a certain measure of credibility in case Barlow or any other curious soul decided to confirm my family circumstances at the register office. One can never be too cautious.”

  Once Mrs Hudson had approved the detective’s disguise we were finally ready to attempt a dress rehearsal. It was time to pay a visit to Pastor Barlow and untangle the circumstances of his role in the unsuccessful attempt on Holmes’s life.

  We walked out into the front yard, where Holmes again felt the sunshine on his face after so many days confined to the house. He paused for a moment, spread his arms and inhaled deeply.

  “It was rather tiresome staying indoors so long,” he said. “But for a dead man I feel wonderful!”

  I admonished him for this blasphemy and headed to the coach, but Holmes stopped me.

  “Better to walk,” he said. “The exercise will do me good and it will be excellent if people see me. I don’t have anything to hide.”

  I agreed and followed the detective. We left the estate and headed to the pastor’s farmstead along the dusty path by the south slope of the local coastline with its magnificent view of the Channel. Beneath us cliffs extended to the pebbly beach below, from where we could hear the cries of seagulls.

  We walked through the outskirts of the town, bidding good day to several villagers, and even passed by the cemetery, where Holmes took a morbid delight in his grave. The flowers that people had brought and which practically covered the gravestone gave him pause, but the expression in his eyes was neither sad nor regretful, but shone with satisfaction.

  People had come from near and far to pay tribute to the greatest of detectives, a legend in the battle against crime and injustice, who helped everyone regardless of their station.

  “They have buried me a hundred times, and a hundred times I have risen,” said Holmes. “As long as there is crime in the world I will continue to rise.”

  “We could not hope for more,” I added.

  Talking thus we arrived at Barlow’s rectory.

  Everything indicated that the pastor was at home; but not alone, as we deduced from the automobile parked before the gate to his house, a magnificent Silver Ghost that shone in the sunlight. Local children were gathered about the car with reverent expressions on their faces.

  “We have come at an inconvenient time,” I said. “Perhaps we should return later. We could come for afternoon tea.”

  But Holmes appeared not to be listening. His attention was completely captivated by the Rolls Royce with its elegant open silver
body and black seats. For a moment he was like one of these small rogues as he admired the luxurious vehicle. In those days automobiles were already becoming a relatively common sight in the city, but in the countryside they attracted much attention.

  “Have you never seen an automobile?” I teased.

  “Of course I have,” he answered, without tearing his eyes from the Silver Ghost. “But one does not often come across such a beautiful specimen, my friend. This is the best car in the world. It won the gold medal in the Scottish Reliability Trial for its speed and handling. It also set the world record for driving without stopping. Imagine: it travelled without stopping a total of twenty-seven times the distance from Glasgow to London, or some fifteen thousand miles!”

  “You sound like a brochure, Holmes. I suppose you will also tell me how much it costs.”

  “Upwards of three thousand pounds,” he said. “I briefly considered buying one, but for an old man such as I it would be a pure extravagance.”

  Now I recognised the old Holmes. His ascetic nature had overcome his enchantment.

  Suddenly the door of the parish burst open and out shot Barlow’s visitor. He shooed away the cluster of children around his automobile and with a contemptuous glance silently climbed behind the wheel and started the engine.

  “Good upbringing can’t be bought,” said Holmes loudly.

  The man looked around and realised that the comment was directed at him.

  “Mind your own business!” he shouted at us, donning his driving gloves and slipping a pair of goggles over his bulbous nose and large moustache. Glowering at us from beneath bushy eyebrows, he honked loudly on the claxon and sped off, leaving a band of shouting children in his wake. He was an unpleasant person with whom I did not wish to have further intercourse.

  The commotion also brought Barlow outside.

  “Dr Watson!” he cried when he saw me on the driveway. “I did not expect to see you here today! To what do I owe the pleasure?”