by David Marcum
“So then - ?”
“So then I surveyed the neighbors. With the kindly assistance of a pair of sharp lads, and aided by the deployment of a few shillings, they readily identified the inhabitants of the neighborhood. The school, as I mentioned before, is at the end of the row and has only a single neighbor. Those apartments are shared by a pair of unmarried sisters of superior birth, who traded the political volatility of France for British stability under His Majesty William IV, and have lived out a quiet existence ever since. Further along, there is the widow of a prominent banker, who lets out rooms to the superior sort of tenant: Bank clerks, barristers, and that sort. Next comes a flourishing family of nine. His fortunes are tied to having developed a safer sort of railway brake. The fifth and last residence is dedicated to the household of an Indian prince.”
“What a mixed lot,” I said. “I see what you meant what you said regarding the neighborhood. It’s all right, as far as it goes, but also not quite what it used to be. Foreign nobility and rooms to let, all in the same block!”
“Pray don’t forget that the Earl of Redmund has his own accountability regarding the decline of the respectability of the neighborhood,” said Holmes. “Surely you haven’t forgotten the matter that precipitated his youngest son’s vacating the premises for the Argentine? I know it wasn’t allowed to get out, but a certain young lord was paying off his racing debts with counterfeit notes. Society will tolerate a drunkard and a gambler and any amount of dissolute living, but they will not tolerate a cheat.”
“Surely his son wouldn’t dare bring blemish to the family escutcheon by knowingly passing off counterfeit notes?”
“And such were the arguments that went ’round and ’round in circles last year,” said Holmes. “Was he their dupe, or was he their willing partner? At first, he merely circulated amongst such blackguards, but more recently, he allowed them to impose upon him by permitting certain of them to reside upon his own premises. The counterfeiting operation itself was tracked to a warehouse, and Scotland Yard recovered the plates that were in the press operating at the time, as well as five or six-thousand pounds in counterfeit notes. Most of the gang was apprehended, but the ringleader escaped, presumably across the Channel, until quieter days should present themselves. And the Earl packed his son off to the Argentine, ostensibly to tend to some interests there, but perhaps merely to learn to be less of a fool.”
“So it was your hypothesis that the current problems at this address were related to the counterfeit notes that were passed by the previous tenant, either wittingly or unwittingly?”
“It could have been anything, really. That’s the tiresome thing about women, as I’ve told you - their least actions can have the greatest significance, and the most trivial occasion might be the trigger for the greatest irrationality. You recall how the Austrian Ambassador’s wife’s hat nearly became cause of an international incident! It may have been that one of the teachers had an aversion to purple cabbage-roses in the office carpet, and had enjoined someone to vandalize it once she determined she could no longer coexist with it. It may have been that a student, having had a disgraceful semester, devised a plan to turn the school topsy-turvy in anticipation of a bad report being sent to her parents. It may have been any number of things which an individual of sufficient imagination and romanticism may concoct. However, given the tenacity of the intruder, and his dogged insistence upon intruding upon a very specific portion of the premises, one must be very dull indeed not to grasp that there is something of significance in that room. Knowing the history of the former tenant, the first thing that occurred to me was that it was, perhaps, notes or plates, hidden in a secret compartment beneath the floorboards of what was once a gentleman’s study.”
“Did you really think he would strike yet again?” I asked. “With the house roused to alertness by this point? I’m surprised the school hadn’t posted a permanent guard in the office, to parley with him and give him what he was after, if only he would allow them to operate in peace henceforth.”
“‘If the goodman of the house knew when the thief would come!’” quoted Holmes. “I visited the landlady of the row with rooms to let. I was still in the character of the Reverend Dupin, and I presented her with a letter of reference from the Bishop of Nottingham. She failed to observe that the ink was scarcely dry as I handed her the pages. I explained that I would be in town for a week or two on certain business. My references were of sufficient quality to be admitted as a short-term resident - a quiet clergyman was worth two shillings a day to the landlady while awaiting the advent of a longer-term tenant. I asked if the other tenants had been with her for long. She only had the single room available. It had been formerly occupied by an advocate, who had lodged with her for six years, finally vacating the premises upon his marriage in late May. Apart from this, the last change to her roster of tenants had been the arrival of a gentleman physician, two years ago.”
“That is not in keeping with my expectations,” I said. “If this were a narrative of my own invention, I would have come up with a hard-eyed man, masquerading as a bank clerk, who in reality was none other than one of the young lord’s former associates, come to reclaim his portion of the stolen goods, having lately begun renting from the unsuspecting widow, and perhaps making his way precariously along a convenient ledge under cover of darkness, accessing the school through an upper-story window negligently left unlocked.”
“Your romanticism and imagination come through yet again, my friend! It is a good hypothesis, as far as it goes, but sadly did not match up with the facts at hand. I installed myself in my room, which was conveniently situated in an upper storey, the only higher level being the attics dedicated to the maids’ room and a box room used for storage. The routine of the establishment was not difficult to guess. The only difficulty lay in guessing whether the intruder would strike this night, or the next, or wait until the next Sunday, if he were to return at all.
“I had my suspicions regarding the intruder’s means of ingress. You will recall that the school’s address was situated at the end of a row of houses. Frequently, in this sort of architecture, you will find a little door in the wall of the box room, meant for accessing the attic cisterns which collect rainwater, which is then fed through the plumbing throughout the house. With a little effort, you will often find a passage of sorts, running along the length of the structure, bricked along one side and enclosed by the roof’s slope on the other. With a little care, you can cross from rafter to rafter - a misstep will have your foot through someone’s ceiling plaster. It is a dusty, cramped, dim, and uninviting place, but it is a rather unorthodox method I myself have used in the past to gain access in times of difficulty, such as with the matter of the Waterford letters, and I would be unsurprised if others have employed such means for less noble causes than I.
“I will spare you the tedium of my vigil. It’s the sort of work I’d prefer to farm out to a stolid policeman, if possible, but you understand the school’s aversion to the involvement of officials. Needless to say, I had the good fortune that around two o’clock in the morning, I heard the careful step of a shoe, and saw a lantern cast crazy shadows through the rafters, and the midnight visitor made his way carefully towards the little door in the brick wall through which he had habitually accessed the premises of St. Catherine’s. You understand that there are no bolts or handles on the attic side of the door, but a little catch; and that is sufficient. The visitor slipped into the box room; I emerged from my place of concealment behind the cistern and followed in his tracks with all the stealthiness of a tiger. He left his lantern in the attic; there was sufficient gaslight left burning in the halls to preclude its necessity. And although he paused periodically, ears alert for any sign that his presence had been detected, I am pleased to say that I gave him no reason to suspect my company.
“He made a bee-line for the teachers’ office, closing the door gently behind him. I waited five m
inutes or so, to give him a good head-start on whatever task he was about, and then gently eased the door open. Our intruder was playing poltergeist once more, engaging in senseless destruction of property. A pile of papers was laying on the carpet in a sodden heap of ink, a chair had been sliced with its stuffing poking out, that sort of thing. Petty and obnoxious vandalism. He was so intent upon wreaking havoc that I was able to approach quite unobserved, and thus it was that I reached out a hand and took his hand in an iron grip. ‘Now, see here, this won’t do,’ I said, for all the world sounding like a stage policeman. He struggled to escape, but you understand I have my training in baritsu - I had not finished speaking before I had him completely at my mercy, having twisted his hand. As a medical man, you are aware that the wrist joint does not permit a rotating motion, and as a consequence, all the force went directly to his forearm and up to his shoulder, putting extreme pressure on joints which are rather sensitive to such force, regardless of how strong one otherwise may or may not be. I maneuvered him to the ground as easily as though he had been a truculent child, and it was a matter of moments before he lay face-down upon the floor in a puddle of ink, his hands cuffed behind him, my knee in his back.”
“Serves the blackguard right,” I said. “So were the plates or notes recovered? Was the destruction just a ruse intended to conceal his true motives?”
“I was able to raise the alarm discreetly enough so that the staff and servants were upon the scene in a matter of moments, without having disturbed any of the students. There was much agitation and confusion, but all in a very well-bred and hushed manner, so it was not as much a fuss as I had feared. My captive was Exhibit A for all the ensuing explanations, as I described who I was, why I was there, how my prisoner had gained access through their own attics, and how I had followed him to the office and caught him red-handed.
“Imagine their surprise when they recognized the identity of the culprit, despite the ink-stains and the tear-stains and the general dishevelment. It was the railway brake inventor’s eldest daughter from further down the row. She had applied for admission for the coming October, and had been declined, as she did not meet the minimum academic standards necessary for enrollment at St. Catherine’s Collegiate School. Dressed in her elder brother’s coat and cap, the little minx had been spending the last week wreaking her bitter spite upon the faculty that had dared reject her as unqualified. I left the young miss in the school’s custody, to allow them to break the news to her parents in the manner they saw fit.”
“All that! For a schoolgirl’s bruised feelings! I am sorry that you wasted your valuable resources on such trite goings-on.”
“It was not a waste at all,” Holmes replied good-naturedly. “When things had calmed, I queried of Miss Jackson whether she was still in possession of certain of her father’s notes and papers. It turned out that Sir Arthur Jackson indeed had been the owner of the parcel of Paracelsus’ toxicology notes, in Paracelsus’ own hand, upon which her he had based his English publication. This was gifted to me with gratitude. That would have been sufficient in and of itself, but I also look forward to the promise of a volume of Miss Jackson’s own work, upon its completion. There is a segment in the ninth book which discusses bees, which I look forward to perusing more attentively. With those two additions to my library, I consider myself more than adequately compensated for any inconvenience incurred by one young lady’s vengeful irrationality.”
The Adventure of a Thousand Stings
by GC Rosenquist
It’s common knowledge to everyone familiar with Sherlock Holmes and his many adventures that when he retired from active crime consulting, he kept bees on an estate in the Sussex Downs. He even produced a book titled The Practical Handbook of Bee Culture, With Some Observations Upon the Segregation of the Queen.
My dear friend’s interest in apiculture was completely unknown to me until one uncommonly warm July morning in 1887, when Holmes and I found ourselves stepping out of a police driven hansom and onto the well-manicured, upper class streets of London’s Chelsea District. Rows of immaculate brick homes, all four-storied and honey-colored with white-columned balustrades, lined both sides of Sloane Street as if they were two impenetrable and massive castle battlements facing one another. Here and there along the street stood many oversized black Broughams, ornately carved with fronted two mounts, silent but ready to take their affluent passengers to wherever it was that the prosperous went to be prosperous. In the close distance, I could hear the salty voices, bells, and chugging steam engines of water traffic moving by on the Thames.
The constable who had piloted our hansom looked down at us from his perch and gave us a respectful salute. “Local ordinance says I have to park at the end of the street, Mr. Holmes,” he said wearily. “When you need me, just whistle.”
“Thank you, constable,” Holmes said uneasily.
As the hansom pulled away, Holmes peered down at the small handwritten note in his hands. On the missive was the address of the building in front of which we stood, and a short urgent message from Detective Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard, pleading for Holmes to come immediately.
“Well, we’re here, Watson,” he grumbled, then slipped the note into his inside coat pocket. He leaned back and raised his chin, letting his intense gray glare swiftly climb all the way up to the high rooftop. “Two trespassing paupers into the heart of the ivory tower. Lestrade had better be correct about needing our services.”
Remembering my friend’s deeply held repugnance about using his skills to aid the affluent and political, I nodded. “Come now, Holmes,” I protested. “Even the rich deserve justice.”
“Yes, Watson,” he shot back. “Justice easily purchased. Come, let us go inside and see what golden thread needs to be unraveled from the fleece today. And perhaps we’ll get a temporary reprieve from this stifling heat while we’re at it.”
Unfortunately, once Holmes and I were inside, we were met with the same thick, stagnantly hot air from which we’d tried to escape. I had to loosen my collar to gain some amount of comfort.
We found ourselves standing on a shining white marble floor in a huge room filled with artwork. In every corner was a stone pedestal holding the strangest marble sculptures I’d ever seen. One boasted a series of hexagon shapes, layered one upon another so that the overall larger shape was, again, a hexagon. Another sculpture near a window was nothing more than a long arm topped by a delicate hand with outstretched fingers. Upon one of the fingertips sat a rather large insect, the details of which I could not see. There were golden-framed paintings hanging on the pristine white walls. Some were portraits of what I assumed were members of the family of whose home we were presently visiting: A balding middle-aged man with a thick gray beard, an attractive dark-haired and mature woman, and a young boy of about fifteen. The other frames held landscaped scenes of bright sunny fields or flower-filled gardens.
Holmes went up to the wall that displayed the nature paintings, the tip of his index finger tapping repeatedly on his chin as he regarded them closely, one at a time.
“Interesting,” he finally said. I joined him in front of a painting that appeared to be a field of corn under a blue sky. “All these paintings, all these sculptures have a common theme running through them. Do you see it, Watson?”
I stepped back, inspected the row of paintings as best as I could and then re-joined Holmes. “I’m afraid I don’t, Holmes,” I said.
“My friend, we must work on your powers of observation,” Holmes said impatiently. He pointed at something in the corn field scene, something white but partly hidden by the leaves of a bush on the outskirts of the field. “What does that look like to you?”
I leaned forward but couldn’t discern the white object with any clarity. I straightened and shook my head in confusion.
“It’s a beehive,” Holmes said. “All these paintings and sculptures have bees in them.”
/> Taking a second look, I realized my friend was correct. The garden scene had a flower with a bee on its petal. In a still life of some fruit on a table, there was a bee perched atop an orange. Now the sculpture of those layered hexagons made sense to me... honeycombs.
“But what does it mean, Holmes?” I asked.
“It means the owner of this house is an apiarist,” Holmes replied. “And judging by our surroundings, a very successful one.”
A sudden humming noise startled me nearly out of my shirt. There was a large cage set against the wall to our right, it had a gilded steel gate that was as tall as the ceiling. The humming was joined by a slowly rising squeaking sound, as if something was coming closer. Soon, an interior cage, also made of gilded steel, appeared, dropping down out of the ceiling until it came to rest on the floor. A young constable stood inside and nodded to us as he reached forward and pulled both the interior and exterior gates open. He stepped outside and waved us in. “Inspector Lestrade is waiting for you on the roof, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson,” the constable said.
“The roof?” I asked, which seemed to be the obvious question, but Holmes had another interest.
“A lift,” Holmes said with a rare tinge of awe. “An elevator. I fear we’re in the wrong line of business, Watson.”
The higher we ascended, the warmer it seemed, and so I took off my coat and hung it off my forearm. I’d never ridden in one of these elevator contraptions before and could clearly see the improvement it was over climbing a flight of stairs. Holmes, however, standing with his hands clasped behind his back, betrayed no sign of either wonderment or horror, but his eyes were alight and alive with movement as they absorbed everything they saw.
Slowly, with the engine whirring and the thick metal cable protesting as it pulled our weight, we were lifted past three levels, each one with the same shining marble floors and clean white walls as the ground level. Each level looked similar, a large vestibule leading to an open arched doorway where beyond, the hidden lives of the rich took place.