The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories, Part VI

by David Marcum

  He chuckled. “As someone once said, the only thing worse than being talked about is not being talked about.” He skimmed the offending article and tossed the journal back to me without further comment.

  “It is outrageous, Holmes,” I cried. “You should sue.”

  “Tut, Watson, you make too much of a trifle. The story is ludicrous, to be sure, but there is no harm in it.”

  I was, I confess, irked that he did not share my sense of outrage. It galled my sensibilities to see the press circulate a story that was an utter fabrication. Insinuating my friend had a secret wife - indeed, a string of female companions. Outrageous! As I attacked my kippers, I reflected that Holmes had been the subject of a number of preposterous rumours since I published my first story about him. My Study in Scarlet made him a hero in the eyes of many, and that image was enhanced by subsequent tales. I suppose I may have had something to do with creating that impression, since it was a view I shared. Despite his vices, he remained in my estimation the very best of men. Suggesting my friend was an opium addict, a Don Juan, or a government spy seemed beyond the pale.

  As I rued the decline of journalism into the realm of fiction, I heard footsteps ascending our staircase, accompanied by a muttered tirade. There was only one set of steps, so I assumed our visitor was conversing with himself.

  “A client!” Holmes cried, rubbing his hands together. “There is no denying that agitation. A man of at least fifty years. An academic, if I’m any judge.”

  “How on earth can you know that?” I asked.

  “By the nature of his monologue. He has said ‘Shakespeare’ twice, and ‘university’ once. Unlikely topics for a street-sweeper, I am sure you’ll agree.”

  A moment later, we received confirmation of these deductions as the door to our rooms opened and a tall, imposing gentleman stepped uncertainly over our threshold.

  “Mr. Sherlock Holmes?” he said looking first at me and then at my companion.

  “I am he,” my friend replied. “This is my friend and colleague, Doctor Watson. You are up early this morning, Professor. You must have taken the 8:45 from Oxford.”

  “Good heavens,” exclaimed the man. “You are correct in every particular. But how - ?”

  Holmes smiled and said, “You have a copy of Jackson’s Oxford Journal under your arm, which tells me where you began your journey. Given it is now just a few minutes past ten, it was an easy calculation to estimate your time of departure. I spent some time in Oxford and I am very familiar with the train timetable. The stack of disappointingly graded essays protruding from your briefcase suggest you are a professor at one of our estimable seats of learning.

  “Please sit down and tell us about the upheaval that spurred your early start, and how it is connected to Shakespeare.”

  The astonished scholar sagged into the armchair. “Upon my word,” he exclaimed, “I have read about your genius, Mr. Holmes. Yes, yes, genius, I say, and so you are. Your reputation for brilliance is well-deserved.”

  Holmes raised a modest hand, but pleasure was written in every line of his thin face.

  “You are right, you are right, in every detail,” the Professor continued. “You are all I have ever heard, Mr. Holmes. You give me hope that the mystery may be solved.”

  “Mystery?” Holmes rubbed his hands together in ill-concealed glee. “Pray start at the beginning and omit nothing, Professor - ”

  “Professor Mark M. David, is my name,” he replied.

  “Ah,” I exclaimed, “the author of A Question of Authorship?”

  Our guest’s eyes lit up. “Quite so, quite so. Have you read my book? Have you indeed? I say, that is very good to hear. Splendid. Did, ah, did you enjoy it?”

  “Yes, I did, very much. I share your opprobrium for those who would dispute Shakespeare’s authorship.”

  “I am sure this is fascinating,” Holmes interrupted. “Perhaps you gentlemen might discuss it later. After the professor has explained his purpose in coming to consult me.”

  “Quite right, Mr. Holmes. I fear I have a tendency to get carried away when my specialism is the topic. It is rare outside of the university to find a kindred spirit.”

  I thrilled, I confess, to hear myself described in such a manner. Preening, I sat in my armchair and prepared to take notes.

  The professor, licking his dry lips, said, “I am a professor of Shakespearean studies at Magdalen. My work has brought me into conflict with a gentleman who teaches history in one of the other universities. For all our differences, I think of Malcolm Gilbert as a friend. However, our relationship has always been tempestuous, and we have had any number of public disagreements.”

  “Violent disagreements?”

  “We have never come to fisticuffs, but our exchanges are often heated. Two men, equally passionate about their theories: I suppose it is to be expected. You must understand, it is not the man I take issue with, but his ideas. You see, Gilbert is an Oxfordian.”

  Holmes looked bewildered. I explained, “In recent years, a small but very vocal group has begun to dispute the authorship of the plays that we attribute to William Shakespeare. There seems to be a number of dissenting views about who was the true playwright. The Oxfordians attribute authorship to Edward de Vere, the 17th Earl of Oxford.”

  “Do they have any legitimate basis for their opinion?” Holmes asked.

  Professor David licked his dry lips and said, “None that would persuade any true scholar. Their contention is the plays display a knowledge of history, politics, science, etcetera, far beyond the experience of the mere son of a country glove-maker, which, after all, Shakespeare was.

  “Gilbert is extremely intelligent and learned, but eccentric. His students consider him a bit of a duffer, but that is the way of undergraduates. Despite our intellectual differences, we enjoy each other’s company. Can there be any greater delight than debating with someone of equal intelligence and understanding whose views are completely at odds with one’s own?

  “On Friday, I ran into him outside the Bodleian and he said, ‘I have discovered something that will cook your goose for good, my dear David.’ He could scarcely contain himself. He said he had learned that there was a document written by Edward de Vere in which he confessed to having written the Shakespearean plays. I was sceptical, as you can imagine. I urged him to tell me more but he refused. ‘I shall have it in my hand tonight,’ he said, ‘and then all you Stratfordians will see sense.’”

  “Curious,” Holmes said.

  “Surely any such document must be a forgery?” I said.

  “Quite so, quite so,” said the professor. “The very idea is ludicrous. You know, Oxfordians allege Shakespeare had the most rudimentary of educations. Not true, as he attended grammar school and would have been versed in all the Latin classics, in addition to history and science. They allege there is no contemporary acknowledgement of Shakespeare as a playwright. An audacious lie. There are plenty of references to him as a writer between 1592 and 1616, as any undergraduate can tell you. Most egregious of all, the Oxfordians ignore the fact that the Earl of Oxford died in 1604, though Shakespeare’s plays continued to be written until 1612.”

  “That seems clear enough,” I replied.

  “Furthermore,” the professor continued, warming to his theme, “They make much of the fact that Shakespeare does not speak of the plays in his letters, nor in his will - ”

  “I am convinced, thank you,” Holmes said, firmly. “I take it something has happened to Professor Gilbert?”

  “He is missing, Mr. Holmes. I am told he left his home on Friday night for this rendezvous and has not been seen since. He is a foolish and rash old man, but he is my friend. Please help us find him.”

  “Have you told me everything?”

  The professor blinked and licked his lips. “Why, whatever do you mean?”

&n
bsp; “Come, Professor David, there is more to this than concern for a friend. Distress manifests itself in moisture, tears, saliva. The man in distress is a veritable puddle. You, however, are a Sahara. You have licked your lips three times in as many minutes. Fear is dry. What do you fear, Professor?”

  The poor fellow wailed, “Yes, I am afraid, Mr. Holmes, I am deathly afraid.”

  “Of what?” I asked. I handed him a glass of water and he gulped it in great mouthfuls.

  “I believe I am about to be arrested,” he wailed.

  Holmes looked positively delighted.

  “Gilbert and I had a very public quarrel on Friday afternoon,” our guest continued. “It is now Monday and there is still no sign of him. The police have questioned me but, by my honour, Mr. Holmes, I do not know what has become of him. He is an old fool, but I am fond of him.”

  “What is being done to find him?” I asked as I refilled his glass.

  “The police are searching the Thames and the banks on both sides. He told his son the meeting was to be at midnight somewhere near the river.”

  “The matter is a peculiar one,” Holmes said. “I have some business in town this morning, but I shall come to Oxford this afternoon. You are at liberty, Watson?”

  “Certainly, Holmes. You can count on me.”

  “Excellent. Return to Oxford, Professor. Watson and I will follow on a later train. Please telegram if there are any further developments.”

  After David left, Holmes sat in a moody silence.

  “An odd business, Holmes,” I said. “Who schedules a meeting at midnight?”

  “Who indeed?” he replied. “These are dark waters, Watson. Of course, it may yet have a happy conclusion. Gilbert may be found injured or indisposed.”

  “Is that what you believe?”

  “No, Watson. I fear the Professor with such peculiar ideas is dead. I am going out for an hour or two. I shall return in time to catch the 12:20 to Oxford.”

  Holmes said nothing of his morning until the train pulled out of Paddington Station and we were on our way.

  “Professor Gilbert has a reputation as a true eccentric, Watson. I thought I recognised the name. He regularly sends letters to various newspapers on a variety of matters. There seems little that does not excite his interest - nothing, however, as much as the authorship of Shakespeare’s plays. I learned that his obsession has depleted his family resources and he is now seriously in debt.”

  “So the discovery of a letter supporting his theory would be timely.”

  “Suspiciously so. Gilbert may be passionate about his subject, but he has a poor grasp of logic. There is nothing worse than constructing a theory and falling in love with it. It blinds one to the facts. The fool who becomes obsessed with their pet notion will reject all evidence and logic that runs counter to it.”

  “‘Truth will out,’ they say.”

  “A fool will reject the truth in the face of incontrovertible evidence. Consider that article you showed me this morning, Watson. The writer speculates that Sherlock Holmes has a secret wife and a string of paramours, that he is dying of opium addiction, and so on. The author has never met me; he never requested an interview. Why? Because he cannot risk being confronted with the healthy bachelor you see before you. The theory, you see, is what matters to him, not the truth.”

  “A man will risk much if there’s a chance of securing his reputation.”

  “He will, indeed.”

  In response to Holmes’s telegram, Professor David met us at the station. We climbed into his trap and he drove us to the home of his still-missing friend. The short journey took us through some of the most picturesque scenery I have ever beheld. The oaks and beeches dappled the sunny road. Small blue geraniums speckled the lush grass, while butterflies and bees thronged amid the lilac. The air was cold, however, despite the sunshine, and the ground was still soft from recent rain.

  After a short time, we turned onto a long driveway that led to a magnificent fifteenth-century manor.

  “Is this where your friend lives?” I exclaimed. “It is very elegant.”

  “Not all academics are paupers, Doctor,” the professor replied. “My friend inherited a tidy estate from his father.”

  To our surprise, the missing man’s son answered the door himself. Christopher Gilbert was a tall, thin man in his thirties who seemed prematurely aged. “A shameful thing for a gentleman to have to answer his own door,” he said, “But I released all the servants to look for my father.”

  Professor David said, “Has there been any news?”

  “Nothing. I would still be looking with the others, but there are several urgent matters of business I must attend. I begrudge every minute I am kept from the search.”

  “We will find him, never fear,” said David. “I have brought Mr. Sherlock Holmes to help us.”

  “I am sorry you have been troubled, Mr. Holmes,” replied the other. “No doubt there is some simple explanation.”

  “Perhaps. But since I am here, I should like to be of service.”

  “It is kind of you, but I should tell you that despite this big house and its holdings, we are not a wealthy family. My father has sold all the most valuable pieces to support his, ah, interests.”

  “You need not concern yourself with fees. My work is its own reward,” Holmes replied.

  “You are very kind. Well, I have ten minutes until my first appointment.”

  He led us to a small study, charmingly laden with books and manuscripts. The sunlight glanced off the distant river. We should have been perfectly cosy, but despite the sunlight, I found myself chilly and did not unbutton my coat.

  “I apologise I have no coffee to offer you. And I am too incompetent to light the fire, I fear.” He flashed a self-mocking smile.

  Holmes dismissed these regrets with a wave of his hand. “Please do not go to any trouble on our account. We shall not be here for very long. What can you tell me about the last time you saw your father?”

  “It was on Friday night at dinner. He told me he had received an anonymous note from someone who claimed to have a certain document. According to the writer, the document would resolve all doubt regarding the authorship of the Shakespeare plays. The individual said he would meet my father at midnight near the river to discuss terms.”

  “Did you see this note?”

  “No. Frankly, I was preoccupied with other matters and paid little heed. I’m afraid my father was always chasing after some preposterous idea or other.”

  “The burden of the estate fell on your shoulders”

  “I am afraid so. My poor father was dreadfully impractical.”

  “He had no qualms about attending such a meeting - midnight in a remote location with a stranger?”

  “None at all, but I did. I cautioned him against going. I told him it was folly. I offered to go in his stead and he became very angry. I have no doubt the servants heard our quarrel. It became heated, as disagreements with him often did. At length, I said if he wanted to be a fool, it was on his own head, and I went to bed. I regret it bitterly now.”

  “Is it possible,” I asked, “that your father is staying away in order to punish you?”

  “It would be a petty thing to do,” Christopher Gilbert replied. “Though, to be frank, he could be petty at times. I do not know. It is possible, I suppose.”

  “Does your father have any enemies?” Holmes said.

  “A great many, I am afraid. He was disputatious in nature and he enjoyed what he called ‘a good argument’. His students despised him, and he quarrelled with most of his friends, including Professor David.”

  “Christopher,” David protested, “I would never harm your father.”

  Holmes was silent a moment, and then said, “What do you think happened to your father, Mr. Gilbert?”
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  “He often became so lost in his ideas that he quite lost track of everything. It was a filthy night, so he may have decided to stay at an inn, rather than coming home. Probably he had no idea of the fuss his absence caused. He may soon come strolling through the door.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “You may think me a fool, Mr. Holmes, but I would rather believe my father is absent-minded and safe, rather than injured somewhere in a field. I am sure this matter is a waste of your time.”

  “One last question, Mr. Gilbert. Can you tell me what your father was wearing that night?”

  “Yes, it was a long, black cloak with a purple lining. He also wore a large black hat with a purple feather.”

  As Holmes and I left the house with the professor, a white-haired gentleman whose appearance was as suited for an undertaker as for a banker stepped down from his carriage. He introduced himself as the family solicitor.

  “Edward Baines, of Baines, Baines, and Haversham, at your service,” he said, bowing. He handed us his card and added, “I dislike disrupting the family at so difficult a time, but these matters are rather pressing. I hope you find the professor, Mr. Holmes. He is such a character and beloved by his tenants.”

  Professor David drove us along the banks of the river. We could see clusters of searchers scouring the area around the bridge in a desultory manner. David stopped the trap as we reached three labourers. “Any news?” he asked.

  “Nothing yet, sir,” replied the man.

  “A waste of time,” Holmes observed as we trundled on. “If the missing professor did fall into the river or if he were pushed, the current would have taken him. I assume the police have sent word downriver?”

  “I assume so,” David replied. “There’s Sergeant Martin. Perhaps he’ll have some news.”

  We alighted from the trap and the professor introduced us. “Sherlock Holmes, eh?” said the policeman with a suspicious glance at David. “Not sure we need your help. Still, every hand is valuable in a search.”