by David Marcum
“Bailiff of Marsham pinched him good, eh?” Hopkins whispered to Bradstreet.
Bradstreet knew Hopkins’ Cambridgeshire language and he knew the term for a man stricken ill. He nodded soberly with his lips clamped firmly around a pungent little cigarette.
“I heard he’d gotten his sick in the lowlands,” the Runner confessed. “Too much work, too much bad weather. That’ll do.”
The light was poor enough that it was difficult to really see for oneself how ill Mr. Holmes had been. Perhaps that was a stripe of new silver about his temples; perhaps it was just an illusion of the light. No-one could tell. Well done, he thought. As long as there was some mystery to the detective, people would imagine what they saw.
Hopkins stood with the others, clapping with ungentlemanly fervor, but none cared. Lestrade was clapping too, with a thin, secretive smile about his face - the one that made you wonder what in the world he was thinking.
The Detective paused, as if genuinely curious about his surroundings, looking about in the dark from face to face and lamp to lamp. His hawk-grey eyes flitted up within the dark wells of his sunken eye-sockets, and Hopkins again felt the incredible weight of the man’s gaze, something far more alive than he could ever know, touch him briefly like the breath from a broadsword and then move on. He was a fey, weird thing of science and reason standing between a pyre of glowing Hallowe’en lanterns, and Hopkins couldn’t think any illustration The Strand could craft would better demonstrate the victory of the mind over superstition.
The applause swelled. The sharp-eyed Crane could see the flush on those pale cheeks. He was pleased, wasn’t he? He wouldn’t say so, but he was glad.
The claps lulled, and renewed as Dr. Watson emerged. The doctor must have been fresh from duty at the surgery, for he still wore his formal black. Fresh cuffs and collar stood out upon his throat, so white they glowed blue.
The shorter man paused, as his friend had just done and a gleed of pleased bafflement rested inside those sharp brown eyes. Not to be outdone, the military veterans in the Force stood to salute one of their own. Watson brightened. His already straight stance became plumb-perfect. His heels clicked and he saluted in return.
All save Lestrade took their seats upon the stage. Mr. Holmes lolled back with his legs carelessly out and his fingertips pressed together with a jeweller’s accuracy. Those knife-tip grey eyes closed and his chin tipped up, just slightly, in an air of listening. Long ago he would have been seen as rude or disrespectful, but that was before the Force had learned his values for justice left little room for false nicety.
Beside him, Dr. Watson had a small notebook in his lap and his hand blurred in the sour light. He was already taking notes.
Watson didn’t look too well himself, come to think of it. Watching after the great detective couldn’t have been easy on a body or the soul attached to it.
Lestrade held up a thing known far and wide among every policemen within three days of London.
Here it is! Hopkins caught himself leaning forward, but he wasn’t alone.
It was a hand-made stick, hewn in the rough cleverness of peasants with an eye to the beauty of the wood. Hopkins knew knotty and infuriating crabapple when he saw it, and was impressed at the stubborn artistry of the carver. He had clearly not let difficulty stand in the way of a personal masterpiece. It gracefully twisted to the well-worn iron tips on both ends, the top of which was a blunted T-shape like a double-headed hammer. This end held a stout leather loop for the hand. Functional and practical, the tool almost gave off its own light in the sullen tapers of the lanterns.
Lestrade held the stick aloft for many long beats of breath. He was giving all the coppers in the audience a chance to commit it to their memories and absorb the details within. Hopkins had not brought his notebook, but he saw others busily scratch-scritching their pencils over tiny pads. Half-an-ell below the stick, he could make out Dr. Watson’s face, and how he wished he could give what he saw credit. The doctor was peering upwards with that familiar childlike look of wonder that judged not and waited like a polite patron of the arts for the theatre to finish its play before passing judgement.
And beside him, Mr. Holmes.
Hopkins tried to unriddle the fragments of expression hid within the feysome lanterns, but Holmes’s face was masked just barely within the umbra of the muddy umber shadows. Frantic to find enlightenment before anyone else, the young Crane’s eyes strained and then, absently, his quarry’s fine swanlike neck dipped to one side and the copper chilled to the bone. This dark brown light with its mixed pigments and heavy shadows looked too much like a man sitting content within the slow death of a growing housefire.
Hopkins pulled back, back, until his spine was resting against the back of his seat, and Bradstreet was looking at him with one brow cocked aloft and the other pointed down.
He never did explain that moment to his mates, for the moment passed and allowed him the luxury of denial.
Lestrade passed the stick on to Mr. Holmes, who said nothing but turned it back and forth in his long, white fingers, his eyes intent upon every inch of its makeup.
Lestrade cleared his throat and began.
“It was January 4th, 1855. A pig-dealer by the name of Neil Sanford made a swap and received the gift of a walking-stick by the other dealer to seal the bargain. It is that stick you hold in your hands, Mr. Holmes. Mr. Sanford was initially pleased, but soon enough he began to have troubles.
“The first time, he was walking up an icy hill and the stick seemed to turn under his hand, causing his spine to twist and his body to fall. This fall put him to bed for almost a fortnight. When he recovered, things appeared to go well for a while, but one day he was crossing a log bridge and again, the stick seemed to move beneath his hand and again he fell. While it was not as hard as the first, it was only by chance he could catch himself from falling over and being washed away by the angry current.
“The third time was the most dangerous for his life. Again all seemed well. Mr. Sanford was driving his wife’s geese across the street and upon an unexpected pot-hole, the stick caught between his legs and he fell, breaking his right leg. When he recovered, it was to take the ‘accursed, unlucky stick’ and hang it up over his fireplace, for it was a gift and he was too mannerly to dispose of it in a fit of temper.”
Mr. Holmes chuckled, low in his throat, and his thin lips twitched. From the side, Dr. Watson was smiling as well, and those who knew enough of the Consulting Detective recognized the cause: Mr. Holmes was not a man to keep something if it annoyed him. Some of the richest gifts from the most grateful clients were passed on to someone else before the day was out - especially if he found the memory of the owner a bother.
“Almost thirty years passed, and Mr. Sanford was too old to drive the yearly sounders. His son took the task and he sat by the fire, useful for his life’s experience with the trade. It was this very year that the farm was visited by old compatriots, Tony Thurmon and his son Albie, caught out of season from their usual haunts with the turkey-droves. Normally, these friends only knew each other from the yards at Smithfield, but as they said, a sudden drop in prices had sent them hopefully towards London. As you gentlemen are aware, that autumn had been a cold one, and after some discussion, the sons went off to share the trip to market - swarms of swine and rafters of turkeys - whilst the elders stayed behind to keep the house warm. Old Sanford did honour as host with a jug and plate. After some talking, his guest thawed enough that he could see more than his cup, and he soon spied the unlucky walking-stick hanging on the fire-board.
“‘Why,’ he said (as it was writ in the report), ‘wherever did you get that?’
“‘Oh, it was part of a trade some time ago - back when Old Palmerston was still in office! But I can’t say I’ve used it much. Applewood isn’t supposed to be unlucky, but I tell you I had nothing but bad luck for using it.’
/> “‘May I see it?’
“‘Certainly you may.’ And the old man lowered the stick off its nail and passed it to his guest.
“The newcomer turned from interested to excited. ‘Do you mind who gave you this stick?’ he asked.
“‘Why, of course. It was Young Ribble from up the peatlands.’
“‘I should tell you,’ said the other, ‘that I know this stick. Do you remember when my father was murdered?’
“‘Of course I do. I never met him, but I was told he was struck in the head.’
“‘Well, he was never without his stick and it was never found. The police said it was taken with his money. This very stick! He had it marked with his cut.’ And Mr. Thurmon squinted, turning the stick to the firelight so both old men could see a tiny mark chiseled into the wood, a letter J buried inside the dark swirling grain of the apple-rings, with the top-cross of a T to combine the initials J and T.
“The sons had little time to rest, for as soon as they returned, it was to the sight of their fathers clamoring for the nearest Constabulary. Although there were many years between that day and the murder, Young Ribble was still hale and hearty when approached. With only a small amount of persuasion, he confessed to murdering his mate in business, and taking the walking-stick ‘because he admired the work.’ As for the stick, it was freely given to the Yard’s Black Museum, else Mr. Tony Thurmon would have given into the urge to ‘bury or burn it’ as a wicked thing.”
One might have heard a pin drop in the lecture hall. Hopkins was positive he had only just now remembered to breathe.
Mr. Holmes had not said a single word as he listened to the case, but his long, restless fingers had moved back and forth across the walking-stick.
Lestrade cleared his throat. “Well, Mr. Holmes, this has been a sensational item at the Black Museum. Now it was proved to be directly involved in a man’s murder, but as to the rumours that it was accursed - can you prove without a doubt that it is not?”
Lestrade sat back, waiting.
The Detective let his head fall back until his ink-black hair gleamed in the pitiful lights leaking from the lantern-eyes.
“With only one question.”
“Only one.”
Mr. Holmes murmured, and his grey eyes fully opened, sending little white sparks dancing back into the smoky Hall. “Did the police make note that Mr. Thurmon was a dwarf?”
The audience dynamited into excited chatter, and Mr. Braddon was compelled to pound the gavel. It was some time before the policemen could calm down.
Lestrade had not turned a hair throughout the commotion, but his smile was predatory. “Some knew, most didn’t,” he said. “It was not thought important enough to put into the initial records.” By his formal tone, no one would dare say he was giving his opinion.
“Ah, a pity.”
Sherlock Holmes stood with a slight flourish and held up the murder weapon at a slight angle so Dr. Watson could see it as well as the audience.
“The stick is just slightly too short to be useful for the man of average height, but it would be a perfect against the beasts if he were much shorter. A well-loved walking stick would be smooth at the top where the grip rests, but there is no such sign of wear. If one looks further down,” and Holmes pointed to a spot under the T-shape, “there is indeed the proper groove of age and use.”
Gregson had taken out the tiniest pair of opera glasses Hopkins had ever seen and was nodding as he examined the conversation piece from afar. In the front row, Mr. Baynes was laughing into his hands, and a trio of old beat coppers were pounding their gloved fists into their knees in triumph. Hopkins didn’t know where to put his attention next.
“Mr. Sanford fell at three crucial times: When he was going up an icy path; When he was crossing a log bridge; Finally, when he was walking in a mudfield. In these terrains, it is essential to have a proper walking-stick, but this was slightly too short. He pressed down from the top of the stick when he should have merely sought assistance, and the downpress pushed the slippery iron tip of the stick away. Unbalanced, he was bound to fall.
“The trick within this story, Lestrade, is that this weapon of defence against large, dangerous pigs was never meant to be a walking-stick, and yet it was presented as such! I suspected as much, but you gave it away with your record of the son’s words. He did not call it a ‘walking-stick’, but simply a stick. Whoever took this initial report did not know the difference between a walking-stick and a stick that a pig-drover might use to guide the swine and also defend himself.”
And Holmes turned just slightly, and his voice dropped into a playful scolding cant that might have been directed to Lestrade... but it might also be aimed at the utterly silent Mr. Braddon on the other side of Lestrade’s shoulder.
“The absence of data is a vacuum, Lestrade. A vacuum is profoundly dangerous! By its nature, it compels something to fill it. An undernourished brain, weak of facts but gorged with superstition and poetry, will fill that vacuum with conjectural fog. Such things will not impress the good British court, which no longer consigns ducking and witch-testing to respectable procedure.
“The modern policeman, unsnared by the trappings and superstitions of its embarrassing past, has the potential to solve more cases than conceived as possible by his forefathers, for he recognises the court is more canny and scientific than ever before in our history.”
Holmes twirled the murder weapon in a circle, testing the heft and weight. His smile was bright and playful. Dr. Watson was beaming with pride and delight that the case had been illuminated in such clear words.
Lestrade was smiling too. With the grace of a man who has hoped to lose a worthy challenge, the little detective bowed and led the fresh wave of clapping as all stood upon their toes and applauded with all their hearts.
Hopkins never saw Mr. Braddon leave.
“Well!” Bradstreet slapped Hopkins with his hat. “That’s that! And for richer or poorer after the bet, I shall bid you all a good-night.”
“You’re not staying for the cold supper?” Gregson, Morton, and Hopkins were astounded at their mate turning down the food.
“My Hazel’s cooking up her famous winter lamb tonight, and I’m to sit by the grate and read Weird Irish Tales. Hopkins can drink my share of the punch. You look like you could use it, old fellow.”
Hopkins joined in with the farewells, but he could feel his heart sinking past the increments of his ribs with the same patience of a mercury-drop in plummeting temperatures. The crowd of policemen were stampeding for the side door to the dining-hall, for how many people wanted to miss out on supper and cider?
Tired and thinking ahead to the challenge of finding a cab who would let him ride home before the payment, Hopkins found himself the last of the audience. Watson had joined his old Army mates in blue and had led a charge to the back. It was just Lestrade and Holmes on the stage, and Holmes was chuckling at something as he strolled in his own leisurely way to the party. The no-longer-haunted stick spun another circle in his hand as he departed.
Lestrade was shaking his head and grinning at the back of Mr. Holmes before he turned and saw Hopkins. “Ah, glad you could make it, Stanley. You’re looking fresh for a man who had camphor up to his nose.”
“I can still smell it,” Hopkins admitted. “You did well up there, Lestrade.” If no one else said it, he ought.
“Why, thank you.” Lestrade shrugged and dropped himself into one of the padded chairs. “I’m waiting for everyone to have a go at the table before I head down to that mess! You’re smart to wait too. All the seats are assigned and there’s more than enough food.”
“I’ll wait with you. I’m not sure I can take any more fuss tonight.” Hopkins took the nearest chair, which was flanked with fat little pumpkins in a jaundiced colour to their vegetable cheeks.
Lestrade pulled o
ut his personal smoking-tin and the two shared needle-thin cigarillos as the downstairs fuss and muss clashed about them.
Hopkins rarely felt bad about Mr. Holmes solving a case. When he did, it was invariably because he solved it in a way that also demonstrated the Yarder’s inexplicable stupidity or oversight. He ought to feel happier about the conclusion of this debate (not to mention the swift burial of a figurative ghost,) but it seemed like an awful lot of effort to join in with the hurrahs and cheers.
“The Home Office won’t be pleased,” Lestrade said at last. “Mr. Braddon has been mouthing morality for so long, people have forgotten to hear his voice, and they no longer flinch when he throws a report off the desk because someone was reacting to the immaterial. They’re forgetting we are sworn to investigate flesh and blood crimes, not that of the supernatural. Real morality seeks the truth. This case wasn’t one of his, but it could have been.”
“I didn’t see him go,” Hopkins confessed.
“Oh, he lit out fast enough at the end of Mr. Holmes’s speech. He can’t prove this was all set up for his benefit, but he heard it and the reporters caught every blessed word. I’m looking forward to the newspapers tomorrow. That woman from The Advocate was asking Dr. Watson if she can use the Doctor’s phrase, ‘The Exorcism of the Haunted Stick’. Lestrade blew a smoke ring. “Why so glum? We won a hard fight tonight. Braddon can’t deny a case that demands science over the supernatural now - not while he keeps his post! As soon as he approves a report tainted with the supernatural, Punch will be on him like a cheap cartoon!”
“I bet against Mr. Holmes.”
Five words could take a long time to dissolve into atmosphere, especially in that combination. Lestrade gave them each plenty of time to return to the atoms before he spoke.