“What time is Forbes due at the Damury household tonight?”
“Midnight. He comes at midnight and lets himself into the house. He has his own key.”
“Where is Sir Jeffrey at this time?”
“He stays at his club Tuesdays and Wednesdays.”
“So Lady Damury is in the house alone.”
“Yes.”
Caligari chuckled again. How very well organised it all was. The young amorous scoundrel creeping into to the married woman’s boudoir at the dead of night, while the husband was out on the town, engaged in a game of cards or some other shady pursuit. Possibly entertaining a lady himself. It was so sordid and yet so amusing.
He had learned all he needed to know. The girl’s usefulness was at an end.
“Count backwards from ten to one,” he told her. “When you reach one you will be fully awake and will remember nothing of this encounter.”
As she began to count, Caligari stepped away into the shadows, allowing the darkness to envelop him. Within minutes he was hurrying down a well-lit thoroughfare in search of a cab, his senses throbbing with excitement. Above him the full moon glowed brightly in the dark heavens. For Caligari it was a killing moon.
* * *
Robert sat on the edge of his bed, his arms resting lank in his lap. His face, with its white skin and dark lips and deep shadowed eye sockets, looked like the mask of a demonic Pierrot. He was dressed in a dark suit and black overcoat. The only signs of life about him were the long fingers, which twitched nervously.
Caligari stood nearby in silent contemplation, admiring his creation. At length he spoke, his voice low but urgent in tone. “You have your instructions, Robert. I have been over them twice. You must follow them to the letter. Make sure the lady is dead before you leave her. Do you understand?”
Robert stood up and faced his master. “I understand,” he intoned.
“Good. Then I release you into the night.”
Slowly at first, Robert began moving towards the door. Caligari followed him until he was out on the street and watched as his instrument of murder was swallowed up by the misty dark of the night.
* * *
Lady Sarah Damury stared at herself in the dressing table mirror. Her expression was grim. Why, she wondered, am I not smiling? She was, of course, fooling herself by asking the question. She was well aware why there was no joy in her heart. She was embroiled in an illicit, adulterous affair that no longer brought her any pleasure or amusement. In truth, she knew she had begun it merely because she was bored with life – bored with life and with her husband. She had craved excitement, a divertissement that would bring a frisson of intrigue into her existence. She was married to a bore and her days were filled with dull routines involving even duller people. At first, her romance, if that is what one could call it, with Godfrey Forbes had been fun. It added a little piquancy to her humdrum existence. But in time this had become routine and predictable. In truth, her lover had turned out to be as shallow as all the other men in her life. Initially, he had appeared dashing, charming and full of wit, but familiarity had revealed him to be a vain dullard of limited intelligence and dubious morality. It had all been a terrible mistake.
To make matters worse, he had persuaded her to become involved in his theft of her husband’s precious ruby, supposedly to fund their escape together for a life in South America. The thought of such a fate now filled her with horror. This foolhardy venture must be stopped now. It was not yet too late to do the right thing, but the matter had to be handled sensitively. At all costs her disastrous liaison must remain a secret, otherwise she stood to lose everything.
She was determined to persuade her lover to return the stone and then they should break off their relationship. However, she realised that she had to keep Godfrey sweet until he agreed to relinquish his hold on the ruby.
And so here she was prettying herself in readiness for one of his midnight visits, which had also taken on the aspect of routine predictability. He would arrive with some small cheap trinket or just a rose, if he was particularly down on his luck that week. They would sip champagne and then disrobe for one brief encounter before he would disappear – until the next time. Oh, God, does there have to be another “next time”? she thought. Her mission tonight, however, was to extract a promise from him to return the stone.
Slowly she dabbed her cheeks with powder, hoping to mask her tired features. Well, she thought, I am resigned at least to tonight’s visit. Perhaps some champagne before he comes may ease my nerves.
As she poured herself a glass, she thought she heard a noise downstairs. There was a loud bang and then a crashing sound, as though some glass had been broken. I pray the idiot is not drunk, she thought. Blundering into the house like a common burglar. She waited a moment, straining her ears for further disturbances, but silence had fallen. She went to the door of her boudoir and opened it, staring out onto the dimly lit corridor to see a darkened shape ascending the staircase in a strange, slow, jerky fashion, rather like a life-size marionette. It took only a second to realise that this was not her lover. This man was much taller and a great deal slimmer. Her hand flew to her mouth as a sudden panic gripped her and she emitted a small cry of fear. The noise alerted the intruder, who had reached the landing. He raised his head, as though scenting the air like an animal seeking its prey, and then slowly he turned towards her.
She caught sight of a pair of wild, flashing eyes and screamed. She was truly terrified now. He stood between her and the servants’ staircase so she ran back into her room. In desperation she slammed the door shut, turning the key in the lock. “Oh my God. Oh my God,” she muttered to herself over and over again as she scurried towards the shadows at the far end of the room.
She heard the door handle turn and rattle as the intruder attempted to gain entry. There was a pause and then a thunderous noise as the door shook. It was obvious he was trying to break it down. Lady Damury gazed around her, looking for a weapon, something she could defend herself with. It would not be long before the beast without was upon her. She spied a silver paper knife on her dressing table and rushed forward to snatch it up. The door shook again, accompanied by the ominous sound of cracking wood, chilling to her blood.
She gazed, mesmerised by the door. It shuddered with the violent blows as the intruder sought entry. And then suddenly with a sharp crack like a pistol shot, it sprang open, crashing violently against the wall. There, in the doorway, was the man. He was young and dressed all in black. His pale features and dark eyes gave him the appearance of a corpse. He was no desperate violent burglar; did not frighten her in that way. But he did frighten her, as though he were some ghoul who had returned from the grave, for what purpose she dare not contemplate. Her body shook with fear. Could she open a window? There was no time, and she dreaded turning her back on the terrifying apparition. She was tempted to scream for help, but she knew that would be useless. The house was empty tonight, as it always was when her lover came. If only he were here now!
The man remained motionless for a moment, gazing at her with his sable orbs, although she felt as if he saw nothing. Those eyes were dead and yet malevolent. Then he began to move slowly towards her with small, precise footsteps. She thrust the paper knife forward. Before she knew it, he was standing directly in front of her. In the dim light she saw the pale flaky skin and was held mesmerised by those vacant glittering eyes, which seemed to bore into her soul. The fearful vision terrified her so that she was robbed of movement, even of intent. The arm holding the paper knife as a weapon dropped impotently to her side.
With a precise, controlled movement, he grasped her wrist, applying sufficient pressure that she released the knife and it dropped to the floor. With gentle movements he pushed her down on the bed. She emitted the faintest sound, a resigned whimper, as he leaned over her, his hands finding the fine skin of her throat. Briefly, all she saw were those dark, dead, unblinking eyes. Very soon there was no sound and then no light. There was nothing.
Chapter Ten
Constable John Rance reached inside his uniform, extracted a whisky flask and took a generous nip before returning it to its safe resting place. He liked to take a fiery tipple every hour or so when he was on night patrol. It helped to warm him up but, more importantly, it lessened the ennui he felt parading up and down the cold dark streets of his designated patch. Nothing ever happened in this polite and salubrious neighbourhood. All was quiet and boring. Mind you, Rance thought, I wouldn’t want anything too dramatic to occur, nothing that would put me to too much trouble or place me in any danger. However, the odd drunk or vagrant to move on would be welcome, instead of this steady, changeless perambulation of the pavement, waiting to return home to his cosy bed. Still, the whisky helped.
As he was passing Carisbroke House, he happened to glance down the short drive, and what he saw made him stiffen with apprehension. The door of the property was wide open and yet there was no sign of life inside. The house appeared to be in total darkness. Rance was tempted to ignore the anomaly and continue his beat, but the faint spark of duty that flickered in his breast told him he had no choice but to investigate.
Somewhat reluctantly, he unclipped his bull’s-eye lantern from his belt and made his way towards the open door. He stood on the threshold of the house for some time, peering into the dark interior, listening intently as he did so for any sound inside. It was possible that the careless butler had forgotten to lock up, but it was possible too that there were burglars inside. Burglars with weapons. He shuddered at the thought and shone the beam of the lantern onto the lock of the door. He gave a sharp intake of breath when he observed that it was badly damaged. There was no doubt a forced entry had been effected.
“My life,” he muttered to himself. His immediate inclination was to blow his whistle to summon help, but this might take some time to arrive. In the meantime, the sharp whistle would alert the burglars inside and they would be on him in an instant. With a sinking feeling in his heart, he realised that there was nothing for it but to continue his own investigation as stealthily as possible.
Pulling out his truncheon from his belt, he entered the hallway. Here he stood and listened again, his heart thumping against his ample breast. To his relief, all was quiet. If there had been intruders, it might well be that they had collected their loot and departed. The thought cheered him, and gave him confidence to move further into the house. He had just reached the bottom of the staircase when he heard a noise behind him. Rance gave a gasp of terror as he turned round and saw the dark silhouette of a man in the doorway.
“What the devil!” cried the man angrily as he moved swiftly to the light switch and flooded the hall with bright electric light.
Now utterly confused, Rance raised his truncheon, in order to protect himself rather than as a means of assaulting the stranger.
“Who are you?” he managed to ask in a dry, strangulated manner.
“I am Lord Damury and this is my house. Who the blazes are you and what are you doing here?”
“Lord Damury? Your house?” Rance stuttered, his mind awhirl. “I was… investigating…”
“Investigating? Investigating what?”
“Your door, sir, it was wide open. I observed it as I was on my beat and so I thought… I thought it was my duty to investigate. The lock appears to have been tampered with.”
“I see,” said Damury, his anger fading somewhat. “And what did your investigations discover?”
“Nothing as yet, sir. I had only entered the building when you found me here.”
“The door was open, you say?”
“Wide open. I thought burglars…”
“Great heavens! My wife is here. I must check on her. See that she is safe.”
“I think it would be appropriate that I accompany you in case anything… is amiss.”
His lordship nodded. “Very well.”
Damury raced up the staircase with Rance in his wake. On reaching the first landing, the policeman observed that one of the doors was ajar, a pale amber glow emanating from the interior. Damury hurried inside, followed by the constable. A single candle on the bedside table illuminated the room with a shifting yellow light. The sight that met their eyes as they entered the room stopped both men in their tracks. They looked in horror at the sprawled figure lying on the bed, head lolling over the edge, eyes staring sightlessly at the ceiling.
Damury uttered a cry of pain and ran to his wife. He bent down by the bed and cradled her in his arms, tears coursing down his cheeks. For some moments he was struck dumb as he came to understand the awful truth of the situation, and then his chest heaved as he gave a great sob of despair. “Oh, God. Oh, God, she’s dead. She’s dead. She’s dead,” he muttered faintly, burying his head in his wife’s breast.
Crikey, this was murder, thought Rance. The brutal murder of a titled lady. A case too big for a fellow on the beat. This was a job for Scotland Yard.
Chapter Eleven
From the journal of Dr. John H. Watson
By the time we arrived at Lord Damury’s town house, tendrils of dawn were marking the sky. Nature, ignorant of man’s nefarious doings, promised a fine day. Nevertheless, I was forced to stifle a few yawns as Holmes, Lestrade and I travelled from the Yard to the scene of the crime. It had been a long and busy night, and I for one was ready for my bed.
Holmes, however, seemed as alert as a lion hunting its prey. The investigation of crime was a great stimulant for him. He could go for days with little sleep or sustenance when on a case. It was when there was nothing to challenge his detective skills that lethargy and indolence set in. At such times he was often tempted to reach for the neat morocco case containing his hypodermic needle and the little bottle of cocaine that was a permanent feature of his chemical shelf.
Two uniformed policemen were on guard outside the house when we arrived and we were shown into the drawing room. Here we found Lord Damury, slumped in a chair clutching a glass of brandy, while Constable John Rance, who had discovered the body, stood awkwardly by the fireplace.
“Please accept our sincere condolences, your lordship,” said Lestrade in a kindly fashion, after introducing himself. “We will do all we can to apprehend the murderer.”
Damury looked up from his drink. “But you can’t bring her back, can you? You can’t make her alive again.” His voice was raw and full of emotion, while his eyes brimmed with angry tears.
Lestrade shook his head. “No, sir. But I assure you that you will feel some consolation when we apprehend the demon who did the deed. And in this matter we have the assistance of Mr. Sherlock Holmes and his associate Dr. John Watson.”
Damury shifted his gaze to us. “Sherlock Holmes? The private detective?”
Holmes gave a brief nod. “I do work independently of the official police.”
Damury seemed on the brink of saying something, but with an exasperated sigh he thought better of it and took a large gulp of brandy.
“So, Constable Rance, if you could give us your report of how you found the body and any other information that you consider relevant to this investigation,” said Lestrade.
Rance stiffened to attention. “Yes, Inspector,” he said and recounted the night’s events. “It looked to me like the poor woman had been strangled, and the doctor attending confirmed that this was indeed the case.”
Lestrade nodded and thought for a moment, allowing the facts to establish themselves in his brain before turning his attention to Lord Damury. “There were no servants in the house this evening, sir?”
“No.”
“Isn’t that strange?”
“Not really. My wife liked to give all the staff a day to themselves and my manservant, Bowes, also had the night off. That was no discomfort to me as I was at my club. I had intended to spend the night there but changed my mind at the last minute. If… if only I had come home sooner, I might have been able…” He broke off with a trembling sigh and took another drink of brandy.
“What of
your wife’s personal maid?” asked Holmes after a pause.
“Sarah… Lady Damury had dismissed her maid and the rest of the staff for the evening,” Damury replied. “She did this quite often. She liked the solitude and comfort of an empty house. I never thought that such a situation would put her in any danger.”
“Have you been able to establish whether any item of value has been taken?” asked Holmes.
Damury shook his head. “No. A cursory glance suggests that nothing is missing. The most valuable item I had in my possession was stolen some weeks ago.”
Holmes and Lestrade exchanged glances and my friend gave the briefest shake of the head. Now was not the appropriate time to reveal that the ruby had been recovered, or any of the circumstances surrounding its retrieval.
“Have you any idea who might have done this terrible deed?” asked Lestrade.
“No, of course not,” snapped Damury, his voice raw with emotion. “It is obviously the work of some madman. My wife was a kind, generous soul. She did not have an enemy in the world. She was… a lovely woman.” He thrust his head in his hands, his whole frame wracked with sobs.
Holmes tapped Lestrade on the arm. “Perhaps Rance can show us the scene of the crime,” he said quietly.
Lestrade nodded. “Right you are, Mr. Holmes.”
“Either Lord Damury is truly grief stricken, or he is a very good actor,” observed the inspector as we made our way upstairs.
“Or he is filled with remorse over what he has done,” responded Holmes pithily.
A constable was stationed outside Lady Damury’s bedroom. As we approached he stood to attention and gave a brief salute.
We entered the chamber. It was dimly lit and very well appointed. Our eyes were immediately drawn to the body of Lady Damury on the bed. She appeared to be a most beautiful woman, tall and slender with what would have been an elegant face in life. It was now distorted into the rictus of a silent scream, the eyes bulging from their sockets.
The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes--The Instrument of Death Page 6