The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes--The Instrument of Death

by David Stuart Davies

  “Visitors for you, Margaret,” he growled through the bars and then unlocked the door.

  We entered what was, in essence, a prison cell. It was little different from the chambers I had seen when visiting various police stations with Holmes. There was a chair, a narrow bed with a straw mattress, and a small table on which stood a water jug and bowl. The room was illuminated by a ceiling lantern which cast over the surroundings a muddy and frail yellow light. In truth, I was horrified that such a place was to be found in a building that bore the name “hospital”.

  The occupant of the room sat hunched on the bed, her back towards us. Professor Clark approached her and placed his hand gently on her shoulder. She flinched momentarily, curling in on herself.

  “Hello, Margaret,” he said. “It’s Professor Clark. I’ve brought two of my friends to see you.”

  Very slowly, she turned to face us. It was a gaunt and haunted visage that stared in our direction. The dry, flaky skin was alabaster white, the dark eyes sunken deep into the skull, the thin cracked lips pulled back in a weird rictus smile, exposing an irregular row of brown teeth. Her face was wreathed by a curtain of wild, straggly white hair. I was unable to determine the sad creature’s age, but I suspected that she was much younger than suggested by her haggard appearance. I wondered what circumstances had brought her to this dreadful state.

  “Hello, Professor,” she said faintly, her lips hardly moving.

  “I’ve come to give you another of your little dreams. Those little dreams that make you feel better.”

  The woman nodded. There was no emotion evident in the action.

  “You like those, don’t you?”

  She nodded again and this time her lips trembled with a thin smile. “I like feeling better,” she said.

  The professor gave us a knowing look before pulling up the chair and sitting opposite his patient. He withdrew from his waistcoat a silver pocket watch and dangled it in front of the woman. It twinkled brightly in the guttering candlelight.

  “You know what to do, Margaret. Follow the watch with your eyes. See how it swings to and fro. To and fro like a lovely shiny pendulum.”

  She leaned forward and did as she was bid, her eyes fixed rigidly on the watch. Soon her head was rocking gently in rhythm with its swaying movement.

  “You are beginning to feel sleepy,” intoned the professor. “Do not fight it. Relax completely. Allow yourself to go to sleep. To go to sleep and be free.”

  Now the woman’s entire body was shifting from side to side while her eyelids began to flicker erratically. Eventually they closed.

  “Now, Margaret, listen to me. You will do as I say. You will obey my commands. Do you understand?”

  The woman nodded her head in a neutral fashion as she had done when she had been awake.

  The professor turned to us. “There you are, gentlemen, the patient is now hypnotised. It is, I have to admit, a simple procedure with someone like Margaret who has such a feeble grasp of reality, but in essence the procedure is the same with all subjects. Now she is completely under my control. Allow me to demonstrate.”

  Professor Clark moved towards the small table and, taking a candle from his coat pocket, placed it there and lit it. Returning his attention to his patient, he leaned close to her face. “Margaret, I want you to stand up, walk to the candle on the table and hold your hand over the flame.”

  With stiff, awkward movements, the woman rose from the bed and made her way slowly towards the table. Without hesitation, she followed Clark’s instruction, bringing her hand close to the flickering candle flame as though warming her palm.

  “Now, I want you to put your hand down onto the flame. Do not worry, you will feel no pain. I repeat, you will feel no pain.”

  I was appalled at such an instruction. I could not believe that a respected medical man would treat his patient in such a manner. I made a move forward, but Holmes grabbed my arm and held me back, giving me a stern, imperious shake of the head that informed me not to intervene. With great reluctance, I held my tongue.

  Without hesitation, Margaret obeyed Clark’s injunction. Her face registered no emotion whatsoever. She held her hand there for some ten seconds before the professor instructed her to remove it. “When you awake,” he intoned, “you will feel no pain or have any memory of what you have just done. Now return to the bed.”

  The woman obeyed.

  “Now, Margaret, when I touch your forehead you will awake and remember nothing.” He pressed his fingers on the poor creature’s head and immediately Margaret shook herself, sloughing off her trance-like state as if it were some invisible garment and then staring blankly before her. She was quite still and showed no sign of pain or distress.

  “You see now, Mr. Holmes, the power that hypnotism can evoke and the possibilities it presents for medical operations and experiments.”

  “Indeed I do.”

  I remained silent. I was disturbed by what I had seen, which to my mind had been nothing more than a fairground sideshow. The woman had been used as a guinea pig to demonstrate Professor Clark’s apparent skill and mastery. In making her act as she did, it seemed to me that Clark had made no allowance for any mental disturbance that might occur as a result of such interference with the patient’s free will.

  “We are still at the early stages of understanding the power and range of hypnotherapy, but I feel sure that within ten years it will be the leading tool in curing the sick.”

  “As a criminologist, I can see that the practice may also have uses which are not for the benefit of mankind,” observed Holmes. “Control over another human is a very dangerous thing.”

  “Oh, I agree. Even now hypnotism has a dubious reputation. Already, alas, there are trick hypnotists appearing in the music halls and pseudo-doctors setting up at fashionable addresses in London to cure wealthy ladies of minor problems by a series of auto-suggestions. These charlatans are tainting the professional reputation of the procedure and making it difficult for the discipline and its true practitioners, like myself, to be taken seriously.”

  “Well, I thank you for your time and kindness in explaining and demonstrating the mechanics of hypnotherapy, Professor,” said Holmes, with an appreciative bow. “I wish you great success in your endeavours. And now I think it is time for Watson and I to leave you to your work.”

  “It has been my pleasure to meet you and a privilege to have been of some assistance to you.” He banged on the door of the cell to alert the guard to release us. “I shall escort you to the main foyer. I do hope that your visit has been useful, and I hope that in some future edition of The Strand magazine I may read all about your current investigation.”

  * * *

  “The fellow is little better than the fairground entertainers he vilified,” I said with some warmth as we rode back in a cab to Baker Street. “The way he used that poor creature to demonstrate to us his skills and his power over her was nothing short of disgraceful. The experiment was of no benefit to the woman whatsoever.”

  “In many ways I agree with you, Watson. But, as a medical man yourself, you know very well that when one is passionate and dedicated to an aspect of one’s profession, one may become somewhat immune to the hurt inflicted on human guinea pigs in the course of making progress. And little medical progress is made without such suffering.”

  For one brief instant I was reminded of a comment that my old friend Stamford had made many years ago, on the day I first met Sherlock Holmes: Holmes is a little too scientific for my tastes – it approaches to cold-bloodedness.

  “It has been an interesting visit nonetheless,” my friend was saying, his voice breaking into my reverie. “I admit the idea of hypnosis remains a tenuous thread in this difficult case, but at least it is a thread.”

  “Do you really believe that the murderer of Lady Damury and the man who attacked Ruth Marshall were actually hypnotised to carry out these deeds?”

  “That is my thinking. Today’s visit to St Mary Bethlehem has convinced
me that it is possible. The indications are that the attacks were carried out by the same man: his height, his odd gait, the dark hair that I found on both victims.”

  “Let us suppose that that is the case,” said I, “and that the fellow with the walrus moustache and fake hair is the hypnotist. Why should he wish these two women to be murdered? The police have established no apparent link between them. They come from such different spheres of life.”

  “That is the really puzzling aspect of this case. As you say, there is no obvious connection beyond the fact that both women had lovers, which might indicate some twisted moral judgement. Or, of course, that may be completely coincidental.”

  “Random killings, then.”

  Holmes’s features darkened at the suggestion. “The worst state of affairs. There is a kind of theatricality about the crimes, indicating that the perpetrator suffers to some extent from mental instability. However, they reveal in addition a certain degree of careful planning, which implies alongside it intelligent cunning and criminality.”

  “And you believe there are two men involved in the crimes?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Then it would seem that the phrase ‘looking for a needle in a haystack’ was coined especially with reference to this investigation,” I mused grimly.

  “Quite right, Watson: an apt old saying which is painfully pertinent in this case. And the more I contemplate this devilish business, the more I am unsure whether Miss Ruth Marshall is safe.”

  “What on earth do you mean?”

  “Let me now throw an old saying at you: if at first you don’t succeed…”

  My blood ran cold at the implication of this statement.

  “I think,” said Holmes, “it would ease my mind if I took some drastic action in this matter. Therefore I shall need to contact Wiggins of the Irregulars and be especially persuasive with Mrs. Hudson.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  It had never occurred to Caligari at the outset that he should change the rules of his dark game. The pleasure lay in sending his instrument of death into the night to carry out his orders – his orders to kill and then return. The initial test – the death of Lady Damury – had brought him great joy. Things had gone so smoothly the first time, everything according to his finely honed plan. He had remained safe, far away from the murder scene. It was, to his mind, a triumph. Then had come disaster. It had dented his pride. To restore his confidence he must prepare Robert more vigorously, and to ensure success he would alter the conditions of the experiment: not for security purposes alone, but also for extra enjoyment. Why should he absent himself from the final moments and miss the thrilling denouement? Why should he deny himself the satisfaction of witnessing the victim’s demise?

  Why indeed?

  * * *

  Once more Gustav Caligari donned the voluminous wig, the walrus moustache and the dark-rimmed spectacles. As he gazed at his reflection in the mirror, he chuckled to himself. Not even his own father would recognise him. That was essential: his anonymity must be protected at all costs. No one must ever suspect his involvement with these murders – the adventure was only just beginning. That he should remain an unknown factor in the crimes was part of the excitement and their raison d’être. He had already donned his disguise once again, to discover the girl’s current location, and no one had suspected a thing. Of course, he was well aware that to take part in the escapade entailed extra danger. But this also added a frisson of pleasure to the game, pleasure enhanced by the seeds of fear and apprehension that were already germinating in his stomach. His mind thrilled at the idea of seeing the girl die before him. Her eyes would bulge in terror; her mouth would flap open and then close, only the faintest of sounds – a terrified whimpering – emerging as Robert tightened the grip around her neck. Meanwhile, he would stand by, intent, watching the remarkable spectacle with great delight. It would be akin to, but far greater than, the vicarious sensations he had experienced when watching those gothic productions in his youth.

  Once more the moon, a new moon on this occasion, prompted the time for action. Now he knew he was ready to raise the curtain on the first act of this delightfully cruel melodrama. It was a performance in which he was to take the leading role. Robert would make his entrance towards the end, to bring about the devastating finale.

  Caligari left the house and made his way to the small stable block down the street, where his horse and carriage were housed. He had only just purchased these, realising that he could not rely on cabs for his and Robert’s excursions. A private conveyance was ideal: it was an extra form of insurance and granted him more autonomy.

  As he walked, the dusk seemed to gather around him like a gloomy amorphous friend, and the bleary gas lamps flicked above him like so many yellow eyes peering into the growing darkness. Night time beckoned. He felt happier, more secure in the shadows, hiding from the light of day.

  Some time later Caligari brought the small carriage outside the house and went inside to collect Robert. The young man now existed for the most part in a somnambulistic stupor, requiring little attention except to be fed and exercised, like a dog, to keep up the strength necessary to kill. He had become almost a living doll. Once Robert was safely installed in the carriage, sitting upright and still like an exhibit in Madame Tussaud’s waxworks, Caligari set off for Camberwell.

  The nursing home was hidden from the road by a thick hedge and a belt of trees. Caligari tied the horse to the gate and inspected his silent passenger, whose bright, vacant eyes shone in the darkness of the cab but exhibited no sign of life or thought.

  Taking a deep breath in preparation for his performance, Caligari made his way up the path towards the entrance to the nursing home. He did not see the silhouette of a youth lurking in the shrubbery, watching him with the keenness of a hawk.

  The blinds were drawn at every window, but a rich amber glow radiated across the lawn from each one, while a bright lamp illuminated the porch. Before he rang the bell, Caligari made sure that he stood with his back to the light so that his face was cast into shadow.

  After a short interval a maid answered the door.

  “Good evening,” he said, adding a throaty rasp to his own natural tones. “I am Dr. Andrew Dodd, the family physician of the Marshall family. I have come to take Miss Ruth Marshall home.”

  The maid gave a little curtsey and stood to one side while he entered the hallway. “If you’ll just wait here, sir, I will enquire.” And then she scuttled off into the innards of the building, returning a couple of minutes later with a large cream envelope.

  “I am instructed to inform you that Miss Marshall is no longer a patient here, sir. She has been taken elsewhere. This envelope was left to be given to anyone who made enquiries about the lady.”

  She passed the envelope to Caligari, who stared at it, dumbfounded. What on earth was this all about? Had his plans been confounded a second time? He ripped open the envelope with some urgency and withdrew a single sheet of writing paper. It bore the message in a firm clear script:

  Miss Marshall is in safe hands.

  Sherlock Holmes

  Caligari stared at the missive in shock and amazement. Then he crumpled the paper up in anger and, without a word, turned and left the building. He hurried down the path muttering quiet oaths to himself.

  The figure in the shrubbery slipped out from the shadows and followed Caligari at a distance. Crouching by the gate, he waited until Caligari had clambered aboard the carriage before slipping into the road, and pulled himself up into a crouching position at the rear of the vehicle. His grip was tenuous. His thin fingers clung to two hooks on the back of the carriage that were used to secure the leather straps holding luggage in place on the roof, while his legs were pulled up only inches above the road. With a sudden jerk, the carriage pulled away, almost dislodging its secret passenger. This, thought Wiggins, is going to be a terrible journey.

  Chapter Nineteen

  From the journal of Dr. John H. Watson


  There was a tap at our sitting-room door and Holmes bade our visitor enter. It was Alan Firbank. With his necktie askew and his crumpled suit, he presented a rather dishevelled figure, whose features revealed all too cruelly the strain he was undergoing.

  “I’ve just left Ruth. She seems to be rallying well, thanks to Mrs. Hudson’s care and attention. She assures me she’ll keep a constant watchful eye on Ruth. I think I shall sleep a little more soundly tonight knowing that she is under your protection, Mr. Holmes,” he said with great emotion.

  “Bringing her to Baker Street was a sensible precaution,” observed my friend. “The man who attempted to snuff out her young life may very well try again. She is certainly safer here than in the nursing home, where she made a very vulnerable target.”

  Firbank shook his head sadly. “But I still cannot fathom why anyone should wish to harm Ruth. What can be the motive?”

  “I am afraid to say that I do not know – for the moment at least. But fear not, I am sure I shall unearth the truth in due course.”

  “I do hope so. Well, gentlemen, I shall be away to my own bed, but with your indulgence I shall call on Ruth in the morning to check on her progress.”

  “Of course,” said Holmes. “Feel free to come and see her whenever you like. Now go and get a good night’s rest.”

  After the young man had departed, Holmes re-lit his pipe and frowned at me. “Our friend Firbank was right, of course.”