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

by David Stuart Davies

  Holmes sat back in his chair and closed his eyes, urging his mind to recall his last waking moments. He heard Rubenstein’s voice once more: “Again, Robert.” The voice was firm and commanding. Holmes felt a tingle ripple down his spine as he saw the other figure in the room make his way towards Watson. He was tall and menacing, his movements like those of a man walking in his sleep: slow, mechanical. He was responding to Rubenstein’s orders as he grasped Watson by the neck and began to throttle him. It was at this point that Holmes blacked out.

  His eyes sprang open, wild with excitement. Great Heavens, he thought, that man who attacked Watson was hypnotised… hypnotised to carry out a violent act.

  Within minutes Sherlock Holmes was out on Baker Street hailing a cab.

  * * *

  Professor Christopher Clark appeared very surprised to see Holmes in his laboratory at St Mary Bethlehem Hospital once more.

  “This is an unexpected pleasure,” he said awkwardly.

  “I am sorry to disturb you by arriving unannounced, but the matter is most urgent and I believe you may be able to help me.”

  “Of course. I am more than happy to assist if I can,” said the professor, snapping off his rimmed glasses and cleaning them with a florid handkerchief.

  “When we met before you mentioned that a burgeoning number of fake hypnotists are now practising in London – both as music-hall acts and as pseudo-consultants to the wealthy.”

  “Indeed. Their growing presence undermines the scientific reputation of hypnotism. If I had my way, these charlatans would be banned from carrying out their dubious services.”

  “Are you familiar with any of these individuals in particular?”

  Absentmindedly, Clark picked up a test tube and turned it around in his thick fingers. “None personally. They are legion. I have read about a few and in my researches I have encountered one or two individuals who have been patients of these creatures. Their concern is money, not medicine.”

  “I am trying to locate one such individual whom I believe can help me with my enquiries.”

  “What is his name?”

  “I am not sure. He has been using the name Rubenstein, but I fear that is an alias. He is obviously of foreign extraction: middle European. He is a tall, well-built man with short-cropped hair.”

  The professor shook his head. “I cannot say I know of the fellow. The real villain in this pseudo-profession, to my mind, is a character who goes by the name of Sylvester Spedding. He has been a trickster all his life, working his way up from the fairgrounds with the three-card trick to masquerading as a medium, pretending to bring people back from the dead to chat to their grieving relatives. Now he has moved on to hypnotism. It is easier to fool the public with this than with his other nefarious gimmicks and certainly it is more financially rewarding. He has a very comfy practice in smart premises in Chelsea. Really come up in the world, has Mr. Spedding.”

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  From the journal of Dr. John H. Watson

  When I finally managed to drag myself awake, I discovered that I was bound very firmly to a chair in what seemed to be a dank cellar. The only light was from an oil lamp placed on a wooden crate by the door. The walls were damp with moisture and glittered green with mould. I was conscious of scampering noises in the gloom, suggesting that mice and rats were also in residence. It took me some moments to orientate myself. I was obviously a prisoner of Alexander Rubenstein and his strange accomplice, the curious figure who had nearly throttled the life out of me. Why they had not killed me, I did not know. I wondered what fate had befallen my friend, Sherlock Holmes. I had seen him attacked and slump to the floor in that house in Cedar Court. Was he being held prisoner in some other place or, God forbid, had these villains ended his life? The thought of this filled me with dread. The possibility of losing my friend was too painful to contemplate and I banished the idea from my mind. Surely he was alive.

  I was cold, hungry and mightily dismayed. I had to escape this seedy dungeon. In desperation I tugged at my bindings, but with no result. They were tight and strong, resisting all my efforts to loosen them. I gave a moan of despair before trying to rally my spirits. I was alive – for the moment. I told myself that I must not give up hope, although at present I had no foundations on which to build such a premise.

  The thought occurred to me that maybe I had been left here to die, gradually to fade and rot amongst the company of rodents who, in time, would nibble at my decaying flesh. At the thought, a fresh wave of despair crashed over my troubled soul. Another session of tugging at my bonds ended as before and so, in desperation, I began to call out for help. My throat was still sore from the assault of the previous night and my voice emerged as a raw croak. I tried again and again, increasing my volume with each attempt.

  I heard a noise beyond the door. It sounded like footsteps on stone stairs. After a pause, the door creaked open and there stood Alexander Rubenstein, a broad smile on his damp features.

  “Ah, Doctor, you are awake at last. Good morning to you. I hope you slept well.”

  “Release me at once,” I retorted firmly.

  Rubenstein shook his head. “Tut, tut, Doctor, you know very well I cannot do that. I could not have you running off to the police, making all kinds of wild accusations against me. No, I’m afraid you will have to stay exactly where you are – for the time being, at least. But I shall have a treat for you later.”

  There were many utterances and oaths on the tip of my tongue but I knew that whatever I said, it would have no effect on my situation, or on the behaviour of this demented villain. I tried a different approach.

  “Where is Holmes?” I asked, hoping that the question would prompt the fellow to reveal boastfully the fate of my friend.

  “Where is he, indeed? Running around in circles, I imagine. Desperate to find you.”

  At least this puzzling response seemed to indicate that Holmes was still alive and at liberty. Perhaps by some miracle he had escaped Rubenstein’s clutches. Whatever the explanation, with Holmes free there was some kind of hope.

  “What are you going to do with me?” I asked, trying to keep my tone reasonable. I knew anger and brusqueness would only bring down his mental shutters.

  “All in good time, Dr. Watson. I like to spring surprises on my guests and you are certainly in for a surprise. Now I suggest that you sit quietly and wait. If you begin calling out again, I am afraid I shall have to gag your mouth, which would be most uncomfortable for you.”

  Flashing me a most unpleasant smile, he disappeared from the chamber leaving me with my own desperate thoughts. There was nothing I could do. I had to put all my hope and faith in Sherlock Holmes.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  On encountering Sylvester Spedding for the first time, Sherlock Holmes estimated him to be a cross between a pantomime villain and a racecourse tout. He had a chirpy Cockney accent, eyes that could not be trusted and a damp handshake. He was attired in rich, extravagant clothes, which looked ill at ease on his lithe yet scrawny body.

  However, when Holmes called at his consulting room in a smart street in Chelsea, he had great difficulty gaining access to the great man. The receptionist, an epicene young fellow with a mop of dyed yellow hair, informed him that Mr. Spedding saw no one without a prior engagement and that his appointment book was full for at least a month. It was only when Holmes flourished a shiny sovereign and placed it on the desk within the youth’s reach that his resolve finally weakened.

  “I think your master will find it quite beneficial to see me now,” he assured the upstart receptionist, who snatched up the sovereign in a trice before quickly disappearing into the inner sanctum. He emerged a few minutes later a different man. He wore a broad smile on his lips and affected a gracious demeanour to accompany it.

  “You are most fortunate, sir,” he said, his eyes twinkling merrily. “Mr. Spedding has agreed to see you. If you would care to step this way.” He flung open the double doors and made a dramatic bowing gest
ure to usher Holmes inside.

  The room was opulent and garish. Colours clashed and artworks of dubious quality cluttered the walls. Vibrant curtains cascaded from the solitary window and one corner of the room was a virtual jungle of ferns. A lurid green velvet chaise longue was placed before an ugly ornate mahogany desk. A great deal of money has been spent on these furnishings, thought Holmes. A great deal of money, but no taste.

  Seated behind the grotesquely carved desk was the man Holmes had come to see. As Holmes approached, Spedding rose from his chair and threw out his right hand.

  “Pleased to meet you, sir, I’m sure.”

  By his tone and phrasing, Holmes placed the fellow as a son of the slums of Bethnal Green. As Professor Clark had observed, he had “come up in the world”.

  Sherlock Holmes took the pale, bony paw that was offered to him and shook it. He noticed that Spedding was clutching the sovereign in his other hand.

  “Thank you for seeing me,” Holmes said.

  My pleasure, Mr…?”

  “Watson. John Watson.”

  Spedding nodded and jotted the name down on a sheet of paper on his desk. “I must inform you that consultations are five guineas a session,” he said, throwing Holmes a practised beatific smile. “I shall require payment before we can continue.” His manner was pleasant but avarice gleamed in his eyes.

  Holmes nodded and proceeded to count out further coins. He handed them over and Spedding collected them up greedily before slipping them into the desk drawer. He sat down again and leaned towards his new client, a broad grin on his face which revealed two gold teeth glinting in the harsh light.

  “Do take a seat,” he said, and Holmes obeyed, perching awkwardly on the edge of the chaise longue. He had no intention of lying upon it like a patient in readiness to be hypnotised.

  “Now then, Mr. Watson, down to business. What is your concern? What is it that troubles you?”

  “I am not here to see you for treatment, Mr. Spedding. I seek information.”

  Spedding’s smile, along with the gold teeth, disappeared in an instant. “Information? I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  “You are very successful in your… profession, I believe.”

  The smile returned. “I certainly am. One doesn’t get a gaff like this” – he raised his arm in praise of the room – “by not being top nob in your game. I have a duke and a knight what are clients of mine.”

  “Quite. But is it not true that the competition in your line of work is growing? More and more hypnotherapists are setting up practices in London almost daily.”

  Spedding nodded his head vigorously. “You are quite correct, sir. A lot of sham devils are polluting the stream. Shysters and charlatans they are, the lot of them. A true hypnotist is a gifted individual with a God-given talent. We are legitimate practitioners of hypnotherapeutic healing. We are not a quack, out to make some easy money like so many of these imposters.”

  “I do so agree with you,” said Holmes warmly. “And that is why I am desirous of tracking down one such imposter who has done a friend of mine a great disservice. Unfortunately I do not know the fellow’s name. I assumed that you, at the peak of the profession, would be aware of all such false practitioners.”

  Spedding’s eyes widened with enthusiasm. “Most likely. I like to keep my finger on the pulse, as it were. The more of these bleedin’ charlatans set up in business, the more my profits are in jeopardy. Who is this creature that you want to track down?”

  “He is a foreigner. A big man with heavy features and short-cropped hair. Tends to wear a coat with a fur collar and a homburg hat.”

  Spedding pulled a sour face. “Oh, you must mean Caligari. Your description fits that bounder exactly. He has only recently appeared on the scene – a year ago maybe – but he has managed to wheedle his way into attending top-notch parties, where he fools silly society women with his promises, convincing them that he can rid them of their petty little foibles.”

  Much as you do, thought Holmes. “What can you tell me about this Caligari?”

  Spedding shrugged his inadequate shoulders. “I can tell you he’s a bloody nuisance. I’ve lost clients to him. I don’t know where he come from; I only know I wish he’d go back there. I know nothing of his background.”

  “Where does he practise?”

  “He has his consulting rooms in Kensington. Sedgwick Street, I believe.”

  “Do you know if he has a partner? A tall fellow?”

  “Not as far as I know. He treads the wire as a solo artist. What’s this trouble he’s in with your friend?”

  “I am afraid I cannot divulge that,” said Holmes smoothly, rising from the chaise longue. “I promised I would treat the matter with discretion. I am sure you understand. However, I thank you very much for the information you have provided. It has been most useful.”

  Spedding threw up his hands in a casual gesture. “Any time, Mr. Watson. It’s been a pleasure to do business with you.” As he said this, he could not resist casting a glance at the drawer in his desk where the five guineas resided and once more, his eyes lit up with avaricious pleasure.

  It is, mused Holmes, as he left the premises, the most money I have ever parted with to gain a slender piece of information, but nevertheless it is vital if I am to save Watson.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  From the journal of Dr. John H. Watson

  “You are feeling tired, eh?”

  The voice broke into my consciousness and prompted me to raise my head. I realised that despite my perilous situation, fatigue had overtaken me and I had fallen asleep. In an instant, I shook away the cobwebs of slumber and recalled my circumstances, which remained the same. I was still tightly bound to the chair in the dingy cellar of some unknown building. I was still a prisoner of Rubenstein. The man himself stood before me, the usual mocking, oleaginous grin on his face. Oh, how I wished I could remove that smirk – preferably with a firm uppercut to the jaw. Such desires, however, were impotent. Secured firmly to the chair, I was like a paralysed man.

  “Sleep is a great healer, is it not?” he said smoothly. “I recall what your great playwright had to say on the matter in his play Macbeth: ‘Sleep that knits up the ravelled sleeve of care, The death of each day’s life, sore labour’s bath, Balm of hurt minds, great nature’s second course’. So beautiful, isn’t it? So apt. Sleep is so powerful, you know, Dr. Watson. Once it overtakes the brain, self-will, rationality and even morality fall into a neutral mode. I am sure you have yourself experienced dreams in which you have behaved in a manner that is totally at odds with your waking self. That is quite natural. You would not be human if you did otherwise, I assure you. Once released from the restraints of consciousness and all the considerations that they impose, the brain is free and unfettered. I know because I have studied and explored the phenomenon. You see, I am a mesmerist, a hypnotherapist. Do you know what that is?”

  “Yes,” I said coldly. “I know what you are,” I added with a sneer.

  “With my skills in hypnosis I have control. Indeed I have the power over life and death.”

  “Why would anyone want such an awesome responsibility?”

  Rubenstein grinned. “Such power creates freedom – the ultimate autonomy. And it brings me pleasure. It elevates me above the norm, the insects of the world, the rabble.”

  “Have you ever considered that you may well be mad?”

  Now the fiend laughed out loud. “What a simple mind you have, Doctor. Through the ages such accusations have been levelled at all those who have risen above the throng, those with vision and the ability to develop a power to create their own path through life. To their blind critics – to people like you with restricted vision – that may seem a kind of madness, but to me it is a serene and magnificent sanity. You are the insane one, running around ant-like in your drab little fashion, meekly accepting the assaults of life’s slings and arrows rather than taking pains to rise above them, to take control of your own destiny. As a result,
I wear the crown and you squirm about in the mud.”

  “There is no crown to be worn by a common murderer – someone who in a cowardly fashion snuffs out the life of innocent people.”

  “You see, you make my point for me. That is your narrow, simple myopic view of the matter. I am as a god-like surgeon, who stands over the body of my patient with the ability to save or end life. I simply choose the latter. That is what brings me the greatest happiness.”

  I gazed at this demon, his moist skin shining in the dim light, teeth exposed in a chilling grin and eyes wide with unstable excitement. I have never been more convinced in my life that I was in the presence of a maniac.

  “So,” I responded calmly, “now you intend to kill me to satisfy what you regard as some intellectual bloodlust.”

  Rubenstein pursed his lips. “Oh, Dr. Watson, you certainly have a way with words, but they are empty of force and meaning. If they are meant to wound or incense me, they fail miserably. They are blunt arrows wide of their target. Am I going to kill you? Eventually. But before I take you to that particular brink, I have a task for you. I require your assistance. You see, when I latch on to an idea I follow it to the end, never wavering in my determination to see it to a successful conclusion.”