by Otto Penzler
“Of course; I’ll stay with him as long as necessary. Thank you, Dr. Oakshott.”
“Certainly, Dr. Watson. If he awakens you may need some morphine for the pain. Call me at once if he shows any sign of fever.”
When Dr. Oakshott had gone, I sat down next to the couch and looked at my friend. His face was pale and drawn, and a dark patch of blood had soaked through the dressing on his shoulder. He who prided himself in his mastery and control lay now before me utterly helpless, and I felt a wave of rage at the fiend Moriarty, who was doubtless behind this assault.
Outside the first cries of the pickle-sellers and fishmongers were breaking through the early morning haze, and I settled back in my chair in a sort of reverie, remembering all the times Holmes and I had dashed out of these very rooms at all hours of the day and night, on the track of some crime or another. I bitterly reproached myself for letting Holmes walk home alone on the previous night, knowing all the while that if I had been with him I would have likely been shot too; still, I could not help feeling angry with myself for abandoning him against my better judgement. My daydreaming was interrupted only by Mrs. Hudson coming and going with tea, and I watched the grey light of morning dissolve into the greenish glow of a misty London afternoon. Sometime in the early evening Holmes stirred and moaned. I knelt beside him.
“Watson,” he whispered, his voice very faint. “What time is it? How long have I been out?”
I glanced at the mantel clock.
“It’s six o’clock.”
“In the evening?” He tried to sit up, but sank back with a groan.
“Yes, Holmes.”
He paused, and I could see he was breathing hard from the effort of speaking.
“Holmes, don’t try to talk.”
“I must, Watson; it is imperative that we move quickly.”
“Holmes, you’re not moving anywhere.”
“Then you must help me, Watson. A life may depend on it.”
“Very well. Tell me what to do.”
“There is a performance of Carmen tonight. When Moriarty had me attacked, he tipped his hand: whatever is going to happen will happen soon, most probably tonight.”
“What is going to happen?”
“I have several theories. I will follow the mostly likely first. Kindly get down my volume of Who’s Who.”
I moved to Holmes’s bookcase, extracting the weighty volume, taking care not to drop the many slips of paper Holmes had inserted between the pages over the years.
“Hand it to me, please.”
I did so reluctantly, for I could see from his white face and compressed lips that the effort of holding the book was causing him considerable pain.
“Holmes, let me—”
“No, Watson—you must send a telegram by runner to the Royal Albert Hall. Immediate reply requested.”
“What am I to say?”
“Inquire as to who is singing the role of Don José tonight.”
“Is that all?”
“Quite all. Thank you.”
I did as was requested of me, and then sat down next to Holmes. The room was quite cool, and yet beads of sweat gathered upon his forehead, and he breathed with difficulty.
“Holmes, I must take your temperature.”
“No, Watson! Time is of the essence. Read to me,” he said, handing me Who’s Who, “under the entry Farthingale.”
“There are two. Sir Terrance, the conductor, and his brother, Sir Anthony, Member of Parliament—”
“Yes, curious, isn’t it?”
“I don’t see why—”
“No, no, of course not. Now, Watson, you are somewhat more up on operatic plots than I. Refresh my memory as to the story of Carmen, if you would.” He settled back on the couch, but the movement caused him to grimace with pain.
“Holmes, at least let me get you some morphine—”
“No, Watson; I need my mind clear. Now, Carmen, if you please.”
“Well, it’s a love triangle of sorts, about a vixen who attracts the attentions of a jealous lover—”
“Don José?”
“Yes. In the end he stabs her outside the bullring—”
“Yes, just as I thought. Now we only await the arrival of our telegram,” he said, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. I was grateful that he was resting and tiptoed about, making myself busy by clearing the tea things. Eight o’clock came and went, with still no answer to our telegram. Finally I heard Mrs. Hudson’s knock on the door, and she entered with the telegram. No sooner had I taken it from her than I heard Holmes’s voice calling me from the couch asking to see it. I handed it to him and he looked at it intently, then before I could speak, suddenly rose from the couch. He staggered, but waved off my offer of assistance and went straight to his crime files, where he kept notes on criminals from around the world. He emerged with the file labelled “Q” and, after rifling through it, evidently found what he was looking for. After studying it intently for some moments, he scribbled something on a piece of paper and thrust it at Mrs. Hudson.
“Have that sent to Inspector Lestrade at Scotland Yard immediately.”
“Yes, Mr. Holmes.”
Holmes glanced up at the clock.
“Good God, Watson—we must hurry!”
“You’re not going anywhere in your condition, Holmes.”
Holmes gripped me by the shoulders.
“Watson, there is no time to explain, but believe me when I say that I am all that stands between a murderer and his victim!” He relaxed his grip, and I saw that he was about to faint. I helped him over to the couch.
“I believe I will take you up on the offer of some morphine—not too much, just enough to dull the pain, if you don’t mind.”
“Very well, Holmes. I’ll get my syringe, but I cannot condone this—”
“Watson, I swear to you if there were any other way I would take it, but there isn’t. Please believe me.”
I injected the morphine and helped him get into his coat, then into a cab, with the assistance of Mrs. Hudson. Holmes told the driver to hurry to the Royal Albert Hall. I wanted to ask Holmes what was up, but the sight of his grim, pale face next to me silenced my questions.
When we arrived at the Royal Albert he led me not to the main entrance but around to the backstage door, where, fortunately for us, the same man stood guard and recognized us. It did not take Holmes long to convince the man to let us in, and soon we were at the heavy red fire door marked Stage Right. Singers in exotic Spanish costumes came and went around us, and Holmes hovered momentarily just outside the door. Then he pushed it open slowly, and I could see the vast stage of the Royal Albert Hall. I followed him into the darkened wings, where a few stagehands stood with their hands in their pockets. It was quite dark, so no one took particular notice of the two cloaked forms who picked their way over coiled ropes and sandbags toward the stage.
Two lone figures stood on a gaudily painted set of a bullring. I recognized the lady as the regal Olga Rayenskavya, but did not recognize the man, who was short and swarthy and had his back to me. They were singing the duet I thought I recognized as the Act Four finale, near the end of the opera. Just then I felt Holmes’s grip on my arm. My eyes followed his hand as he pointed toward the stage, and in an instant I saw what he saw: a flash of steel under the bright rainbow lights. Before I could cry out, Holmes had sprung onto the stage and grasped the hand that held the gleaming weapon, holding it aloft and away from its intended target. Immediately cries went up from the house, and then pandemonium broke loose. The orchestra stopped playing, and several members rose from their chairs to better see what was happening on stage. Two stagehands sprang from the wings at Holmes, while the tenor surprised everyone by bolting offstage as fast as he could.
“Stop him!” Holmes cried to his captors. “Stop that man! He is a murderer!”
No one had the presence of mind to follow Holmes’s instructions, so when I saw the man approaching me at top speed, I set myself for a good old-fashio
ned rugby tackle and brought him down heavily upon the floorboards, knocking the wind out of him. It was only when I got up that I realized he still clutched the knife, with its blade of real steel. Fortunately, neither of us had fallen on it, but I picked it up to examine it; it was curved and reminded me of the blade which hung from Freddie Stockton’s belt. It was at that moment I saw Inspector Lestrade walking purposefully toward me, flanked by several of London’s finest, and I was never so glad to see the good Inspector as at that moment. I handed over my charge, surprised that Lestrade seemed to recognize him, and then hurried onto the stage, where Holmes lay propped up against the set, flushed and panting. Madame Olga knelt beside him, wiping his brow. Removing his overcoat, I saw that his wound had begun to bleed again, and summoned two stagehands to help me carry him outside. Madame Olga followed us, and when we laid Holmes in a cab she stood at the door while I got in.
“Your friend, he has saved my life,” she said in a thick Russian accent. “I will never forget this.” She lowered her beautiful black eyes. “There are some who would say I am a bad woman, but—I will never forget what he has done.”
As the cab drove off I looked back and saw her standing in the light rain which had begun to fall, looking after us. A tall figure which I took to be Sir Terrance came and put his arm around her. I thought to myself that I too would forgive many things for such a woman, just as Sir Terrance undoubtedly had.
By the time we got to Baker Street Holmes had lost consciousness and remained in a delirium for the better part of the night. By the next day he had regained consciousness, but I was master now and would not let him speak, so that in spite of my curiosity it was several days before I heard the whole story.
“You see, Watson,” he said as he lay propped up with pillows in front of the fire, “I felt all along that the good professor had no business with our friend Mr. Huntley except to get him out of the way. That is why he sent Mr. Stockton to put curare in his tea, so he could put his understudy Mr. Quintaros in his stead.”
“But how did you know Quintaros would try to murder Madame Rayenskavya?”
“I didn’t know, Watson; I deduced. The question to answer was why Moriarty needed Huntley out of the way. When I thought to look up Sir Terrance, and saw that he had a brother who is a Member of Parliament, my suspicions were close to being confirmed, and when I saw Mr. Huntley’s understudy was to be the notorious South American singer Juan Quintaros, who fled his own country under suspicion of murder—well, if you want to commit a murder, get a murderer, and that is precisely what Moriarty did.”
“But I still don’t see that connection with Sir Terrance—”
“Consider, Watson. A man’s wife is having an affair, and is then murdered during a performance by the substitution of a real knife for a fake one. The understudy who actually commits the crime might be excused for several reasons: he has no reason to kill a woman he does not even know, he is undoubtedly preoccupied with his performance and therefore less likely to notice the substitution of the real knife when he has never seen the fake one. No, Watson, the suspicion falls not on the actual murderer but on the person who substituted the real knife, and that could be anyone. The most likely suspect is of course the jealous husband. Moriarty thought all of this out, of course, and then when all signs point to Sir Terrance, Moriarty pulls the rug out from under his unsuspecting accomplice, sacrifices Quintaros to the jury, and Sir Terrance is left bewildered but very much in Moriarty’s debt. And who better to have in your debt than the brother of a Member of Parliament?”
“I see. It was a complicated hand he played, Holmes, and I doubt if anyone else but you could have figured it out.”
“Well, Watson, perhaps you are right. But Moriarty played his cards a little too freely, and he forgot that sometimes the joker is wild. And now, Watson, if you will permit me to smoke, I would appreciate it if you would hand me my pipe.”
The Human Mystery
TANITH LEE
ALTHOUGH TANITH LEE (1947– ) has been best known over the past four decades as a prodigiously productive author of fantasy, horror, gothic romance, and historical and science fiction, both for children and adults, with more than ninety novels and nearly three hundred short stories to her credit, she has occasionally wandered into the mystery genre with excellent results.
It is not only quantity, however, that has elevated her to the top of the writing world, but also quality, as attested to by her numerous awards, including the following:
Nebula: The Birthgrave (1975), nominated for Best Novel; “Red as Blood” (1979), nominated for Best Short Story.
World Fantasy Award: Night’s Master (1978), nominated for Best Novel; “The Gorgon” (1982), winner for Best Short Story; “Elle Est Trois (La Mort)” (1983), winner for Best Short Story; “Nunc Dimitis” (1983), nominated for Best Novella; Red as Blood, or, Tales from the Sisters Grimmer (1983), nominated for Best Anthology/Collection; Night Visions 1 (1984), nominated for Best Anthology/Collection; Dreams of Dark and Light (1986), nominated for Best Anthology/Collection; Night’s Sorceries (1986), nominated for Best Anthology/Collection; “Scarlet and Gold” (1999), nominated for Best Novella; “Uous” (2005), nominated for Best Novella.
British Fantasy Award: Six nominations, including Death’s Master (1979), which won for Best Novel.
“The Human Mystery” was originally published in More Holmes for the Holidays, edited by Martin H. Greenberg, Jon L. Lellenberg, and Carol-Lynn Waugh (New York, Berkley, 1999).
THE HUMAN MYSTERY
Tanith Lee
1
ALTHOUGH I HAVE written so often of the genius of Mr. Sherlock Holmes, a reader may have noticed, it was not always to Holmes’s satisfaction. With that in mind, I suspect the reader may also have wondered if, on occasion, certain exploits were never committed to paper. This I confess to be true.
The causes are various. In some instances the investigation had been of so delicate a nature that, sworn to secrecy myself, as was Holmes, I could not break my vow. Elsewhere Holmes had perhaps acted alone, and never fully enlightened me, due mostly, I believe, to a certain boredom he often exhibited, when a case was just then complete. Other adventures proved ultimately dull, and dullness I have never readily associated with Sherlock Holmes.
Otherwise a small body of events remain, rogues of their kind. They would not please the more devoted reader, as indeed at the time they had not pleased Holmes, or myself. I do not mean to imply here any failure, anything dishonourable or paltry on the part of Holmes. Although he has his faults, that glowing brain of his, when once electrically charged, transcends them. In this, or in any age, I daresay, he would be a great man. Nevertheless, certain rare happenings have bruised his spirit, and in such a way that I, his chronicler, have let them lie.
A year has gone by, however. An insignificant item in the newspaper brings me to my pen. No other may ever read what it writes. It seems to me, even so, that what was a distasteful, sad curiosity has become a tragedy.
Holmes, although he will, almost undoubtedly, have seen the item, has not alluded to it. I well remember his sometime comment that more recent work pushes from his memory the ventures of the past. It is therefore possible he has forgotten the case of the Caston Gall.
—
One winter afternoon, a few days before Christmas, Holmes and I returned to our rooms from some business near Trafalgar Square. The water in the fountain had been frozen, and I had great sympathy with it. The Baker Street fire was blazing, and the lamps soon lit, for the afternoon was already spent and very dark, with a light snow now falling.
Holmes regarded the snow from the window a moment, then turning, held out to me a letter. “I wonder if the weather will deter our visitor?”
“Which visitor is that?”
“This arrived earlier. I saved it to show you on our return.”
Dear Mr. Holmes,
I should like to call upon you this afternoon at three o’clock. Hopefully, this will be of no inconvenience to you
. Should it prove otherwise, I will return at some more favourable hour.
I looked up. “How unusual, Holmes. A client who fails to assume you are always in residence, awaiting them!”
“Indeed. I also was struck by that.”
The letter continued:
I am divided in my mind whether or not to ask your opinion. The matter at hand seems strange and foreboding to me, but I am acutely conscious your time is often filled, and perhaps I am fanciful. Finally I have decided to set the facts before you, that you may be the judge. Please believe me, Mr. Holmes, if you can assure me I have no cause for fear, I shall depart at once with a light heart.
“Good heavens!” I exclaimed.
Holmes stood by the window. “She sets great store by my opinion, it seems. She will allow me to decide her fate merely on hearsay.”
“She? Ah yes, a lady.” The signature read “Eleanor Caston.” It was a strong, educated hand, and the paper of good quality.
“What do you make of it, Watson?” Holmes asked, as was his wont.
I told him my views on the paper, and added, “I think she is quite young, although not a girl.”
“Ah, do you say so. And why?”
“The writing is formed, but there is none of the stiffness in it which tends to come with age. Nor does she seem querulous. She has all the courteous thought of someone used to getting her own way. Conversely, she knows of and trusts you. Wisdom, but with a bold spirit. A young woman.”
“Watson, I stand in awe.”
“I suppose,” I added, not quite liking his tone, “an elderly lady will now enter the room.”
“Probably not. Mrs. Hudson caught sight of her earlier. But do go on.”
“I can think of nothing else. Except I have used this writing paper myself. It is good but hardly extravagant.”
“Two other things are apparent,” said Holmes, leaning to the letter. “She wears a ring slightly too large for her, on her right hand. It has slipped and caught in the ink, here and here, do you see? And she does not, as most of her sex do, favour scent.”