by Val Andrews
By the same author
Sherlock Holmes and the Egyptian Hall Adventure
Sherlock Holmes and the Eminent Thespian
Sherlock Holmes and the Brighton Pavilion Mystery
Sherlock Holmes at the Varieties
Sherlock Holmes and the Man Who Lost Himself
Sherlock Holmes and the Greyfriars School Mystery
Sherlock Holmes and the Yule-tide Mystery
Sherlock Holmes and the Theatre of Death
Sherlock Holmes and the Baker Street Dozen
Sherlock Holmes and the Circus of Fear
Copyrights
Copyright © 2011 Martin Breese
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Contents
PART ONE
The Sleuth, the Scribe and the Sorcerer 5
PART TWO
The Secret Box 39
PART THREE
The Magyar Connection 74
PART FOUR
The Filial Seance 88
PART ONE
The Sleuth, the Scribe and the Sorcerer
The events which I am about to relate started in the summer of 1922 at a time when I was in part-time medical practice in North London. My friend Mr Sherlock Holmes continued the while to philosophize and tend his apiary on the Sussex coast. I had never ceased to marvel at the seeming ease with which he had made the change from consulting detective to country gentleman. During the first several years of his retirement I had a half expectation that he would return eventually to his old haunts and that the game would be afoot as of yore. But, as with bereavement, time had been the great healer and the winter nights when I dozed before the fire to dream of a sharp shake of my shoulder and an even sharper admonishment in that incisive Sherlockian tone became fewer and fewer.
Of course Holmes and I kept in touch, spending an occasional weekend together either at his Fowlhaven retreat or, when he came to London, at the Railway Hotel at Charing Cross. A meal at Simpsons, a recital at the Albert Hall and he would be off again upon an early morning south-bound train. However, there were one or two episodes which were of sufficient note to hold his interest and make him cast his retirement aside for a while as if removing a comfortable cloak, only to replace it as soon as a task was completed. In other words, a taste of that which had been his food and drink was not enough to make him return to the table.
He had been good enough, at my request, to assist my old headmaster, Doctor Locke of Greyfriars, to resolve a problem. Then later, towards the end of the Great War, he had been persuaded by Lestrade of Scotland Yard to investigate a bizarre case involving the violent death of a Chinese mandarin, shot dead in front of two thousand astonished people. There had been other examples of occasions when Holmes had returned to show that he had lost none of his old cunning.
However I am allowing myself to become sidetracked and must return to the matter in hand. I should mention at this point that I have never quite managed to make my peace with that modern irritation the telephone. This instrument produces not only an alarmingly shrill ring but the most strange and eerie of disembodied voices.
The voice in question held the added complication of a strong American accent. 'Am I speaking to Doctor Watson?' Assured that this was so the voice continued, 'Harry Houdini speaking, I want to contact your old partner Sherlock Holmes. I tried that address on Baker Street but he seems to be out of town!'
'My dear Mr Houdini', I replied, 'I remember you well but Holmes has been out of town, as you put it, for the better part of twenty years, for he retired to Sussex to keep bees in 1903.' This information produced a gasp, followed by a short silence, then the voice of Houdini continued strongly, 'Boy am I behind the times! I can't imagine Sherlock rusticating on a bee ranch. Say Doc, is he still a smart cookie, I mean ... does the old guy still have all his marbles?' sti. 'AAfter I had assured him that Holmes was still in possession of all his faculties he went on, 'Well I'm over fifty myself now, but I'm not quite over the hill either as you may have heard.' I had, for one could scarcely lift a newspaper other than The Times without seeing the name Houdini in bold headlines. I had recently learned for example that he was to become a star in the moving pictures.
Seemingly reassured that Holmes was as shrewd as ever, Houdini continued, 'I have just got to see him Doc; it's really important to me and I've come all the way from the big country, mainly just to consult the only guy in the world who can help me. I haven't forgotten that last time when he saved my hide, all those years ago. So can you tell me where to find this joint in...Sussex did you say?'
'Mr Houdini, Holmes trusts me to guard his privacy,' I replied, 'I would have to assure myself that your business would be important or intriguing enough for his retirement to be interrupted.'
His tone became quieter and milder as he said, 'Then let me call and see you Doc, then I can show you something that might make you want Holmes to get involved.' What could I do save give him my address and a time when I could see him?
The figure that entered my study later that same day was familiar enough in that his obviously expensive clothes looked rather as if he had slept in them. Twenty years had broadened him, thinned and greyed his hair and somehow contrived to make him appear to be of even shorter stature than ever. His handshake was hearty as he said, 'Doc, it's real good of you to see me for I know that you must be busy with your sick people and of course with your writing. I notice that you are still documenting the exploits of your buddy Sherlock.'
'You manage to obtain The Strand in America?'
'Oh sure, we get it all the time. Bess reads it and she tells me all about the latest Holmes's adventures.'
I muttered something to the effect that the editor of that journal still demanded more and more Holmes's exploits as his reader's demands were insatiable. 'It has become more difficult since his retirement as I can only present old cases which had somehow managed to slip through the net in the past. Of course Sir Arthur Conan Doyle prepares the final drafts from my notes and diaries.'
Houdini's broad brows knitte
d. 'Sir Arthur is a good friend of mine, which is part of my problem.' He sat pitched forward in a straight-backed chair and refused the glass of sherry which I offered him (Holmes of course would have remembered his total abstinence).
'Surely such a charming and accomplished gentleman could scarcely present you with a problem?'
'The guy is a doll and Lady Doyle is a gracious lady and I wouldn't want to offend either of them for anything. You'll remember that Sir Arthur and Mr Holmes were the two people who helped me the most when I first hit this country around 1900. In trying to crash the big time I was a carnival worker out of my depth. Sir Arthur used his influence with Scotland Yard to set up my first big gaol escape and Holmes helped me to effect it. After my success here I never looked back and the Doyles have been my friends ever since. In fact we only disagree on one subject.'
And that is...?'
'He is a great believer in An believ spiritualism, which as a religion I can respect. But I could never make Sir Arthur understand that there are sharks in the water. Most people are gullible and inclined to place their faith and trust in those who would deceive them for financial gain. But Doctor Watson, I'm a magician, so I have been in the deception business from way, way back. Say I know that business from A to Z. It takes one to know one. I know deception when I see it and I tell you I have seen it at every seance that I have attended where the medium stood to gain from it. Now with Sir Arthur being involved with you guys in the logical explanation of the mysterious and seemingly unexplainable you might expect him to be as sceptical at least as the next man. But no, for during my campaign in recent years against psychic frauds he has been my most severe critic.'
To tell the truth, whilst I was not entirely uninterested, I was beginning to wonder where Houdini's narrative was leading and where the necessity came for the involvement of Sherlock Holmes. I glanced at my watch and he sensed concealed impatience.
'OK. Doc, I know time is money better than anyone so I'll get straight down to cases. When I lost my own dear mother about ten years ago I was all but desperate with grief. I spent the next several years in making a sincere investigation into the possibility of making spiritual contact with lost loved ones. I attended over a hundred seances before I decided that this was not possible. The mediums fell into two main categories. There were those who were hucksters who tried to deceive me in return for money. Of course I could see through all their deceptions and exposed them. The rest were honest and sincere people who looked for no financial gain but produced no results. As I have said, I exposed many of the frauds but not before they had the chance to convince Sir Arthur of their genuine psychic spiritualistic powers.'
All of this I found interesting and I did indeed find it surprising that friend Doyle had proved to be so gullible. Of course, even if Houdini was right in his accusations of fraud, one had to bear in mind that Sir Arthur and Lady Doyle had lost a much loved son in that dreadful conflict of 1914. I could still not quite see why Doyle's convictions should trouble the dynamic little American so much. In fact I said as much, even if not in those very words. Houdini's response was surprisingly erudite for that of a self-educated man.
'The fact that Sir Arthur's beliefs differ so much from my own would be merely a minor bone of contention between us were it not for a couple of recent episodes. The first of these concerns a highly respected doctor and his wife, Doctor Robert Blackthorne and Mrs Marina Blackthorne. The lady claims to be a very powerful medium. Doyle managed to get me in on a seance she held. I've seen a lot of frauds as I've told you Doc, but this dame was the best ever! Many of the things she did I could easily figure, others I am still working on. But the Doyles have swallowed it all, hook, line and sinker. If the Great Houdini can't explain it all to Sir Arthur what chance to convince him that this Marina is a charlatan?'
'Can you be sure that she is just that, for you tell me that you cannot explain all that she does?'
'She is a fake with a capital F!'
'Is it not possible that she is capable of both genuine psychic contact and deception used merely as a form of insurance?'
'You mean a shut-eye? No, she's a fake, I feel it, I know it but I can't prove it.'
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For the first time since Houdini had entered the room there was an uncomfortably long silence. I knew not what else to say and he seemed reluctant to continue for such a loquacious man.
At last he said, 'The other matter is even more embarrassing but I'll put my cards on the table Doc. A few weeks back Sir Arthur and Lady Doyle were in the States where Sir Arthur undertook a lecture-tour. As you can imagine the man who discovered Sherlock Holmes is a big draw, back home.' (I found this a little irksome because I had myself discovered Sherlock Holmes, as he put it. Sir Arthur had merely transformed my scribblings into readable episodes for the masses.) 'But his subject this time was to plead the cause of spiritualism. After the tour the Doyles went to Atlantic City to rest and they put up at the Ambassador's Hotel, inviting Bess and me to join them. In fact we took a room adjoining theirs and the four of us spent a lot of enjoyable time together, mainly on the beach, strolling the boardwalk and taking in the sights. One day Sir Arthur tells me that his wife has become greatly interested in automatic writing.'
I was not familiar with this particular form of graphology and asked him to explain more fully. 'Well Doc, the medium holds a pencil loosely over a sheet of paper. The spirit or guide, or whatever force is supposed to be at work, takes over and actual readable messages get written. Well, sir, he invited me to their room, just me without Bess, for a demonstration. I couldn't very well refuse and Bess was tired so it worked out quite well. In any case I was interested to see what it was all about.'
I too was anxious to know what it was all about and begged him to continue, which he did. 'He closed the drapes and Lady Doyle sat there at a table upon which were pencils and paper. Sir Arthur bowed his head in prayer, which he insisted I join them in and held his wife's hand as if trying to activate her in some way. I was told to close my eyes, not opening them again until I heard a tapping noise. I then saw that Lady Doyle was tapping the blunt end of the pencil on the table. Now don't get me wrong Doc, she was not trying to do it secretly to fool me into thinking they were spirit raps. No, she was doing it quite openly as if it was part of some sort of ritual. She claimed that some great force was making her do it. From then on there did seem to be some intimation that the pencil was moving other than from her own wish. She glanced upward and asked if there was anyone there. She tapped the pencil - or it tapped, three times - and she told us that this meant 'yes'. She asked if my dear mother was there and said a lot about how long I had waited for some sort of message or sign. Then quite suddenly she upended the pencil and, placing the point on the sheet of hotel notepaper, she made a cross with it or, as she put it, the pencil did. After that I tell you, Doc, I was all but scared by the ferocity with which she started to write on the paper and all the time her eyes were tight shut. She went on like this for three or four minutes and then stopped suddenly, seemingly exhausted. When she had recovered a little she asked Sir Arthur to open the drapes and she handed me the paper. It was covered with small, neat handwriting conveying a loving series of messages for me. Lady Doyle said that it had all been written by a Cecelia Weiss, which was my mother's married name. The phrases, which were easy enough to read, were all to the effect that she was happy and making a home for me in paradise for when it was my time to join her. She went on to say how happy and grateful she was to have finally made contact with me after trying so hard for so long. I tell you, Doctor Watson, I was far from dry-eyed by the time I had finished reading. I so much wanted - want still - to beocttill - lieve.'
He tailed off and I thought for a moment that he was going to weep. Compassion took a hold of me and my heart ruled my head as I asked unwisely, 'Then, why man, why not believe and be happy?'
He pulled himself sharply together and said, 'Doctor one either believes or one does not. All my past experience te
lls me that this is not a genuine spirit message. If I believed in it I could not continue with my campaigns and spook-busting shows if I had even a passing doubt. But you know the Doyles, how could they be other than absolutely sincere? They are not the sort of people that I have been gunning for these past ten years! I, Houdini, debunker of those who claim to be able to communicate with the dead, cannot, dare not allow myself the doubts which this has all but produced in me.'
He threw upon the table before me a neatly folded sheet of light blue notepaper. I unfolded it and there it was just as he had described it. Headed with the crest of the Ambassador's Hotel, Atlantic City, the paper was covered with the small neat handwriting of Lady Conan Doyle.
I tried to read more into Houdini's problem than was there in his plea. There he was, the stocky tub-thumping little showman from America, a fascinating character, a monopolist of the world's headlines for more than twenty years. Was he sincere in his dilemma or did he perhaps want to use the name of my friend Sherlock Holmes to gain even more publicity? Yet I felt that his problems presented some interest that might intrigue Holmes, who might perhaps never forgive me if I did not at least give him the chance to decide for himself whether he wished to become involved or not.