by Steve Emecz
“I come not knowing where else to turn,” said the gentleman whom my friend had called a doctor, before turning to Holmes. “We have had our differences in the past, but surely you will not deny that I have attempted to make amends. To, if I may be so bold, resurrect you from the fate I had so coldly laid in store for you?”
“No doubt,” said Holmes, but his face and voice were stone. “Then I suppose you will suggest that listening to your request is the least I can do for the man I owe my life and career to, even if you remain the very same man who once attempted to solve the ‘final problem’ of both?”
I understood little of what Holmes may have meant by such words, but our host seemed to relax just slightly. We soon found ourselves seated in the gentleman’s study, a spacious room which nonetheless appeared to be closed in on all sides from the endless bookshelves surrounding us.
“You may be aware that I commissioned Undershaw to be built several years ago,” began the doctor, smoothing his mustache to either side in a well-practiced gesture. “It has become home to myself and my family, but our true attachment is to its Surrey location. The dry weather and healthy climate are a requirement given our current situation.” His mustache seemed to sag slightly at his words, as if the man was plagued by some internal thought, before he continued. “I need not dwell upon the subject; I only wish you to understand the necessity of my family remaining at Undershaw at all costs.”
“I understand, to be sure. Pray continue, doctor,” said my friend, his tone unreadable.
“Quite, Mr. Holmes.” Our client cleared his throat, shifting slightly in his seat. “The trouble began several weeks ago. I was in my study alone when I stepped out of the room to retrieve a pipe which I had left in the drawing room. I could not have been gone for longer than three minutes, and yet, when I returned, it was to find a dozen of these books, their covers slashed and pages torn, strewn in piles upon the floor.
“This would have been a baffling incident in its own right; someone’s idea of a cruel joke, perhaps. But of further disturbance was the impossibility of the event. I was gone, as I say, but a very few minutes, and I was alone in the house at the time.”
It was Holmes’s turn to shift slightly in his seat. He was not a fidgety man by nature, and I took his movement as a sign that his interest was being drawn into the unusual development quite against his own wishes. “As the damaged books were editions of your own work, I expect you kept the volumes despite their ruin?”
“Yes, I thought –” Here our client broke off, starting slightly, and then gave my companion a half-smile. “And yet I did not mention to you that the books in question were of my own writings. Though I should not go so far as to say that such a deduction from yourself is of any great shock to me.”
I looked at our client in surprise, wondering now at his apparent status as both doctor and author.
“It is the most elementary of deductions; had they been someone else’s work, you would have described their destruction as vandalism, not a prank,” said Holmes, with a carelessness that I knew to not be entirely legitimate. “But as you mentioned that your trouble ‘began’ several weeks ago, I take it that this is not the only unusual circumstance of the past fortnight?”
“Indeed not,” said our client, looking grim. “Two days later, the fireplace was found stuffed with the worst kind of rubbish, the flue closed behind it to trap the smoke. The stink proved impossible to rid the house of easily. And it continued. The doors and main staircase have both been defaced, although fortunately the staining did not prove permanent. Perhaps the worst damage has taken place in the drawing room – the game trophies have been slashed, and the walrus tusks on display are cracked. Some of the windows, which are of particular pride to myself and my family as they bear our coat of arms, have been smashed –”
“Have you any clear theories as to suspects or motive?”
“There is no one to suspect,” said our host, spreading his hands. “The servants were either out or otherwise occupied when each of the incidents have taken place, and there has never been any sign of forced entry.”
“You are not – forgive me for asking – considering a supernatural cause?” asked Holmes, with a peculiar sharpness.
Our host managed a small smile. “I am not ruling anything out, good sir. Is it not you yourself who have often remarked that, when all impossible explanations have been eliminated, the remaining improbability must be the truth?”
Holmes raised an eyebrow but said nothing. After a moment, our client sighed. “I do not know what to think, Mr. Holmes. I can only say the damage seems to be coming from inside the house itself – yet there is no one within these walls to suspect.”
A gleam appeared in Holmes’s eyes, an expression quite familiar to me. “Allow me to examine the house more closely.”
We started, at Holmes’s insistence, with the drawing room, working our way through the rest of the house in turn. Holmes examined it all with his usual attention, running a hand over the stains of the doorways and examining the gashes torn into the game trophies. He spoke not a word until we arrived back at the study, and then only to request a closer inspection of the damaged books.
I had just taken up our client’s offer of a cigar and was in the midst of lighting it when Holmes gave a shout of triumph. I turned along with our host to see Holmes, standing before the shelf with a book in his hand.
“I have had my suspicions from the beginning, but this marks such conjecture as fact,” said Holmes. He held the broken pieces of a book out towards us, and I had time to glimpse only the word Return upon a shard of its cover before he had snapped it back upon the shelf. “Let us proceed to the lowest level, shall we? As it is the only remaining area of the house we’ve yet to search, I believe we’ll find our answer there. We’ll most likely require a candle – and, Watson, be sure to ready your revolver.”
We made our way into the basement, Holmes holding a finger to his lips for silence. As we reached the bottom of a narrow staircase, out from the silence came a sudden dull thump. As one, we whirled to see an ominous figure crouching in the corner. Before the intruder could make a further move towards us, I had stepped forward with revolver raised.
Our quarry froze in the half-darkness, and I gestured with the revolver for him to take a place against the wall. Our host raised his candle higher as our prisoner complied, and my heart leapt as I took in the cruel blue eyes beneath the deep-lined brow – the face of a man I remembered all too well.
“As I expected,” said Holmes serenely. “May I present Colonel Sebastian Moran, right-hand man of the late Professor Moriarty?” Moran’s eyes flashed with murderous fire – not for Holmes, but rather for our client.
“How did you know, Holmes?” said our host, gazing in astonishment at the colonel.
“And how is it possible?” I asked, my revolver still trained upon Moran. “The doctor – forgive me, sir – was himself once in league with Moriarty. How did you know the vandal was another of Moriarty’s gang?”
Holmes gazed with a steady intensity upon the snarling ruffian. “Because, while our client may have had dealings with Moriarty, the doctor’s tenuous loyalty to his partner-in-crime extended no further than that – certainly not to a thug such as Moran.”
“But the villain could have been anyone,” said our client, his face set in an expression of utter bewilderment. “What made you suspect –?”
“You said it yourself,” said Holmes, speaking over his shoulder to our host. “The crimes could only have been committed by someone within the house. If not the servants, only one possibility for a culprit remained who could pull off an ‘inside’ job – a character of your own creation, sprung from within the pages of the very book he was so eager to destroy.”
I gazed at Holmes quizzically, but our host seemed to understand my friend perfectly. “But, to know it to be Moran?” the d
octor asked.
“I had my suspicions the moment I saw the state of the game trophies in your drawing room,” said Holmes. “Moran considers himself, first and foremost, a hunter. A man who so values the joys of the hunt would see it as the ultimate insult to destroy another’s prizes. But my theory was confirmed when I examined the row of defaced books. All were damaged, but only one was torn in twain: The Return. The book in which Moran’s fate was born – and in which my own was returned to me.”
“Moriarty trusted you!” Moran spat the words out at the doctor. “You’d hatched the perfect scheme to rid the world of Holmes forever. And then you had to go back on your word! You had to resurrect the thorn in the side of every criminal in the world!”
“But why attack my home?” said our host, and there was more perplexity than anger or fear in his eyes. “If a hunter such as yourself truly meant to kill me, surely –”
Moran’s snarling fury cut him off. “I meant not to kill you, Dr. Doyle. Merely to ruin you – as you have ruined me!”
“You thought to destroy the tranquility of Undershaw, and so to sabotage the peace of mind and inspiration which, as an author, our friend Doyle has found in this place,” said Holmes, and I realized, with a start, that it was the first time Holmes had referred to our client by name.
“I thought to end that inspiration before he can bring about the death and ruin of any more honest criminals, Mr. Holmes,” said Moran. “Would that I had acted more swiftly.”
“Would that you had, indeed. And now, friend Watson, perhaps you would assist me in leading the colonel upstairs as we await the arrival of the local constabulary?”
Later that evening, as we were readying ourselves for the return to Baker Street, Holmes turned once again to our host. “I must ask, Mr. Doyle – were you disappointed to learn your mystery was not the work of a formerly-known departed spirit after all?” And in his words, I heard some deeper, unspoken challenge within, as he leveled his gaze at our host.
“You mock my beliefs, Mr. Holmes,” returned our client, but there was a gleam of something like affection in his gaze. “But surely you judge me too harshly. After all, one never likes to think ... that one has completely lost a friend.”
Holmes studied the author, and I saw a moment of understanding pass between them.
“I was wondering if you and your associate might be available for future consultations?” Doyle went on, a small smile playing beneath his mustache. “There is another most peculiar case which has come to my attention, concerning some unusual circumstances in Norwood …”
“I should be most eager to look into the matter for you, Dr. Doyle.”
We took our leave then, but I am pleased to be able to say that, from that day forward, my friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes and I were not infrequent guests at the house known as Undershaw.
A Case Of Murder
By Carla Coupe
Silver Spring, Maryland, USA
Sunlight streamed through the windows in our chambers as Holmes and I sat reading and smoking post-luncheon cigarettes.
A brisk rap sounded on the downstairs door.
“Are you expecting someone?” I set aside my newspaper.
Holmes glanced up. “No.”
A moment later, Mrs. Hudson ushered in our visitor. A lady of middle years, she displayed an intelligent expression and air of competence.
“Mr. Holmes?” she asked as we rose. Holmes bowed. “This is Dr. Watson, my Boswell as well as my colleague. Please take a seat and tell us of last night’s tragedy.”
Her hand pressed to her heart, she grew pale and swayed. “Do you already know of it?”
Alarmed, I joined her. “Please, madam, sit down. I will have Mrs. Hudson bring tea.”
“Thank you, Doctor.” She sank into the chair with a sigh.
Holmes resumed his seat and crossed his legs. “I know nothing more than the fact that you are widowed, that you succored an injured man last night, and that you caught an early train to London this morning.”
She nodded. “You are quite correct in all respects, Mr. Holmes. I know of your reputation, and should not be surprised at your perspicacity. But first thing’s first. My name is Mrs. John Maurice. I must confess that I have very little money, but I will find a way to pay you…”
As Holmes dismissed the need for payment, I rang for Mrs. Hudson and requested tea, then returned to hear her tale.
“I am housekeeper for Dr. Henry Undershaw. He is a decent man and dedicated physician. Several years ago, Mr. Dennis Velope, an old friend of Dr. Undershaw’s, offered to purchase the doctor’s home and land. However, the doctor refused to sell, and they had a falling out.
“Until yesterday, Mr. Velope would not let the matter lie. He uttered constant threats against Dr. Undershaw.”
“How did the doctor respond?” asked Holmes.
“It distressed him greatly, for they had once been quite close.”
Mrs. Hudson entered with a tray, and Mrs. Maurice accepted tea with a grateful nod. I watched her colour return, and indicated to Holmes that he could resume his questions.
“What happened yesterday?” he prompted.
“The doctor received a note, and he informed me that Mr. Velope would call that evening to mend relations.”
“Was Dr. Undershaw surprised at this news?”
“Stunned, I would say. Mr. Velope was not known for changing his mind. In fact…” She hesitated.
“Yes?” I said with an encouraging smile.
“Well, speaking plainly, he is a stubborn man with a vindictive nature.”
Holmes looked pleased. “My investigations would be much simpler if all my clients were as truthful. Pray continue.”
“Last night, I met Mr. Velope at the door. I scarcely recognised him, he was that changed. His face was sallow and drawn, and his eyes deeply sunken. I showed him into the study, and as I walked away, I heard the door being locked.”
“What did you do then?” asked Holmes.
“I returned to my sitting room. It was late, but I did not feel comfortable going to bed. Not while Mr. Velope was still in the house.” She pressed her lips together. “A good thing, too. Not a quarter hour had passed before I heard a terrible clatter and a series of thumps coming from the doctor’s study.
“I rushed to the door, but it was still locked. I heard raised voices, then a scream. I tried to use my keys to open the door, but my hands shook, and it took several tries to fit the key into the lock. I finally got it open.”
I sat forward. “Good gracious! What had happened?”
“The room was a shambles. The mahogany reading table overturned, chairs tipped on their sides, papers strewn across the carpet.” She shivered. “I saw the doctor, lying still as death before the hearth. My heart stopped, I was that stunned! Then I saw Mr. Velope face down across the window seat, a knife in his back and blood everywhere.” She paused, hands clasped tightly in her lap. “The sight gave me a turn, it did.”
“No wonder!” I said. “It must have been dreadful. What did you do?”
“I ran to the doctor. When I saw him take a breath, I was so relieved!”
Holmes held up his hand. “Please describe the state of the doctor’s clothing.”
With a puzzled expression, she said, “It was wrinkled, but otherwise unremarkable.”
“And his hands?”
“I noticed nothing unusual about his hands.”
“Thank you. Please continue.”
“I called to Cook, who was in the kitchen putting bones to boil. She roused the boot boy and sent him to fetch the constable.
“I checked Mr .Velope’s pulse, but he was gone. “ She wrinkled her nose. “I’ve seen death before, gentlemen, and I know it’s not pretty, but he was a sight! His face all contorted, and he smelt horrible.”
/>
“Horrible in what way?” I asked.
“It was a sweet odour, almost sickly.”
Holmes rose and crossed to the hearth. “Did you notice the odour when he arrived?”
“Yes, I am certain I did.”
“I see.” He nodded slowly. “When did the constable appear?”
“Within the half hour. While we waited, I had the gardener carry the doctor to the front parlor.” She looked at me. “I could not leave him on the floor, Dr. Watson. Not with Mr. Velope’s body still there.”
I nodded. “I’m certain you were very careful. Had he regained consciousness?”
“Well, not to say regained. He was agitated, mumbling, and when I spoke to him, he didn’t respond. He had a lump here,” she pointed to her right temple, “and bruising on his face.
“I sat with the doctor once the constable arrived. Goodness, there was such to-ing and fro-ing, with telegrams to this person and to that, the arrival of more police, all traipsing in and out of the house.
“It was almost dawn, and the doctor was stirring, when there was a knock and a man entered. He said his name was Athelney Jones and he was from Scotland Yard.” She made a soft sound of disgust. “From Scotland Yard he may be, but he is no gentleman. He brushed past me and shook the doctor’s shoulder.
‘Wake up,’ he said. ‘I have questions for you, my man.’
“Well, I soon sorted him! He left the room with a flea in his ear. Imagine, trying to bully an injured gentleman, policeman or not!”
“Quite right, Mrs. Maurice.” Holmes’ lips twitched as if suppressing a smile.
“We should all be fortunate enough to have such a protector,” I said.
Her cheeks flushed. “Of course, once the doctor could speak coherently I sent for Mr. Jones. He would not allow me to stay while he questioned the doctor, and Dr. Undershaw, soul of kindness himself, told me everything would be all right.”
Her eyes filled with tears, and she withdrew a handkerchief from her reticule. “But it isn’t, Mr. Holmes! I had not been out of the room for more than five minutes when Mr. Jones came out holding the doctor by his arm. The doctor told me he was under arrest for murder.