“And I, sir, am not altogether an enthusiast for the profession of medicine,” I replied. “Especially now that there is little to distract me from it.”
The journalist and I were seated one winter evening in the lounge of the Dog and Duck in High Holborn, where at that period we were in the habit of meeting over a convivial pint or two. Since the retirement of Sherlock Holmes to the country, to live as a hermit among his bees and his books, I had been at a loss for provocative intellectual company and so had welcomed the chance to cultivate the acquaintance of such a character as Arthur Machen. A sometime actor, with a deep and resonant voice, he could converse on a wide and various range of subjects as naturally as Dr Johnson, whom with his stocky build and large head he passably resembled. The author of a handful of stories and novels of an occult or mystical cast, he was convinced that the thinnest of veils separated humanity from some unknown world of wonder, beyond the ken of science.
“In my experience, coincidence figures more often in life than is commonly assumed,” the sage continued. “Have I told you the singular tale of Campo Tosto and Burnt Green?”
“You mean the eccentric old Belgian of Italian extraction whose name was practically a translation of the place where he lived; the medieval art collector who shot at intruders with bow and arrow; the late gentleman who left his estate, mostly fifteenth-century Madonnas and altar candlesticks, to his servant bearing the good old English country name of Turk? My dear fellow, how could I forget?”
“As I was saying, Dr Watson, in my experience coincidence figures more often than is commonly assumed. For example, would you believe that the other day I ran into your former associate, Mr Sherlock Holmes?”
“Good heavens! Where?”
“At an inquest.”
“On a corpse?”
“No, on a treasure-trove, found on the Suffolk coast.”
Not the least of my drinking companion’s charms, I was coming to realize, was his robust sense of humour. Holmes was less than a faithful correspondent, and the reporter must have known that I would be keen to hear news of his doings.
“So this was no criminal investigation.”
“I am afraid not, though there was a mystery involved, as strange as any I daresay your friend the famed detective encountered in his professional career.”
“I am all ears, sir.”
“In brief, here was the case.” The journalist handed me a cutting from a morning paper dated the previous week on the recovery of a cache of coins, exposed by a storm at sea. That same day, he added, his own editor had despatched him to Liverpool Street, to catch a train bound for Suffolk.
“There was no railway station anywhere near the desolate spot where this incident had occurred. The station where I disembarked from the train was full six miles away from the shore, and the population it served was lodged in an inn and half a dozen cottages. I hired a man and a trap and drove off over a level country in the face of a frosty east wind.
“At last we reached the shore, marked by a cliff, or rather by a bank of sand ten or twelve feet high. On this height local fishermen had been standing a few days earlier, watching the raging storm and the great waves that blew in from the east. Suddenly, one mighty billow had brought down a whole stretch of this sandy cliff. And as the wave washed back, the men of the inner heights noticed something bright and gleaming in the wash of waters. They retrieved what they could, and the learned being called in, pronounced that here were very ancient coins.
“I arrived, it seemed, in the very nick of time. I was shown to a chamber in a martello tower, where men in blue jerseys, supervised by some official personage and observed by a number of curiosity seekers, were busy counting out the coins and sealing them into little packets; to be ready, I suppose, for the Crowner’s Quest, on the part of our lord the King.
“And it was an astounding treasure. I am no numismatologist, but to the best of my belief, the earliest coins were dated of the eleventh or twelfth century. The dates went on in a sparse scattering way through the centuries; here a coin of Richard I, then one of Henry III, then one of Edward II; a gap perhaps to Henry VIII; then, a shilling of Elizabeth; and so forth. And then, here was the shock, here the true interest: three pennies of Edward VII.
“Afterwards, as I was leaving the martello tower, I fell into conversation with another unofficial witness who had been equally struck by this anomaly. A tall, lean fellow of about fifty, he explained that he had happened to be in the area, researching local folklore for a monograph he was writing, when news of the find reached him. Since he had walked the six miles from the inn where he was staying, he was glad to accept my offer of a lift.
“‘There are so many questions, sir,’ I remarked as the trap set off through the monotonous sand dunes, the bitter wind at least now at our backs. ‘What was the queer hoard? How did it come to be gathered together? Who gathered it? How did the great wave discover it? Was it washed from the sea? Or was it washed from the cliff? I confess the problem almost as intolerable as the puzzles of Achilles and the Tortoise and the lying Cretans.’
* * * *
“‘The problem is indeed a deep one,’ the gentleman answered, ‘though I imagine more susceptible to solution than any abstract logical paradox.’
“‘You cannot say that here was the collection of a numismatologist, even if you could get over the difficulty of such a collection being hidden in the sandy cliff or cast into the sea; both of them most unlikely places for keeping coins. At any rate, a chap interested in old coins would never think of including Edward VII pennies in his collection.’
“The fellow merely nodded, seemingly absorbed in his own thoughts, and we rode in silence for the remaining miles across that flat, windswept landscape. The little cluster of cottages, with their smoking chimneys, came as a most welcome sight. I declined my companions’s invitation to join him for a spot of tea at the inn, as I needed to catch the next train to London.
“‘A pity you have to rush off. I was looking forward to sharing a fire with an audience sure to be sympathetic to my theory behind this mysterious treasure-trove.’
“‘I have a few minutes before my train departs, if you wouldn’t mind waiting with me at the station.’
“As we alighted from the trap, I had the definite sense that this tall, lean stranger was having a bit of fun at my expense.
“‘A little way inland on this dreary coast, perhaps under a thorn or an elder tree,’ he began once we gained the platform, ‘there must be a well. This well was once a holy well, St. Somebody’s Well. Those who made small pilgrimages to it and uttered their vows there were accustomed to drop offerings into the water. As time went on, the sanctity became hazy, the name of the patron saint was forgotten; but there was a lingering, decaying belief that there was something different here from the wells of common use. During the recent storm a wave drove in a subterranean channel and, as it were, sucked the bottom out of this well, and bore away, as it washed back to sea, the votive offerings that had been dropped there, even from the days of Coeur de Lion to the days of our present Royal Highness.’
* * * *
“‘Bravo, sir. Your solution is worthy of Sherlock Holmes himself!’
“‘At your service, though it is but a conjecture, my dear Mr Machen.’
“‘Great Scott! Mr Holmes! This is indeed a surprise, as well as an honor.’
“‘The honor is all mine, sir. It is not every day that I get to meet a London literary man of your stature.’
“‘Why, I should have guessed… But how on earth did you know my name?’
“‘At the inquest the diligence with which you scribbled in your notebook suggested your profession; while your anxiousness to return to the capital, prompted no doubt by a deadline, clinched the matter. As for knowing your name, there I admit I was lucky. When we first spoke I recalled that my friend Dr Watson had mentioned, in a recent letter, gathering at a pub with a journalist whose lively intelligence rivaled my own. This fellow, one Arthur
Machen, incidentally reminded him of Dr Johnson. If I may say so, in both your verbal manner and your physical presence, sir, you evoke the great Cham.’
“‘You flatter me, Mr Holmes.’
“‘When you next see Dr Watson, please apologize for my not communicating more often. I promise to write to my Boswell shortly. In the meantime, I am tempted to return to the coast tomorrow, to see if I might uncover some actual evidence of a well to support my conjecture. It might well form the basis of a chapter in my Folklore of East Anglia.’”
“As well he might say,” I interrupted. “I cannot help wondering, sir, whether in truth my old friend’s deductive powers have gone stale since he retired. His theory of a forgotten holy well is ingenious, I grant, but I shouldn’t be astonished if it were to come out that certain Suffolk fishermen had slipped those three Edward VII pennies into the cache of coins, as a jest, before delivering the hoard to the learned. As Occam tells us, the simplest explanation is usually the correct one.”
“Come, come, Dr Watson,” said Arthur Machen with a laugh. “I think you could do with another cup of the Dog and Duck’s own excellent punch. As I recall, this round is on me.”
THE CURSE OF EDWIN BOOTH, by Carole Buggé
Every family has its defining tragedy. The night my younger brother John Wilkes clutched a pistol in his hand and dragged himself from the depths of a dingy boarding house to Ford’s Theatre, resolved to kill President Lincoln, a blackness descended upon the entire nation. But it was a doubly dark time for our family—we had to contend not only with the loss of a great leader, but the shame of being forever identified with that terrible act.
With the firing of a single bullet, everything changed. We continued on, but our lives had lost their sharpness and splendor. We were fortunate to have stalwart friends who stood by us, and though some blamed the entire family, for the most part the public was sympathetic to us. John Wilkes was the only Booth who identified with the South during the war; the rest of us considered ourselves Northerners.
In the year 1880 all of New York knew of Edwin Booth. I could hardly go into the streets without strangers coming up to me and asking me for an autograph, a handshake, a lock of my hair. My father Junius Brutus Booth was a great Shakespearean actor, and my reputation equaled—some even said surpassed—his renown.
It was also in the spring of that same year I became quite certain someone was trying to kill me.
After performances, I was given to late night roaming, striding the streets of the great city, savoring the sensation of being just another anonymous wanderer ducking in and out of yellow pools of light cast by the gaslights. My rambles took me far abroad, to all manner of neighborhoods, from the grand avenues to the seediest side streets. The more my feet toiled, the more peaceful and still I grew inside, as though my perturbed spirit was soothed by the forward motion of my body.
One night, as I emerged from the theatre, a shot rang out from what appeared to be an empty street. I felt a burning sensation on my neck, and when I clapped my hand to the spot, it came away wet with fresh blood.
As an actor and theatre manager, I had faced many situations which required keeping a cool head, so I did not panic. I stepped quickly back through the stage door. The wound on my neck was superficial, and I was soon able to stop the bleeding. I told no one what had happened; my concern for my own safety was tempered by the realization that I was a public figure, and adverse publicity could be ruinous for my theatre company. When I next emerged I had two husky stage hands on either side of me. I told them that I was feeling faint; they hustled me into a waiting carriage, the driver put the horses into a brisk trot, and I was home within minutes.
* * * *
This was not the first time I had been fired upon. A year earlier a mentally unbalanced man by the name of Mark Gray had shot at me during a performance. But for some odd reason that night—perhaps somehow sensing what was to come—I stood during a monologue in which I usually remain seated, and the bullet whizzed harmlessly past me. He was immediately arrested, and we were able to finish the performance. My reaction at the time was a kind of giddiness—I had narrowly escaped death, my assailant was quickly put in jail, and all was well.
However, this time my feeling was one of dark terror—so dark, in fact, that I took a step I never would have imagined taking: I put an advertisement in the paper.
Wanted: Professional detective for private employment. Must be discreet, trustworthy. Experience with Pinkerton Agency or similar employment preferred. Possibly dangerous; monetary reward considerable. Only serious applicants need apply. Reply to Post Office Box 28.
The reference to Allan Pinkerton and his excellent agency was bitterly ironic, since he had foiled an assassination attempt on President Lincoln in 1861, only to watch helplessly with the rest of the nation as my brother gunned down the great man a few years later.
I took no one into my confidence save my ancient and faithful Negro servant, Hector, who had been with our family since my boyhood in Maryland. After my father’s death, he became my constant attendant and companion; a more competent and considerate man could not be found this side of the Atlantic.
The paper in which I had placed the advertisement had been at the newsstands and book stalls just a few hours when there was a knock upon the front door of the Players Club. I was in the grill room having a late lunch, and as the doorman was also taking a late lunch, I sent Hector to answer it.
* * * *
The Players Club is a sturdy three-story brownstone on Gramercy Park South I had purchased and remodeled to serve as a meeting place for prominent men of the theatre, as well as other outstanding professionals. (Membership was by invitation only, and our earliest members included Mark Twain, John Drew, and General William Tecumseh Sherman.) The first two floors included a pool room and a small theatre, as well as a grill room and bar on the first floor; I occupied the third floor when I was in New York.
When Hector ushered our visitor into the grill room, I knew at once he was a singular and extraordinary man. I have an actor’s instinct for character, and am used to sizing up people quickly. His eyes were dark—so dark that they appeared black in the dim light, reminding me of the Indians I had known in my youthful days in California. He was taller than average; I would have guessed well over six feet—but then many men appear tall to me, as I am only five foot seven in my stocking feet. The Booth family may have had its share of talent, but it did not breed giants.
His face and figure were long and lean; I was reminded of Cassius in Julius Caesar (which we were doing in repertory with Hamlet), whom Shakespeare describes as having “a lean and hungry look.” (Sadly, our current Cassius, Geoff Simmons, was overly fond of sausages and porter, and was anything but lean—in his green toga, he rather suggested a fat garden slug wrapped in a leaf.)
My visitor’s expression was one of keen interest and curiosity. I had the impression nothing much escaped those deep-set eyes; he seemed to take in everything around him at a glance. Though he could not have been older than thirty, something in his manner told me here was someone I could trust. He wore a simple but expensive frock coat and vest, with perfectly pressed trousers and shining black boots.
“How do you do, Mr. Booth?” he said.
As an actor, I have a highly developed ear for voices; I realized at once his educated and refined accent was the product of an upper-class British background. I wondered what business he had with me.
“I have arrived in answer to your advertisement,” he continued, evidently in response to my bemused expression.
“But the advertisement gave no address—only an anonymous post office box.”
He waved away my objections as if they were an annoying insect.
“A mere formality—I assure you it was not difficult to discover who you were.”
I stared at him. “How on earth did you—”
“That you were well off was evident from the suggestion of considerable monetary reward.”
As
a child, I had suffered from a stutter, which had conquered years ago. To my surprise, I felt it beginning to return now.
“Yes, b-but—”
“That you were well known was evident from the phrase regarding discretion.”
“But how d-did you know it was me—this city is full of well-known people!”
“It was a simple matter to follow this gentleman from the post office,” he said, indicating Hector, who had just brought me half a dozen letters on a silver tray. “I had my eye on Box number twenty-eight, and when he looked inside for the replies, I knew he would lead me to you. I had only to follow him here.”
I felt the tension of the past twenty-four hours begin drain away from my shoulders.
“Oh, so it was a bit of detective work after all! All you had to do was wait patiently at the post office for him to turn up, and then follow him. So all those deductions about my being well-known and wealthy were just—”
“Oh, no—I had already deduced those facts before seeing your servant.”
“I see.”
“So when I followed him here, I was quite certain I had the right man.”
I looked around the grill room. The bar-tender was busily polishing glasses, and several actors were congregated in the back of the room, laughing and talking among themselves. I thought privacy was called for, so I summoned Hector, who stepped soundlessly into the room. Though well into his seventies, his elegant posture and unlined face gave Hector the appearance of a much younger man. He was tall and dignified, with deep brown skin as lustrous as polished mahogany. You would never guess his age by looking at his smooth skin stretched taut across high cheekbones. Only his hands, worn with years of domestic service, betrayed his age.
“Hector, would you show my visitor up to the second floor lounge?” I said. “And bring us up a bottle of brandy and two glasses, please.”
Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine #10 Page 7