Sherlock Holmes

by Cavan Scott

  “Can I help?” she asked, her Irish accent considerably softer than her countenance.

  “Mr Holmes and Dr Watson to see Mr Sellman,” my companion announced, drawing a nod from the household’s sentinel.

  “Ah yes, the gentlemen who telephoned.” The flare in her nostrils when she uttered that last word betrayed her evident belief that no man of honour would ever use such a device. “Please, come in.”

  She held the door open and we entered a bright, airy hallway, the walls positively plastered with watercolours.

  “If you will wait in the drawing room,” she said, showing us to another room filled with paintings, “I shall inform Mr Sellman that you have arrived.”

  “A housekeeper?” I asked as she left the room.

  “Governess,” Holmes replied, “if the smudges of chalk on her dress are anything to go by. And there was a book with similar marks on the hall table. Ray’s New Primary Arithmetic for Young Learners. Obviously, the lady placed it there before opening the door to us. The housekeeper must be unwell. A governess does not expect her duties to include the answering of doors.”

  Whatever her station, the woman returned with a tall, handsome man in his mid-thirties. His hair was smartly parted and he wore a waxed moustache, every inch the modern man about town.

  “These are the gentlemen,” the governess said curtly. “Shall I have the maid bring tea?”

  “Gentlemen?” our host enquired, turning the question to us.

  “That would be perfect,” replied Holmes. “Anything but lapsang souchong. I’m afraid I cannot abide the stuff.”

  The look on the woman’s face told me that he would get what he was given.

  “Mr Holmes and Dr Watson,” the man said, crossing and shaking our hands when the governess had vacated the room. “It is good to meet you. We were so grateful to hear that you wanted to visit. Please, please take a seat.”

  “Mr Sellman?” I enquired.

  “Yes, yes, of course. Forgive me. I’m afraid I have had quite a trying morning. My wife hoped to be here to greet you, but she has been staying with her mother for a few days. We are expecting her any minute, and so I stayed home from work in her absence and have been fielding phone calls for the last few hours.”

  “Trouble at the bank?” Holmes asked.

  Sellman looked at him in astonishment. “Why, yes, but how on earth did you know that I am a banker? Does it show?”

  “Only by the cut of your suit. I have read how the next generation of financiers have taken to wearing a narrow pinstripe, rather than the more traditional black attire of their forebears. Then there are your cufflinks, with their rather striking representation of a unicorn surrounded by coins. The symbol of the Gilmour and Buchanan Bank, is it not?”

  Sellman chuckled, fingering his cufflinks. “A gift from my former manager when he retired.”

  “And you took his place, judging by their age. Passing the torch, as it were.”

  “Your reputation is well deserved, it seems,” Sellman said, as a maid brought in a tea tray. Sellman thanked her and waited for our cups to be filled. “So, Dr Gapton said you are interested in our son, or at least in his condition.”

  Holmes nodded. “We are trying to understand the disease, in order to help us with a case.”

  A shadow passed over our host’s pleasant features. “He has already suffered greatly, my poor child. Sometimes I wonder whether it would be better if we did not know what was to come, and yet the prognosis hangs over this house like a shroud.”

  A squeak in the hallway stopped Sellman before he could explain further. I looked up, to see a young boy of no more than eleven being pushed into the drawing room by the governess. The lad was confined to a wheelchair, his body twisted where he sat. His right shoulder jutted forward at an extreme angle, the left was permanently tucked behind his back. A lump the size of an apple projected from his thin neck, stretching against the skin, and his head was cocked to the side; he was presumably unable to move it. Despite the ravages visited upon his body, the boy gave us such a winning smile as he was trundled into the room that my heart broke in an instant. Gapton had talked of bravery, and here it was, personified in this unfortunate young fellow.

  “Ah, that damned squeak,” Sellman said, rising to greet his son. “It drives poor Frederick to distraction, doesn’t it, no matter how much oil we apply.”

  “Yes, father,” the lad replied, laughing. I saw something glint in his hand, something metal.

  “That will be all, thank you, Miss Wilkins,” Sellman said to the governess, who took her leave. Our host pushed Frederick nearer and introduced us.

  “I have read your stories,” the boy said. “I have some upstairs.”

  “Then we shall be sure to have Watson sign them for you,” Holmes promised.

  “And you too, sir?”

  Holmes smiled warmly. “With pleasure.” His eyes fell upon Frederick’s hands. “What have you there?”

  The boy beamed, revealing a small golden cube, no bigger than a matchbox. “It’s clockwork,” he said. “Shall I show you?”

  “Please,” Holmes urged.

  Holding the cube in one hand, Frederick turned a tiny key with the other. It was impossible not to notice how gnarled his knuckles were, like those of an old man.

  The key wound to its limit, Frederick worked a tiny lever and a sweet tune played out, a sea shanty that I half-remembered from my youth.

  “It’s a music box,” I exclaimed, enchanted by the delicate melody.

  “And that’s not all,” said the lad. “Look.”

  As we watched, a miniature sailing ship appeared through a slit in the top of the box, rolling and pitching in time with the music.

  Mr Sellman smiled. “Clockwork automata are something of a passion of Freddie’s,” he explained. “You should see his room, full to the brim with drumming monkeys, flying angels and goodness knows what else.”

  “Aunt Elsbeth buys them for me,” Frederick informed us. “Wherever she goes, she always brings one back for me. I got a unicorn last time. It gallops.”

  “I should like to see that,” said Holmes.

  “I can show you,” said Frederick, eagerly.

  “Perhaps later. First, I should like to ask you a few questions about your condition, if that is all right with you?”

  The light went out of the boy’s eyes, but he nodded politely, and Holmes began a gentle interrogation, discovering more about the onset of Frederick’s disorder. It was a similar tale to that we had heard in Dr Gapton’s consulting room. Frederick had fallen down the stairs as an infant, only to have his leg freeze as the damaged knee fused. Now, the boy’s life was one of near constant pain, although one would never have known it from the young chap’s demeanour. He was polite and courteous, which only made his plight all the more distressing.

  However, I was unsure how the interview was going to help our investigation. Holmes questioned the father, asking him if anyone else had approached them, perhaps someone studying the condition.

  Sellman shook his head. “Not that I am aware of, although I must say that unfortunately my work has kept me away from home. I’m trying to make amends for that, aren’t I, Freddie?” He smiled sadly at his son, and I gained the impression that the man would have loved to reach out and ruffle the boy’s hair, but was worried what the touch would do to the lad, how much pain it would bring. What a curse it must be to be afraid to embrace your own child. Even I, a childless man, could appreciate the torment that would bring.

  All at once, there was a flurry of activity from the hallway. The front door had been flung open and a woman entered, wearing a navy-blue jacket and long gored skirt. She quickly removed a wide-brimmed hat, dropping a hairpin in her haste, and rushed into the drawing room, her face flushed. It was obvious that the lady had been running.

  We all rose, Sellman smiling broadly at the new arrival. “Ah, you made it, my dear. Gentlemen, may I introduce my wife, Camille.”

  “Mr Holmes,” Camille
Sellman said, heading straight for my friend. “Thank you so much for coming. The good Lord has answered my prayers. I knew he would.”

  Even Holmes looked taken aback. “Madam, I thank you for making every effort to return from Reading this morning, but I am uncertain why you would think I am an answer to prayer.”

  “An answer to prayer or serendipity, I do not care which, as long as you say you will help us.”

  “In what way?” I asked. Surely this eager creature didn’t believe that Holmes could unlock the mystery of young Frederick’s condition, no matter how remarkable my friend’s abilities were. With all due respect to Holmes, this was work for a doctor, not a detective.

  “My sister, Elsbeth.”

  “Frederick’s aunt?”

  “Yes. She went missing, a year ago. Completely vanished, without a word.”

  Holmes urged Mrs Sellman to take a seat, his interest immediately aroused. “And you have informed the police?”

  “Of course we have.” The lady caught herself. “I do not mean to be rude, Mr Holmes, but I have been beside myself these last twelve months. To be honest, I had given up all hope. The police were next to useless.”

  “Camille,” her husband warned.

  “Oh, they were sympathetic, of course, and tried their best, I’m sure.”

  “But they found nothing,” Holmes remarked. It was not a question.

  “I was told that Elsbeth might never be found, that I should prepare myself for the worst.”

  Holmes looked grave. “My dear Mrs Sellman, while I sympathise, I’m afraid I am not taking on any new cases at present. My current investigation—”

  She interrupted, talking over him in her agitated state. “No, no, you don’t understand. I saw her, Mr Holmes. Just last week, in town. I was out shopping, and there she was, walking down Oxford Street.”

  “If that is the case,” said I, “why would you need our help?”

  “She is in trouble, Dr Watson. I know she is.”

  Her voice cracked, and Sellman took up his wife’s story. “Camille confronted Elsbeth, on the street, asking her where she had been.”

  “And what was her response?” Holmes asked, unable to resist.

  “She would tell me nothing,” Mrs Sellman said. “I have never seen her like it, so drawn and distant. I took her for tea, tried to persuade her to speak openly, but still she remained unforthcoming. Then, just as I thought we were making some progress, when Elsbeth seemed to have relaxed a little, she shot up, staring out of the window of the tea room in horror. Before I could stop her, she ran out into the street, knocking the crockery from the table in her flight. There was a terrible fuss and when I myself got outside she was gone.”

  “Whatever had she seen?” I asked, captivated by the tale.

  “A giant of man,” came the reply. “Standing on the pavement outside, positively glaring through the window.”

  “A giant?” repeated Holmes. “Can you describe him?”

  “Mr Holmes, I shall remember that face for as long as I live. Long, dark hair covered most of his aspect, and yet the scars were clear.”

  “Scars?”

  “They crossed his face like roads on a map; deep, deep scars, and his skin, so pale. Like a corpse.”

  “My dear,” Sellman said, leaning across to touch his wife’s hand. “Please, think of Freddie.”

  Mrs Sellman ignored her husband, pulling her hand away.

  I gained the impression that this was a conversation that had played out many times in the last week. “I can only explain what I saw, George.”

  “And tell me, Mrs Sellman,” Holmes said, his voice level, although I would wager that his heart was racing within his chest.

  “Tell me of this giant’s eyes.”

  The lady looked at my friend with fresh intensity. “They weren’t human, Mr Holmes. They burned yellow, like the sun.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  ALL IN A NAME

  “You know him, don’t you, Mr Holmes?” Sellman asked. “You recognise the giant that Camille saw.”

  I looked to Holmes, my blood chilled. His eyes were still on our hostess, and he chose to ignore Sellman’s question in favour of one of his own.

  “What happened to the man? Did he follow your sister?”

  Mrs Sellman’s face was full of renewed hope. “I do not know. As I said, there was confusion in the tea room. The waitress was bustling about, trying to clear up the mess Elsbeth had made; the manager was asking what had happened, whether anything was wrong. He blocked my view of the window and I am ashamed to say I rather pushed the poor man aside. I doubt I will be welcome there again. Either way, the giant was gone.”

  “And your sister?”

  “Likewise. There was no sign of either of them in the street outside.”

  “Do you have a picture of Elsbeth?” I asked.

  “Of course.” Mrs Sellman rose and crossed to the mantelpiece to fetch a photograph in an ornate silver frame. She passed it to me. The picture was of a striking woman, a few years older than our hostess, with dark hair in the popular pompadour style, swept up into a tight bun on her crown. There was a pretty lace collar at her throat, fastened with a brooch, a detail which Holmes immediately seized upon.

  “A fascinating design,” he said, taking the photograph from me.

  “She was wearing it when we met last week,” Mrs Sellman interjected. “I believe it was a present from our grandmother, Heilwig.”

  “A German name,” Holmes commented.

  “Swiss. My family were originally from Geneva.”

  “On your mother’s side or your father’s?”

  “My father’s. Klaus Honegger.”

  Holmes showed me the photograph once again. “On the brooch, Watson, at its centre. Some kind of bird, do you think?”

  “A crow,” Mrs Sellman confirmed. “Is it important?”

  “Everything is important, if the right questions are asked.”

  “And what are the right questions, Mr Holmes?”

  “Was your sister married?”

  “No, never. There was a man when we were younger, a scientist like herself.”

  “She has always been a bit of a loner, from what I could tell,” Sellman added.

  “But she loved her family,” his wife countered, a little defensively. “Yes, she may never have settled down or had children of her own, but she is devoted to Frederick, and used to spend as much time here as possible, when her work allowed.”

  “Her work? You say she is a scientist?”

  “A biologist. She went to Newnham College at Cambridge.” Mrs Sellman’s pride in her sister was obvious. “Caused quite a stir in the family, a young woman striking out in a man’s world. Mother was nervous about the entire venture, but Father encouraged her. We thought at one point that she would become a medical doctor, but she became fascinated with…” She sighed, struggling to find the word.

  “Genetics,” her husband supplied.

  “That’s right. Genetics and heredity. It was all she could speak about.”

  “Heredity,” Holmes confirmed. “The passing of traits from one generation to the next.”

  “It was a particular hobby-horse of her tutor,” Sellman said. “William something or other, and she converted to his cause.”

  “William Bateson?” Holmes enquired.

  “That’s it, yes,” Mrs Sellman replied. “Elsbeth was devoted to him and his teaching. One could almost say besotted.”

  “Romantically? You mentioned that she once had a suitor.”

  “Oh no, Mr Bateson is much older, and happily married. His wife, Beatrice, took Elsbeth under her wing. I met them both once or twice. A charming couple.”

  Holmes turned to me. “William Bateson, a proponent of the ideas of Gregor Mendel. I read a paper of his a few years back: ‘Genetic Inheritance and the Saltationary Nature of Evolution’. Quite fascinating. In fact, I have carried out a number of experiments based on his findings.” He turned back to our hosts. “I keep
bees,” he added, answering their unasked question.

  It was typical of Holmes to assume that I was ignorant of the man’s identity. On the contrary I was familiar with Bateson, whose theories had caused a stir throughout the scientific and medical community. He had challenged Darwin’s belief that evolution took place through tiny, advantageous variations, insisting that species developed in great leaps and bounds, changes which could be affected by specific breeding choices. It was obvious why Elsbeth Honegger had been drawn to them, a supposition that Mrs Sellman confirmed in her next sentence.

  “Elsbeth became convinced that Mr Bateson’s theories offered hope for Frederick and those like him.” She offered her son an encouraging, if sad, smile. “I found it hard to keep up with her. On leaving Cambridge, she travelled Europe, researching his condition.”

  “So when you said that she had been missing for a year…” Holmes pointed out.

  “She always told us where she was going. Always wrote when she arrived. Most of her letters I could barely follow, let alone understand. I am afraid I share little of my sister’s interest in academia.”

  “And this time, there was no warning that she was off on her travels?” I asked.

  “None whatsoever. She had just come home from a visit to France and we were planning a holiday together, George, myself, Frederick and Elsbeth. It was late May, and we were due to meet to discuss the final details, but she never came. I tried to contact her, and there was nothing. No one knew where she was, or what she was doing.”

  “And she had seemed well on her return from France?”

  “She was drained, utterly exhausted, which is why I had suggested the holiday in the first place. I hadn’t wanted her to go to France, what with the war, but she insisted. ‘Cammy,’ she said, ‘science doesn’t stop because men decide to blow chunks out of each other.’”

  “And she is correct. If anything, war stimulates scientific discovery, for good or ill. Do you have Elsbeth’s letters?”