The Adventure of the Plated Spoon and Other Tales of Sherlock Holmes

by Loren D. Estleman

  “Then it cannot yet be consumed,” cried Holmes, and dashed into the basement. He was absent for some little time, and we heard the clinking of bottles, and, finally, the clang of a great metal door. He emerged, some moments later, in high spirits, carrying a charred leaf in his hand.

  “It is a pity,” he cried, “a pity! In spite of its questionable authenticity, it was a noble specimen. It is only half consumed, but let it burn away. I have preserved one leaf as a souvenir of the occasion.” He folded it carefully and placed it in his wallet. “Mr. Harrington Edwards, I fancy the decision in this matter is for you to announce. Sir Nathaniel, of course, must make no effort to collect the insurance.”

  “I promise that,” said the baronet, quickly.

  “Let us forget it, then,” said Mr. Edwards, with a sigh. “Let it be a sealed chapter in the history of bibliomania.” He looked at Sir Nathaniel Brooke-Bannerman for a long moment, then held out his hand. “I forgive you, Nathaniel,” he said, simply.

  Their hands met; tears stood in the baronet’s eyes. Holmes and I turned from the affecting scene, powerfully moved. We crept to the door unnoticed. In a moment the free air was blowing on our temples, and we were coughing the dust of the library from our lungs.

  III.

  “They are strange people, these book collectors,” mused Sherlock Holmes, as we rattled back to town.

  “My only regret is that I shall be unable to publish my notes on this interesting case,” I responded.

  “Wait a bit, my dear doctor,” advised Holmes, “and it will be possible. In time both of them will come to look upon it as a hugely diverting episode, and will tell it upon themselves. Then your notes will be brought forth and the history of another of Mr. Sherlock Holmes’s little problems shall be given to the world.”

  “It will always be a reflection upon Sir Nathaniel,” I demurred.

  “He will glory in it,” prophesied Sherlock Holmes. “He will go down in bookish chronicle with Chatterton, and Ireland, and Payne Collier. Mark my words, he is not blind even now to the chance this gives him for sinister immortality. He will be the first to tell it.” (And so, indeed, it proved, as this narrative suggests.)

  “But why did you preserve the leaf from Hamlet?” I curiously inquired. “Why not a jewel from the binding?”

  Sherlock Holmes chuckled heartily. Then he slowly unfolded the page in question, and directed a humorous finger at a spot upon the page.

  “A fancy,” he responded, “to preserve so accurate a characterization of either of our friends. The line is a real jewel. See, the good Polonius says: ‘That he is mad, ’tis true: ’tis true ’tis pittie; and pittie it is true.’ There is as much sense in Master Will as in Hafiz or Confucius, and a greater felicity of expression. . . . Here is London, and now, my dear Watson, if we hasten we shall be just in time for Zabriski’s matinee!”

  THE ADVENTURE OF THE RED WIDOW

  ADRIAN CONAN DOYLE

  Adrian Conan Doyle, it’s said, wrote The Exploits of Sherlock Holmes (in collaboration with John Dickson Carr) on his father’s desk; given the quality of his pastiches, a case may be made that the desk was haunted by Sir Arthur’s genial ghost. But since Holmes himself said, “No ghosts need apply,” perhaps he simply inherited his talent, then built upon it with skill of his own making. It is reprinted by permission of the Sir Arthur Conan Doyle Estate.

  “Your conclusions are perfectly correct, my dear Watson,” remarked my friend Sherlock Holmes. “Squalor and poverty are the natural matrix to crimes of violence.”

  “Precisely so,” I agreed. “Indeed, I was just thinking—” I broke off to stare at him in amazement. “Good heavens, Holmes,” I cried, “this is too much. How could you possibly know my innermost thoughts!”

  My friend leaned back in his chair and, placing his fingertips together, surveyed me from under his heavy, drooping eyelids.

  “I would do better justice, perhaps, to my limited powers by refusing to answer your question,” he said, with a dry chuckle. “You have a certain flair, Watson, for concealing your failure to perceive the obvious by the cavalier manner in which you invariably accept the explanation of a sequence of simple but logical reasoning.”

  “I do not see how logical reasoning can enable you to follow the course of my mental processes,” I retorted, a trifle nettled by his superior manner.

  “There was no great difficulty. I have been watching you for the last few minutes. The expression on your face was quite vacant until, as your eyes roved about the room, they fell on the bookcase and came to rest on Hugo’s Les Misérables, which made so deep an impression upon you when you read it last year. You became thoughtful, your eyes narrowed, it was obvious that your mind was drifting again into that tremendous dreadful saga of human suffering; at length your gaze lifted to the window with its aspect of snowflakes and grey sky and bleak, frozen roofs, and then, moving slowly on to the mantelpiece, settled on the jackknife with which I skewer my unanswered correspondence. The frown darkened on your face and unconsciously you shook your head despondently. It was an association of ideas. Hugo’s terrible sub-third stage, the winter cold of poverty in the slums, and, above the warm glow of our own modest fire, the bare knifeblade. Your expression deepened into one of sadness, the melancholy that comes with an understanding of cause and effect in the unchanging human tragedy. It was then that I ventured to agree with you.”

  “Well, I must confess that you followed my thoughts with extraordinary accuracy,” I admitted. “A remarkable piece of reasoning, Holmes.”

  “Elementary, my dear Watson.”

  The year of 1887 was moving to its end. The iron grip of the great blizzards that commenced in the last week of December had closed on the land, and beyond the windows of Holmes’s lodgings in Baker Street lay a gloomy vista of grey, lowering sky and white-capped tiles dimly discernible through a curtain of snowflakes.

  Though it had been a memorable year for my friend, it had been of yet greater importance to me, for it was but two months since that Miss Mary Morstan had paid me the signal honour of joining her destiny to mine. The change from my bachelor existence as a half-pay, ex-Army surgeon into the state of wedded bliss had not been accomplished without some uncalled-for and ironic comments from Sherlock Holmes but, as my wife and I could thank him for the fact that we had found each other, we could afford to accept his cynical attitude with tolerance and even understanding.

  I had dropped in to our old lodgings on this afternoon, to be precise December 30th, to pass a few hours with my friend and enquire whether any new case of interest had come his way since my previous visit. I had found him pale and listless, his dressing gown drawn round his shoulders and the room reeking with the smoke of his favorite black shag, through which the fire in the grate gleamed like a brazier in a fog.

  “Nothing, save a few routine enquiries, Watson,” he had replied in a voice shrill with complaint. “Creative art in crime seems to have become atrophied since I disposed of the late-lamented Bert Stevens.” Then lapsing into silence, he curled himself up morosely in his armchair, and not another word passed between us until my thoughts were suddenly interrupted by the observation that commenced this narrative.

  As I rose to go, he looked at me critically.

  “I perceive, Watson,” said he, “that you are already paying the price. The slovenly state of your left jawbone bears regrettable testimony that somebody has changed the position of your shaving mirror. Furthermore, you are indulging in extravagances.”

  “You do me a gross injustice.”

  “What, at the winter price of five pence a blossom! Your buttonhole tells me that you were sporting a flower not later than yesterday.”

  “This is the first time I have known you penurious, Holmes,” I retorted with some bitterness.

  He broke into a hearty laugh. “My dear fellow, you must forgive me!” he cried. “It is most unfair that I should penalize you because a surfeit of unexpended mental energy tends to play upon my nerves. But hullo,
what’s this!”

  A heavy step was mounting the stairs. My friend waved me back into my chair.

  “Stay a moment, Watson,” said he. “It is Gregson, and the old game may be afoot once more.”

  “Gregson?”

  “There is no mistaking that regulation tread. Too heavy for Lestrade, and yet known to Mrs. Hudson or she would accompany him. It is Gregson.”

  As he finished speaking there came a knock on the door, and a figure muffled to the ears in a heavy cape entered the room. Our visitor tossed his bowler on the nearest chair and, unwinding the scarf wrapped around the lower part of his face, disclosed the flaxen hair and long, pale features of the Scotland Yard detective.

  “Ah, Gregson,” greeted Holmes, with a sly glance in my direction. “It must be urgent business that brings you out in this inclement weather. But throw off your cape, man, and come over to the fire.”

  The police agent shook his head. “There is not a moment to lose,” he replied, consulting a large silver turnip watch. “The train to Derbyshire leaves in half an hour and I have a hansom waiting below. Though the case should present no difficulties for an officer of my experience, nevertheless I shall be glad of your company.”

  “Something of interest?”

  “Murder, Mr. Holmes,” snapped Gregson curtly, “and a singular one at that, to judge from the telegram from the local police. It appears that Lord Jocelyn Cope, the Deputy Lieutenant of the County, has been found butchered at Arnsworth Castle. The Yard is quite capable of solving crimes of this nature, but in view of the curious terms contained in the police telegram, it occurred to me that you might wish to accompany me. Will you come?”

  Holmes leaned forward, emptied the Persian slipper into his tobacco pouch, and sprang to his feet.

  “Give me a moment to pack a clean collar and toothbrush,” he cried. “I have a spare one for you, Watson. No, my dear fellow, not a word. Where would I be without your assistance? Scribble a note to your wife, and Mrs. Hudson will have it delivered. We should be back tomorrow. Now, Gregson, I’m your man and you can fill in the details during our journey.”

  The guard’s flag was already waving as we rushed up the platform at St. Pancras and tore open the door of the first empty smoker. Holmes had brought three travelling-rugs with him, and as the train roared its way through the fading winter daylight we made ourselves comfortable enough in our respective corners.

  “Well, Gregson, I shall be interested to hear the details,” remarked Holmes, his thin, eager face framed in the earflaps of his deerstalker and a spiral of blue smoke rising from his pipe.

  “I know nothing beyond what I have already told you.”

  “And yet you used the word ‘singular’ and referred to the telegram from the county police as ‘curious.’ Kindly explain.”

  “I used both terms for the same reason. The wire from the local inspector advised that the officer from Scotland Yard should read The Derbyshire County Guide and The Gazetteer. A most extraordinary suggestion!”

  “I should say a wise one. What have you done about it?”

  “The Gazetteer states merely that Lord Jocelyn Cope is a Deputy Lieutenant and county magnate, married, childless, and noted for his bequests to local archaeological societies. As for The Guide, I have it here.” He drew a pamphlet from his pocket and thumbed over the pages. “Here we are,” he continued. “Arnsworth Castle. Built reign of Edward III. Fifteenth-century stained-glass window to celebrate Battle of Agincourt. Cope family penalized for suspected Catholic leaning by Royal Visitation, 1574. Museum open to public once a year. Contains large collection of martial and other relics, including small guillotine built originally in Nimes during French Revolution for execution of a maternal ancestor of the present owner. Never used owing to escape of intended victim, and later purchased as relic by family after Napoleonic Wars and brought to Arnsworth. Pshaw! That local inspector must be out of his senses, Mr. Holmes. There is nothing to help us here.”

  “Let us reserve judgment. The man would not have made such a suggestion without reason. In the meantime, I would recommend to your attention the dusk now falling over the landscape. Every material object has become vague and indistinct, and yet their solid existence remains, though almost hidden from our visual senses. There is much to be learned from the twilight.”

  “Quite so, Mr. Holmes,” grinned Gregson, with a wink at me. “Very poetical, I am sure. Well, I’m for a short nap.”

  It was some three hours later that we alighted at a small wayside station. The snow had ceased, and beyond the roofs of the hamlet the long desolate slopes of the Derbyshire moors, white and glistening under the light of a full moon, rolled away to the skyline. A stocky, bowlegged man swathed in a shepherd’s plaid hurried towards us along the platform.

  “You’re from Scotland Yard, I take it?” he greeted us brusquely. “I got your wire in reply to mine and I have a carriage waiting outside. Yes, I’m Inspector Dawlish,” he added in response to Gregson’s question. “But who are these gentlemen?”

  “I considered that Mr. Sherlock Holmes’s reputation—” began our companion.

  “I’ve never heard of him,” interposed the local man, looking at us with a gleam of hostility in his dark eyes. “This is a serious affair and there is no room for amateurs. But it is too cold to stand arguing here and, if London approves his presence, who am I to gainsay him? This way, if you please.”

  A closed carriage was standing before the station, and a moment later we had swung out of the yard and were bowling swiftly but silently up the village high street.

  “There’ll be accommodation for you at the Queen’s Head,” grunted Inspector Dawlish. “But first to the castle.”

  “I shall be glad to hear the facts of this case,” stated Gregson, “and the reason for the most irregular suggestion contained in your telegram.”

  “The facts are simple enough,” replied the other, with a grim smile. “His lordship has been murdered and we know who did it.”

  “Ah!”

  “Captain Jasper Lothian, the murdered man’s cousin, has disappeared in a hurry. It’s common knowledge hereabouts that the man’s got a touch of the devil in him, a hard hand with a bottle, a horse, or the nearest woman. It’s come as a surprise to none of us that Captain Jasper should end by slaughtering his benefactor and the head of his house. Aye, head’s a well-chosen word,” he ended softly.

  “If you’ve a clear case, then what’s this nonsense about a guidebook?”

  Inspector Dawlish leaned forward while his voice sank almost to a whisper. “You’ve read it?” he said. “Then it may interest you to know that Lord Jocelyn Cope was put to death with his own ancestral guillotine.”

  His words left us in a chilled silence.

  “What motive can you suggest for that murder and for the barbarous method employed?” asked Sherlock Holmes at last.

  “Probably a ferocious quarrel. Have I not told you already that Captain Jasper had a touch of the devil in him? But there’s the castle, and a proper place it looks for deeds of violence and darkness.”

  We had turned off the country road to enter a gloomy avenue that climbed between banked snowdrifts up a barren moorland slope. On the crest loomed a great building, its walls and turrets stark and grey against the night sky. A few minutes later, our carriage rumbled under the arch of the outer bailey and halted in a courtyard.

  At Inspector Dawlish’s knock, a tall, stooping man in butler’s livery opened the massive oaken door and, holding a candle above his head, peered out at us, the light shining on his weary red-rimmed eyes and ill-nourished beard.

  “What, four of you!” he cried querulously. “It b’aint right her ladyship should be bothered thisways at such a time of grief to us all.”

  “That will do, Stephen. Where is her ladyship?”

  The candle flame trembled. “Still with him,” came the reply, and there was something like a sob in the old voice. “She hasn’t moved. Still sitting there in the big chair and starin
g at him, as though she had fallen fast asleep with them wonderful eyes wide open.”

  “You’ve touched nothing, of course?”

  “Nothing. It’s all as it was.”

  “Then let us go first to the museum where the crime was committed,” said Dawlish. “It is on the other side of the courtyard.”

  He was moving away towards a cleared path that ran across the cobblestones when Holmes’s hand closed upon his arm. “How is this!” he cried imperiously. “The museum is on the other side, and yet you have allowed a carriage to drive across the courtyard and people to stampede over the ground like a herd of buffalo.”

  “What then?”

  Holmes flung up his arms appealingly to the moon. “The snow, man, the snow! You have destroyed your best helpmate.”

  “But I tell you the murder was committed in the museum. What has the snow to do with it?”

  Holmes gave vent to a most dismal groan, and then we all followed the local detective across the yard to an arched doorway.

  I have seen many a grim spectacle during my association with Sherlock Holmes, but I can recall none to surpass in horror the sight that met our eyes within that grey Gothic chamber. It was a small room with a groined roof, lit by clusters of tapers in iron sconces. The walls were hung with trophies of armour and mediaeval weapons, and edged by glass-topped cases crammed with ancient parchments, thumb rings, pieces of carved stonework, and yawning man-traps. These details I noticed at a glance, and then my whole attention was riveted to the object that occupied a low dais in the centre of the room.

  It was a guillotine, painted a faded red, and, save for its smaller size, exactly similar to those that I had seen depicted in woodcuts of the French Revolution. Sprawling between the two uprights lay the body of a tall, thin man clad in a velvet smoking jacket. His hands were tied behind him and a white cloth, hideously besmirched, concealed his head, or rather the place where his head had been.