Sherlock Holmes--The Red Tower

by Mark A. Latham

  I went at once to the door and took up the note, which was written in a neat script, in purplish ink. It read:

  Dear Dr Watson,

  You must have realised by now that Madame Farr wishes ill upon the Crain family. James is in her thrall, and would gladly ruin us to see her “church” rise. I do not think she would be so audacious as to harm my father, for she has proven herself already to be patient in matters of his will. But as for me—if anything should befall me this night, look not to spirits, but to the spiritualists. Remember the opinion of your friend Mr Holmes in this matter, and do not trust them!

  I wish there were someone else to whom I could turn, Doctor, but I feel terribly alone. I know at least that you are a chivalrous and constant man, who will not shrink from assisting a lady in need.

  In confidence, with regards &c.

  Esther

  I did not quite know what to make of this. Her signature was accompanied by the words “in confidence”, suggesting that I keep the note to myself for the time being. That was a burden indeed, but who really could I trust with this information? No one would surely take it seriously. What troubled me more than anything was the phrasing of those final lines. Was she suggesting that she could not turn even to her own fiancé? Worse, was she implying that he was not “constant”?

  I rather wished Sir Thomas were at hand, for he would make an ideal confidant, uniquely placed as he was in the affections of both James and Esther Crain. Unfortunately, he had not been seen since dinner, and when earlier I had asked after him, Crain had informed me that the old explorer had likely walked home already, as was his habit.

  I had already been invited to see Sir Thomas, and I did not truly believe Esther was in any immediate danger. I folded up the note, and resolved to set off the next day to see him. If anyone could bash their heads together and make them see sense, I fancied it was he.

  I had little time to ruminate more on the subject when I heard voices outside again, and realised the time to wish Lady Esther goodnight was almost upon us.

  Not everyone who was summoned to see Esther inter herself in the “cursed room” had been present. Mrs Cavendish and Mrs Langton had retired to their own chambers—I noted that Mrs Cavendish had left her husband snoring away in the library. Lady Esther made a show of asking me to declare her in good health and of sound mind, which I jestingly did, to a round of applause from those few gathered. A few words were spoken, good wishes bestowed, and some rather gloomy prayers muttered by Madame Farr. Finally, Esther closed the door upon us and turned the key in the lock. I could barely keep my eyes open as I dragged myself down the tower stair back to my room, yawning as I went.

  I passed Lord Berkeley’s study, where earlier I had seen him and Sir Thomas huddled in some private meeting. To my surprise, the Marquess was up still, and peered out into the corridor from a crack in the door as I passed, before closing the door softly. The look in his eyes had been unsettling. Gone had been the sternness and steel, replaced by something else. Bitterness? Wariness? Or had it been fear? A man like Lord Berkeley would surely know all that was taking place in his own house, and although he had seemed not to have a superstitious bone in his body, I wondered now if he was afraid of the family curse. But afraid for Esther, or for himself?

  I remembered this time to draw the bolt on my door before repairing to bed, although I doubted very much even a ghostly visitation would wake me, so tired was I.

  And yet wake I did! I do not know how long the noise had pricked away at my senses before finally it roused me. I sat upright, listening carefully to what was a whisper in the darkness. Voices, certainly, and more than one. I could not be sure, but I fancied there were two distinct voices, both female. They seemed at first to echo all around me, fading, then coming stronger again. I could not blame drink this time, for I had been moderate through the evening, and felt no ill effects at all.

  I lit a candle, and my first instinct was to hold it aloft and shine it around the room. There was no sign of anything, spectral or otherwise. I took up my watch from the bedside table. It was after half past three in the morning. With some small groan, I heaved myself from bed, and carried my candle over to the door. It was still bolted fast. The whispering was quieter now. As I drew back the bolt, it stopped altogether.

  Expecting some mischief afoot, I pulled open the bedroom door sharply, and stepped into the hall. It was dark, cold and still. The only movement came from shadows cast by my own flickering candle. I tiptoed along the corridor, first one way and then the other, but heard nothing. I tried the door of the empty room next to mine, but it was locked, and not a sound came from within. I crept along to the main landing, stopping at the door of Lord Berkeley’s study as I went. That, too, was quiet. To reassure myself, I tried the door. It was locked. I went thence to the tower entrance and shone my candle up the stair. The draught caused the flame to gutter, and I shuddered. Still I detected not a sound, and surely no mere whispers would carry so far. I was not prepared to climb those stairs and skulk about outside Lady Esther’s chamber, but I stood guard for some little time, the contents of the note I had received playing on my mind. Eventually, with neither sight nor sound of anything, tiredness got the better of me; I returned to my room quietly, and it took some time before I could embrace sleep once more.

  * * *

  The scream was so abrupt, so filled with piercing terror, that I could hardly think it real. Even as I leapt from my bed in a cold fright, heart hammering at my ribcage, the sound faded away such that for an instant I thought—nay, hoped—it was but a dream.

  A distant shout, a creaking door, and footsteps outside confirmed my worst fears. It was no dream.

  I rushed again from my room, joining a press of bodies.

  “The tower!” someone cried, and I thought it was Crain. “Esther!”

  Candles were lit, casting their light on faces wide-eyed with concern. By the time we ascended the steps, I was only a pace behind Crain at the head of the pack, with Melville behind me. Crain threw himself at the door, pounding his fists upon it.

  “Esther! Open the door.”

  No sound came from within, and the panic from the shadowy gathering behind us rose like a cloud, palpable in the darkness.

  Crain wrenched at the handle, but it would not budge.

  “There must be another key,” Melville said, his voice laden with anguish.

  “There is no other,” Crain replied. “We must break the door down.”

  “That door is solid oak, bound and studded,” I said.

  “Well, what do you suggest, Watson?” Crain snapped.

  “We need something to batter it with.”

  “There’s a bench on the landing,” Crain said.

  “Make way!” I cried, and pushed through the throng behind me, past Langton, past the vicar, past others whom I barely recognised in my haste, back down the stairs.

  In a trice, Crain was behind me, and Melville with him. We hoisted up a sturdy monk’s bench, and carried it up the stair. Langton joined us now, too, and the four of us heaved the bench as best we could in the cramped space, swinging it once, twice, and a third time, at which the wood around the ancient lock finally cracked, and the door swung open.

  We all but tumbled into the room. I scrambled to my feet, only in time to hear an anguished cry from Melville.

  Lady Esther was dead.

  We stood in shock for what seemed an age, until Melville suddenly rushed towards the body. Only then did I snap to my senses.

  “No, get back!” I commanded. “Do not move her, do not touch anything.” Melville knelt by the body, and only when I went to him and placed a hand on his shoulder did he follow my instruction. I looked back; the others were peering through the door, Crain at their head. A woman screamed. There was a great commotion as someone—I think it was Mrs Langton—fainted, and those around her caught her before she fell down the stairs. “Get them back,” I said.

  I knelt carefully beside the body of Lady Esther and surveyed
the room as Holmes might have done.

  She lay on the floor in the centre of the room, between the bed and the writing bureau. She was dressed in her nightgown, as white as her skin. There was not a mark on her, as far as I could tell, but her face was etched with an expression of shock and fear, such that her once delicate features were contorted, and discomfiting to look upon. There was no colour in her at all, except for the red rings about her glassy, bulging eyes, which in itself was strange. There was a mild swelling around her throat, consistent with her recent respiratory illness, but certainly not indicative of a cause of death. On closer inspection, this inflammation was accompanied by clusters of tiny red spots—a rash of some sort, already paling post-mortem.

  I checked her hands. The fingers of her right hand were bruised yellow—this was possibly from Mrs Cavendish’s overzealous grip at the séance, though it must have been forceful indeed. Her fingernails were blue. The middle fingertip of her right hand bore a superficial impression, as though she had been writing recently. Small purple spots of ink on the heel of the hand confirmed this. I glanced up at the bureau—a lamp, still burning, stood upon it, whereas I remembered that previously it had been situated on one of the nightstands. There was no sign, however, of any writing instruments or even paper. The ink spots could have been from the note she had written to me, but not the indentation. So what had she been writing?

  I continued my examination quickly, already acutely aware of Crain and Melville’s nervous tension, manifesting as great impatience. There were further bruises on her arms—nothing that would ordinarily suggest anything more than clumsiness, but too many to ignore. I recalled the way Melville had held Sally by the arms, and could not help making the association, despite my displeasure at it. I looked for any signs of poison—there was nothing on her lips, and no odour I could detect. On her left arm, however, were three small puncture marks, scabbed and mostly healed. These were too old to have contributed to Esther’s death, but were certainly cause for concern. There might be various medical reasons for such marks, of course, but I could not help but think of Holmes and his occasional dabbling in narcotic drugs by subcutaneous injection. I wondered if Crain still kept the same habit… but his sister? Until I could broach the subject with Melville, I decided for the sake of Lady Esther’s reputation to hide these marks, and so I rolled down the sleeve of the nightgown as far as I could. The only other mark I could see was a spot of blood soaked into Esther’s nightdress just above the right hip. I could not conduct a thorough examination, but pressed my thumb to the spot, feeling clearly a minor contusion, less than an inch long.

  There was nothing more I could do. I stood, and nodded to Melville and Crain. They at once rushed forward, while I tried numbly to continue my investigation of the room, turning my back upon Melville’s heart-wrenching sobs.

  The windows were shut fast. The door to the roof stair likewise, although I opened it and checked every nook and cranny for possible signs of intrusion. There was not a mark out of place. I returned to the room. The bed looked to have been slept in, at least for a short time. I found a candle in one of the nightstand drawers and lit it, carrying it carefully around the edge of the octagonal room in search of draughts, in case some secret passage presented itself, but the tower was so old and draughty all over that I could detect no particular source. There was no doubt in my mind that the cause of Lady Esther’s death was of this earth. Given her age and, supposedly, fine medical care, a natural death seemed most improbable.

  I finished my surveillance and returned to the body. The sight of that small frame, that pale skin and flowing auburn hair, was too painful to bear. I turned away, ushering Langton from the room, leaving Crain and Melville united in their grief.

  Mrs Langton was sitting in a chair on the landing, fanning herself whilst Mrs Cavendish and the vicar fussed around her. It was probably the shock, but Langton made no immediate attempt to tend to his wife.

  “Dr Watson, can you help her?” Mrs Cavendish said.

  I blinked, realising that this was the third time she had spoken my name. Shock, it seemed, affected me also.

  “Of course,” I said, weakly. “My room… I shall fetch my bag.”

  I did not get far. Around the corner came Lord Berkeley, looking more like a frightened old man than his usual formidable self. His eyes were wide and ringed with shadows. His hair was an unkempt shock of grey.

  “My… daughter,” he croaked. “Where is my daughter?”

  “She is dead.” The voice was strong, laden with doom. We all turned to see Madame Farr, fully dressed in her affectations as usual, dark eyes fixing Lord Berkeley with a singular gaze. Only then did I realise that neither she nor her fellow spiritualists had been present on the tower stair.

  “Madam, that will do!” I said.

  It was too late. Her bluntness rocked Lord Berkeley like a blow from a prize fighter. His legs buckled beneath him, and it was all I could do to catch him before he fell.

  “I did not know,” Madame Farr intoned, moving steadily towards us like a creeping spectre. “Even I did not foresee the depths of the evil in this house. The curse of the Crains is real. The Red Woman has claimed another victim.”

  Mrs Langton wailed.

  Lord Berkeley clutched at his heart, and tried in vain to speak. He sank to the floor in my arms, trembling and weak; at death’s door.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  A HOUSE IN DISARRAY

  I took Lord Berkeley’s pulse once more, as dawn’s first light at last pushed its way into the manor. His heartbeat was weak, his breaths stertorous. With great sorrow, I packed up my medical bag and left the old man’s bedroom.

  “How is he?” Crain was waiting for me in the passage, leaning against the wall, his appearance haunted. Judith stood beside him. Further down the corridor, looking awkward in each other’s company, stood Madame Farr and the Reverend Parkin.

  I took a deep breath. “It’s not good, Crain. I’ve done all I can for him, but I fear his heart is too weak to get over this shock.”

  “You can’t mean that, Watson! First Esther, and now…”

  “Crain, I would suggest you stay with him. I’m sorry to say he does not have much time left. But wait… before you go…” I hesitated, for Crain looked so thoroughly miserable that heaping any further burden upon him seemed too cruel. But who else could I trust? I took out the note I had received the previous night, and handed it to him.

  “What is this?” he asked, frowning at the paper for what seemed an age.

  “It was pushed under my door yesterday evening, shortly after that business with the Red Woman. Is that Lady Esther’s handwriting?”

  “It… yes, I think so.”

  “Then this is evidence of foul play,” I said. “She had cause to suspect Madame Farr was plotting her murder.”

  “Murder? Why on earth would she do that? Why would Esther give you this note?” Crain asked. “Why not just speak to me?”

  “She did not mention any such suspicions to you previously?”

  “No. I… That is… she made several rather fanciful allegations against Madame Farr these past months. But murder…”

  “Crain, your sister has died in the most mysterious circumstances, after having more than one rather public disagreement with Madame Farr, and wrote this note before her death. And yet you dismiss it as fanciful?”

  Crain drew himself up to his full height. “Watson, it pains me to say it, but I think perhaps Esther was more ill than I thought. Her behaviour of late has been increasingly irrational, and I have worried for her state of mind. This note is typical of her recent tricks—it was a practical joke, nothing more, and one that was in very poor taste.”

  “A practical joke? You think it is mere coincidence that Esther died just hours after writing this letter?”

  “Lady Esther,” he corrected me, sternly. “And yes, as a matter of fact I do. Madame Farr is no murderess. What could she possibly have to gain? Look—I would appreciate it if you did not
show anyone else this note, for the only evidence it provides in my view is that my sister was delusional. I would not have such a thing known, not at this sensitive time for my family.”

  “I am not sure I can promise such a thing,” said I.

  “If the authorities were to obtain this note, it would become a matter of public record. Expert witnesses would have to be called, and should they decide that Lady Esther had concocted this story—that she was… mad… think of the consequences.”

  I stared at Crain in disbelief. But what if he was telling the truth? What if Lady Esther’s illness had not been physical, but mental? Or, more probably, what if she had shared her brother’s predilection for opiates, as evinced by the marks I had seen upon her arm, and those red rings about her eyes? It would, perhaps, explain a great many things. I thought also of Melville, whom I had seen arguing with his fiancée the previous day. What if Esther had not written the letter at all, or had been coerced into doing so? I checked myself, for it was a dark train of thought indeed.

  I held out my hand. “Give me the letter, Crain,” I said. “I shall have to decide what to do with it, as my conscience dictates.”

  “I shall save you the trouble, Watson,” he snapped, and at once flung open the door to his father’s room.

  I stepped after him, torn between making a scene and preventing Crain from doing anything foolish. I was too late. He shrugged my hand from his shoulder, and threw the note into the fire, standing in the way so that I could not save it.

  “There,” he said. “Now we can have no more foolish talk, and you and I can be friends again.”

  I was aghast. I had not for a moment until that point thought that Esther was mad, but now I wondered if madness was in the blood of the entire family.