The Murder of Sherlock Holmes

by David Fable

  He ushered us into a rather cheerfully furnished flat with yellow floral upholstered furniture and yellow walls covered with rather beautiful botanical drawings. The entire perimeter of the ceiling had been wonderfully stenciled with a grapevine pattern. Sitting in an overstuffed chair with her stare fixed on the fireplace was Lilah Church. She was made up like a painted bird. Her eyes were lined in blue with a shade of yellow powdered on the lids beneath her arched eyebrows. Her lips had a deep-red coating and some of that same red had been rubbed into the pale skin of her cheeks. On her head was a satin hat with a flurry of white feathers pointing straight back as if she were facing a strong headwind, and she was dressed in a white tea gown as one might wear to a garden party. On her feet she wore powder-blue ballet slippers. She was motionless and rigid and did not acknowledge our presence in any way. In her rather colorful appearance you might have thought she was a mannequin from a department store placed in that chair next to the fire.

  “Mother loves this music,” hollered Alexander as he hurried over and turned off the gramophone. She did not react to the sudden absence of music.

  “This is Christopher Hudson,” I said with a gesture to my companion.

  “I am Alexander Hollocks, and this is my mother, Lilah Church,” he said motioning to the unmoving, painted creature in the chair. He held out his hand to shake with Christopher.

  “Forgive me, Alexander,” I said politely, “but, although you recognize me, I do not remember ever meeting you.”

  He covered his mouth and made several thoughtful puffing sounds as if suddenly realizing the accuracy of this observation. “Quite right. We’ve never formally met, but being part of Mr. Holmes’s outer circle, I feel I know you, Doctor.”

  The young man was beginning to puzzle me. “Perhaps you could describe what you mean by 'outer circle,’ Alexander,” I said. Christopher was observing him closely as I had by now learned was his habit when he felt the subject had pertinent information to impart.

  “Perhaps you should describe it first, Doctor Watson, for Mr. Holmes always demanded discretion, and it is you who have come to us,” he countered and gave a shrewd tilt of his head.

  I decided to be perfectly direct. “I know that Holmes has been paying the rent for this flat for these last five years, and I would like to know the reason why.”

  A wave of relief seemed to wash over the young man and all evasiveness was dropped. “I am so glad you are aware of that. Now I feel free to answer your questions. May I speak freely in front of Mr. Hudson?” Alexander smiled apologetically at Christopher. “No offense meant, sir.”

  “Anything you can say to me can be said to Mr. Hudson with the utmost trust.”

  “Very well then. First may I offer you something? Tea? It might be a bit too early for sherry, or I have some excellent bottled wheat beer.” His cordiality returned instantly, and I was surprised to find myself warming to this young man.

  “Thank you, no,” I said politely.

  Our host turned toward Christopher, beaming. “The beer is made in Germany. You should really try it.”

  “Too early for me.” Christopher smiled back.

  “Come sit. I suspect we have a lot to discuss,” he said cheerily and led us to one of the overstuffed couches, which were overflowing with finely embroidered pillows. Some were copies of the botanical images on the wall, and one was of the view of the grounds of Bedlam from the female patients’ gallery. I glanced over at Lilah. She had not moved a muscle. I was tempted to start the conversation by asking about her, but trusted that explanation would come in the due course.

  Alexander settled into an armchair across from us and took out a package of cigarettes. He offered us one and we declined. “Your landlady was not very inviting,” I informed him. “On my first visit she told me no one lived here.”

  “Oh, yes. Old Miss McEwen can be rather protective of her turf. She can chase off wild dogs if she has a mind to.” Christopher chose not to contradict him on this point.

  Alexander lit a cigarette and blew out the match with a stream of smoke and settled back in his chair. He had a certain dandyish quality that I have always abhorred, but there was none of the petulance that sometime accompanied that sort of personality. He was courteous and frank, which I appreciated. “Let me start by saying that I consider myself a bastard. Not in the traditional sense, but in the sense that my mother and I were abandoned by my father when I was quite small. My father, let us say, captivated my mother when she was seventeen. He was a very worldly man. At least, that is what my mother told me. His name was Hermes Hollocks. He was a Frenchman who exported wines and delicacies from his home country. They met in London while my father was on business.”

  To my surprise, Christopher interrupted. “Is this narrative going to answer the question of why Mr. Holmes is financing your apartment?”

  “Indeed, it will,” answered Alexander with equilibrium. “But I must give you some context.” This appeared to quell Christopher’s impatience temporarily, and he sat back resigned to listen. “As I was explaining,” continued Alexander, “my mother became pregnant quite quickly after their introduction. My father decided it would be best to move from his home in Brittany to a cottage in Sussex. That is where I was born. My mother was deeply in love with my father, and all seemed to go well for a year until he left us, never to return. He provided us with an allowance that arrived from Brittany by mail every few months, but, other than that, we were thoroughly abandoned. The reason for his leaving is unknown to me. I was little more than one year, and Mother was only eighteen herself. We lived in virtual isolation in that cottage for five years, at which time the money stopped arriving. During those years alone, Mother became more and more depressed and agitated. Believing that she could convince him to come back, she determined that we should go to Brittany and find my father. She took me across the Channel, and there we stayed for the next three years. She secured a job in a linen store in Rennes, and, in the evenings, she would search for my father, asking people if they knew of him and trying to trace him down through business contacts. Occasionally, she found someone who remembered him, but no one had seen him in years. I assumed he was dead. Finally, she gave up and we returned to England. We moved into a one-room flat in Harrow. Mother supported us by doing piecework and embroidery. I was able to get a job in a factory spooling thread. In 1899 we moved to the East End. The Marxists and radicals started to show up, and Mother participated in a worker’s strike. During a protest she was badly beaten. It affected her eyesight for a time, and she could no longer work. Her mental state deteriorated until one day she showed up on the doorstep of Mr. Holmes at Baker Street. She was having delusions that Parliament was after her for being a French spy and wanted to execute her.” Alexander began to tear up, and he stopped for a moment. “Mr. Holmes was so kind,” he said stifling his tears. “Of course, you know that Mother was one of his Irregulars.”

  “I am well aware of that. I myself remember her as a child,” I said with a wistful smile.

  “Mr. Holmes more than generously arranged for us to have this apartment and has paid the rent ever since, asking us not to disclose the arrangement to anyone. A modest and righteous man, he is…was.” His voice dropped off with the last word.

  “Well, that’s quite a yarn,” said Christopher with a discernible edge of sarcasm.

  “I’m sorry if I bored you,” Alexander sniffed, sounding insulted.

  “Not at all. I like a good story.” There appeared to be a natural antipathy between these two young men. I had noticed Christopher to be rather clinical with most people at first meeting, but with Alexander he was quite engaged in an almost competitive way. “Why did you commit your mother to Bethlem Hospital?” Christopher asked pointedly.

  “Because of the suicide attempt. She threw herself in the river. Fortunately, she was rescued by a port authority boat.”

  The fire crackled, and, looking over, I noticed that Lilah had moved. Her palms, which had been on the arms of the c
hair, were now on her thighs, and she was slightly leaned forward as if staring more deeply into the fire.

  “And why did you take her out of the hospital?” asked Christopher without softening. It was as if he was accusing Alexander of exploiting his mother in some way.

  “She called for me. She was so disturbed by Mr. Holmes’s death that she wanted me to come get her. Frankly, for those few days thereafter, she was as lucid as I’ve seen her in years. She told me that you had visited the hospital, Doctor.”

  “I see. So she recognized me.” I thought back to the cryptic smile she gave me that day. “May we speak to her?”

  “As you can see, she is in one of her states. It could last many more hours. The doctors say it’s a form of catatonia brought on by either depression or brain injury. She will not speak nor understand anything spoken to her.”

  “When does she come out of it?” asked Christopher.

  “Eventually, she will sleep and then awake in a weakened state.”

  Christopher strolled to her side and gazed at her profile. There was absolutely no indication that the woman sensed anyone was there. “I’ll have some of that tea now,” declared Christopher.

  Alexander seemed suspicious of this sudden request but remained outwardly gracious. “My pleasure. I’ll put the kettle on. Doctor?”

  “None for me,” I responded. Alexander turned and disappeared into the kitchen through a swinging door.

  Christopher had already noticed a sewing basket lying on a footstool by the hearth. He quickly retrieved one of Lilah’s embroidery needles and brought it back to her chair. Bending over, he firmly poked the top of Lilah’s slippered foot. She did not flinch nor move a muscle. I drew closer to observe. He poked the back of her hand. Still no reaction. He looked over at me. “Well, he isn’t lying about that.”

  “Definitely some form of stupor,” I confirmed.

  Satisfied, Christopher returned the needle to the sewing basket, but not soon enough to avoid being seen by Alexander as he emerged from the kitchen.

  “You mother does some excellent needlework,” Christopher said as he pretended to rifle through the contents of the basket in admiration.

  Apparently this ploy covered the deed adequately, for Alexander seemed unbothered and answered with pride, “She hasn’t lost a bit of her skill.”

  Christopher straightened up with his hands behind his back and pasted on a smile. Alexander returned the same insincere smile and there was an awkward moment of silence.

  “Let me tell you why we’ve come here today, Alexander,” I said, growing somewhat uneasy with the apparent friction between the two men. “In his will Mr. Holmes left your mother five hundred pounds and a very comfortable stipend in the amount of fifty pounds per month until her death.”

  “In his will, you say? Mother…?” He seemed quite stunned by this information.

  “Yes. As your story confirms, he had a long-standing concern for her. I am executor of the estate, and, therefore, it is my duty to come here and inform you of this and make all necessary arrangements.”

  “I…handle all of Mother’s affairs,” he answered in a fumbling manner that seemed designed to make him not sound too anxious.

  “Of course you do, but I should like to have a conversation with her when she is…in a better state of mind,” I said gently.

  “And that is certainly as it should be,” responded Alexander. The kettle whistled in the kitchen. He turned to attend to it.

  “I think I’ll skip the tea,” said Christopher. “Doctor Watson and I have to be going. Isn’t that right, Doctor?”

  “Yes, quite true.” I was more than happy to end this visit. “You should attend to your mother. Turn the music back on for her. Maybe you have some Chopin.”

  “Mother likes popular music,” Alexander said as he hurried into the kitchen to turn off the stove. Within a moment, he whisked back into the sitting room. “Well, thank you for coming,” he said, with hand extended. “It is certainly welcome news you have brought. A shame it has to come as result of such a tragedy.”

  “As they say in France, 'C’est des conneries complet,’” responded Christopher and heartily shook Alexander’s hand.

  Alexander smiled back, “Yes, of course. Looking forward to your next visit. I will call you when Mother is back to herself.” He led us to the door and closed it behind us. The ragtime music started playing again before we hit the stairs.

  We descended to the first floor and saw that the knife had been removed from the wall leaving a small gash. Walking out the front door into the sunlight made me feel gratefully free of the building. Despite the bright furnishings of Lilah’s apartment, there was something terribly oppressive about that Gothic structure. I did not look forward to visiting it again and resolved that my next visit with Lilah Church should take place in a happier setting.

  “So what’s your reaction to that bunch of lies, Doctor?” asked Christopher pointedly before we even reached the sidewalk. Even for Christopher this was a very blunt reaction.

  “You seemed to have had an immediate antagonism toward that young man,” I said.

  “I don’t trust him. There’s an unctuousness and false humility.” We climbed into the automobile. He started it up and let the engine run.

  “He seems to care very much for his mother,” I said not having any particular reason to defend him.

  “It would appear. However, I have my doubts as to the fact that she is his mother,” he said, staring forward across the hood of the Daimler.

  “Why should he lie about such a thing, and how could he have come up with that whole story about Hermes Hollocks? We certainly know the man existed and lived in that cottage with the girl and the child.”

  “And then he disappeared into thin air.”

  “What are you suggesting? That they murdered him? The boy was one year old and she was eighteen.” Christopher was letting his personal feelings interfere with his logic. A dangerous trap which one should stay alert to at all times.

  “I don’t know what I’m suggesting except that we have only a small part of the story with many inconsistencies,” he said, softening a bit. “Let me ask you this question. Don’t you think that a child who spent his formative years across the Channel would know some French?”

  “I would expect so.”

  “The French phrase that I spoke to him, do you know what it means?”

  “I don’t speak a word of French.”

  “I said, 'This is complete horseshit.’ Alexander’s response was to smile and shake my hand.”

  “Perhaps he was merely being polite in not pointing out your lack of command of the language.” I knew this was a rather flimsy argument, but I felt an urge to make it. Christopher’s reasoning seemed so far afield that I didn’t want to let it go unchallenged.

  “He claims they spent three years in France but they have not one single French item in the room. Not one single memento.” He looked over at me as if expecting a counterargument. I didn’t offer one. Assuming some sort of victory from my silence, he pulled away from the curb. “Honk!” A bus roared by, swerving to avoid us.

  “Mr. Hudson, you are on the verge of getting yourself fired as my chauffeur.” Christopher looked over at me, chastened by the near miss, then carefully pulled into traffic.

  “You’re suspicions are superfluous, Christopher. We’ve accomplished our purpose for today, that of informing them about the bequest. We shall speak to Lilah when she emerges from this… condition.”

  “I would like to administer some diethylbarbituric acid and question her,” grumbled Christopher. “That might help get at the truth.”

  “Now you suspect her of something? For goodness’ sake, the woman has been in a lunatic asylum for over a year.”