The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories - Part X

by Marcum, David;

  “Almost as if you were on a vendetta.”

  “I don’t know what came over me,” said I. “One thing, Holmes. Were we not quite rash to break through the door? What if the situation had been what we both imagined, and Fran had been Henslow’s captive? He might have had enough time to...” I left the sentence unfinished.

  “We were, but I conjectured that in a moment of surprise he would hesitate. Think of his victims, Watson. All male, human or animal, every single one. He killed within his own sex, not the opposite, unlike in other cases that have occurred.”

  “I suppose. In fact, he might not have been ready to kill a human being with his own hands yet. That’s why Aherne could save the man in the alley.”

  “Probably. Aherne and Henslow both stood at the beginning of their careers. One wonders what each of them would have done in the future, had they not encountered each other this early in their lives.”

  We walked for a few minutes in silence.

  “You know, Watson,” Holmes then said, “there is one aspect in which Henslow was quite truthful. That is, when he mentioned that he did not understand anything of scientific matters. The theft of the twenty-percent solution was entirely unnecessary. He could simply have bought a seven- or ten-percent solution and let it stand open. The solvent would have evaporated and the strength of the solution would have increased until it had reached a deadly level.”

  “How did you come upon his track so quickly?”

  “There were only two possibilities. Aherne could have administered too large a dosage to himself, either deliberately or accidentally, or the cocaine had been tampered with. A test confirmed the latter. The obvious first suspects were those with easy access to his quarters: Henslow and his mother. She was hoping to see Aherne onto the right path. She would not have presumed upon the Lord’s prerogative to punish a sinner.”

  “Do you think that’s what Henslow was trying to do? Punish a sinner?”

  “We’ll never know what he told himself he was doing. But he was following a compulsion. When the police look through his possessions, they will find a dark coat, maybe with a button missing, a fake beard. He was creating another person he could turn into as he so desired.”

  “Fran Atkins,” I reminded Holmes. “She was also in Aherne’s rooms.”

  “Indeed. And it must have been she who told Henslow that Aherne was injecting cocaine. It would appear the fair sex led astray my powers of explanation. Not for the first time, either.”

  “It is all very strange. What drew them together, Henslow and Fran?”

  “Oh, one might conjecture that they were hoping to lay hands on the money Aherne kept in his secret compartment. Lestrade will construe things that way. A clear motive, a tidy solution. She might hang, but probably she will spend her days in a Dartmoor prison.”

  “But what is the truth?”

  “Who knows? Maybe a liaison animated by shared murderous impulses. Or she was seduced by his warped desires. Or he by hers. Maybe he was becoming jealous. You could conduct some research and write a nice little story.”

  Sherlock Holmes’s voice had been losing animation. He seemed to be slipping into a mood of dejection and not to feel any further need for exchange.

  “Any other explanation?”

  He shrugged and quoted Shakespeare. “Hell is empty. The devils are here.”

  The Musician Who Spoke From the Grave

  by Peter Coe Verbica

  Chapter I: The She-Wolf

  Holmes stood at the bow window of his flat at 221b Baker Street. The late morning light illuminated his hawkish nose and the frontal lobes of his ample forehead. Mrs. Hudson cleared a small octagonal table of dishes, but the lean consulting detective remained in private reverie, ignoring the commotion. I gave her room to pass and nodded. She gave me a brief look, the corner of her lips moving slightly as if to signal her stoic consternation toward her boarder’s eccentricities.

  Walking near the fireplace mantel, Holmes retrieved his old briarwood pipe from a rack and raked some tobacco from a Persian slipper. He lit the pipe in silence, took a few puffs, and then turned toward me. His sharp and piercing eyes showed that the inner springs of his highly complex mind had just seized upon an epiphany. He beckoned me open-handedly to one of the padded wicker chairs.

  “Please, Watson, have a seat and rest a minute. I have an interesting case brewing and you could be of great assistance. It involves a popular young music teacher who recently died. He was a bit of a prodigy, and taught aspiring violinists, cellists, pianists, and harpsichordists. His tutelage mostly extended to the children and adolescents of the well-to-do and those with royal lineage. His father achieved a modicum of fame in Vienna before he married a Scotswoman. The family subsequently moved to the outskirts of London.”

  “The news seems somewhat familiar,” I offered.

  Holmes scooped up a crumpled newspaper from next to a cockeyed stack of chemistry and medical textbooks. He extracted a yellowing page and handed it to me. I looked down at the print and realized I was being supplied with the obituary from a month prior. Three entries down, I noticed the block-print of a distinguished-looking young man wearing a tilted top hat, regal tie, and ten-button white vest. His cape languished over his shoulders, held by a braided silk rope. Under his likeness were the words, “Bernhard Ainsley Fischer”.

  “Impresses me as a bit of a dandy, but, of course, I’m sorry the fellow passed,” I said. “The death reportedly was from natural causes. He fell ill one morning after posting some letters, preparing for a lesson, and eating a light breakfast.”

  “If I’m not mistaken, his much-bereaved mother is making her way up the stairs presently,” Holmes said as he strolled to the door and admitted a frail, elderly woman dressed in black. A veil covered her face. Atop her head, she wore a plain black hat adorned with a pearl-ended pin. Her shoes, more akin to boots, were worn, but still had a shine. She shuffled them on a small rug at the entrance to the room, as if determined not to bring in any fall leaves from the street.

  “Welcome, Mrs. Fischer,” Holmes began, showing the lady polite attention and guiding her to a chair.

  “No need to help me, Mr. Holmes. I may be old, but I’m not helpless,” the woman chided with a curt brogue. “I trust you received my telegram?” she asked, gripping his arm. Her thin lips stretched over widely spaced teeth.

  “Yes, Mrs. Fischer. Our sincerest condolences on your loss. Please allow me to introduce my trusted colleague, Dr. Watson.”

  Mrs. Fischer lifted her veil and studied me with tired, gray eyes. Her wan cheeks were lined with vertical striations in patterns one might find in the thin bark of a tree. She dropped into the chair closest to her, as if relieving her feet of a weight far in excess of her diminutive figure.

  “Thank you,” she murmured, then acknowledged me with a slight nod. “Doctor.” She gathered herself, then began.

  “Gentleman, I am here because my dear son, God bless his soul, was healthy as a draft horse before he began to fall ill over the final two weeks of his life. To say he died of ‘natural causes’ defies common sense. The flame of youth shone in his countenance until his passing. Inspector Lestrade refuses to listen to me. He insists that the case officially has been closed. He assured me my son’s breakfast and beverage were checked for poison, and none was found. He also said my son’s body showed no evidence of unusual marks either - not so much as a pinprick.”

  Mrs. Fischer worried the bulb of one of her knuckles. Her jaw muscles contracted as she clenched her teeth in genuine distress. Bouncing her knees involuntarily, she fidgeted as she sat.

  “Let us not worry about Mr. Lestrade, Madam. He will bask happily in the notoriety when we deduce what really happened, and let him take the credit.”

  The lady brightened marginally with the prospect of Holmes’s assistance and straightened in her chair. �
��As my father would have said, that inspector is just ‘bum and parsley’.”

  “I would offer you some tea or a brandy, but you strike me as someone who would like to get on with the task at hand,” Holmes said. “Would you be kind enough to let us look through your son’s personal effects? If you could familiarize us with his list of clients and friends, it might be of great help to Dr. Watson and me.”

  “Certainly, Mr. Holmes! Certainly,” she responded. She reached for her purse and began digging for coins.

  “Don’t worry about payment, just yet, Mrs. Fischer,” he said. “Give us time to prove our merit, and we can discuss compensation when the matter is concluded. May I ask you a personal question, madam?”

  “If it’s helpful, of course.”

  “Did your son ever borrow money from you? How were his finances?”

  “Borrow? No, no. The opposite, Mr. Holmes. He would insist on providing me with funds. Sometimes a bit too generous...”

  “Despite his taste in clothes, Mrs. Fischer?”

  “He was careful with how he spent his earnings. He rarely ate out, was not one to hang out at clubs, and would grit his teeth when sick rather than spend money on a doctor. He abhorred gambling, though he did enjoy numbers. I always thought that if he hadn’t gone into music, he would have done well as an academic, perhaps in mathematics.”

  “He didn’t seem to dress like a professor,” Holmes offered.

  “His attire, though fashionable, was never purchased during the height of a season. I’ll confess where he often obtained his clothes, but you must swear never to tell a soul.”

  “Upon the King James Bible,” Holmes answered, looking at me as if to ensure my silence. He then returned his gaze toward the grieving mother.

  Mrs. Fischer leaned forward and quietly said, “The mortuary, Mr. Holmes.”

  “Unorthodox, but eminently practical,” Holmes replied with a raised eyebrow. “Before we review your son’s belongings, may I ask what he had for breakfast before he passed away?”

  “Though I hate anchovy paste, my son would usually have Crosse & Blackwell spread on toast, an egg, and some black tea.”

  “Thank you for taking time with us this morning,” Holmes concluded. “We look forward to calling upon you shortly.”

  The elderly lady leaned forward in her seat and lifted an old needlepoint pillow from Holmes’s divan. She grimaced and bared all of her teeth like a she-wolf. In a flash, she deftly removed her hatpin, bared its six-inch needle and drove it into the cushion with menace.

  I started involuntarily and nearly tipped over in my chair in reaction.

  “Justice for my son,” she snarled. “Get me justice for my son.”

  She stood and shook both of our hands firmly. “No need to show me the door,” she declared with the same immediacy of her arrival and she left as abruptly as she had arrived.

  My eyes returned to the hat pin. Holmes grabbed the pearl end with his long, slender fingers, removed the pin, and set it upon a bookshelf next to a wooden box filled with small note cards, indexed by numerical dividers.

  “Never underestimate a woman,” Holmes said in a sotto voce to himself, as he resurrected his extinguished pipe.

  Chapter II: Flushing a Fox

  The following day, we pressed our way to Clapham, a lower but genteel neighborhood dotted with a few professional offices, as well as furnished lodgings, including the former residence of the deceased musical teacher.

  I removed my hat and let my eyes adjust to the morning light as Holmes rapped upon the door of the bachelor’s quarters. The ashen-faced lady we had met earlier opened the door to reveal a small hallway and a dim drawing room.

  She was still dressed somberly in black and shook our hands with resolve. Now, without a hat and veil, I observed wiry ringlets dropped to each side of her wrinkled face, with the balance was pulled back into a bun. She wore mother-of-pearl earrings, and I was somewhat relieved that she was without a decorative hatpin.

  After greeting us, she began with a non-sequitur: “Gentlemen, critics are the lowest forms of life. Ignorant, jealous, and devoid of any skill of their own, they nip like flies wherever they land.” She brushed her arms at imaginary insects and shuddered.

  “Some see only the thorns rather than the blossoms, Mrs. Fischer,” Holmes responded, wiping his feet on the floor mat.

  “What is the wellspring of your antipathy?” I asked, trying to discern her thoughts.

  “But for a scathing article early in Ainsley’s music career, I’m certain that my son would have risen to greater heights,” Mrs. Fischer continued, with a noticeable rasp in her voice. “He played at Covent Garden, the Philharmonic Society, and the Queen’s Hall to great acclaim - often selected as a deputy musician.”

  Holmes, in the meantime, made a discreet bee-line past an array of simple wooden chairs and stacks of violin cases to an undersized secretary. He began carefully examining the contents of its drawers. He picked up a mechanical, double-sided pencil from off of the desktop and fanned through sheets of music with it. “I’ve looked through his correspondence already in search of clues, Mr. Holmes,” the elderly lady stated, “even pulling out the drawers completely in search of hidden compartments or cubbyholes. All that I could find was a portable ledger book where he tallied student lesson charges and his orchestral earnings. You can see the initials of each student penciled in a column just after the date.”

  “Given your familiarity with your son’s work, do you mind providing the names of each of his students if possible?”

  “That would be child’s play, Mr. Holmes.” She retrieved a notebook from a shelf, flipped open a brass-topped, glass inkwell, doused a quill tip pen, and neatly wrote the following:

  JA - Jennifer Atkinson

  MP - Molly Penworth

  TU - Thomas Upham

  RT - Robert Turnbull

  CS - Clarice Sonnell

  GH - Gertrude Huber

  FB - Fannie Bottson

  JS - Jayne Smith

  MA - Maurice Appleblossom

  MN - Mary Naglee

  SR - Samuel Rothert

  AN - Anne Newberry

  DW - David Wright

  MA - Maddie Artisanson

  JB - John Beggs

  RF - Ronald Firth

  Mrs. Fischer ripped the page from the bound book, pressed it against a felt blotter, and handed it to Holmes, who pocketed the list after reviewing it quickly.

  He proceeded to unsnap the various wooden violin cases one at a time, carefully removing the instruments and their bows. He unscrewed containers of rosin and examined them briefly with a jeweler’s loupe. After inspecting the case interiors one by one, he returned the items to their cases, nestling the instruments into their burgundy-colored velvet recesses. He closed and carried each case by its brass handle and returned it to its original location.

  Holmes returned to the sheaves of music with renewed interest, holding them up to light from the window, as if searching for watermarks. Mrs. Fischer and I stood patiently to the side, like apostles waiting on a high priest. Holmes appeared to be systematically separating pieces, including the Contrapunctus from Bach’s The Art of Fugue, as well as his Canonic Variations on “Vom Himmel hoch da komm’ ich her”. He also removed a piano solo by Robert Schumann, entitled Carnaval, and Froberger’s Tombeau de M. Blancrocher. Lastly, he segregated some additional pieces by other composers, including several by Mozart.

  Holmes raised a sheet of Bach’s music and once again held it in his gaze. His eyes seemed to glisten with nearly imperceptible excitement. But for my extensive experience with him over the years, I wouldn’t have noticed the emotion.

  “Mrs. Fischer, these may be helpful,” Holmes said, organizing the items into a leather and board folio. “May I borrow them and his billing ledger for
a number of days?”

  “You may, Mrs. Holmes. My son had eclectic taste in music, but I’m not sure how sheets of musical scores will help you solve his demise...”

  Holmes gently placed his hand upon the woman’s shoulder. “Music, it has been said, soothes the soul. I’m confident we will soon flush a cunning fox from the underbrush.”

  Chapter III: A Loud Shriek

  Days passed before I saw Holmes again. I attended to a number of patients at my small medical office, including a severe case of phosphorus necrosis of the jaw which made even my worst day as an Assistant Surgeon with my regiment during the Second Afghan War seem like a lark in comparison. Run by Quakers, the match factories using white phosphorus were a blight to English society. Holmes had been quietly working with his brother, Mycroft, to press upon even His Majesty to get the manufacturers to switch to a less lethal red phosphorus. In character, Holmes never took credit when the worst of these workshops finally were shuttered.

  It had rained the night before as I made my way down a baptized Baker Street. The cobblestones were still shimmering. A shiny hansom cab dotted with beads of water passed me. The clippity-clop of horseshoes echoed against the townhouses. Clouds covered the sky overhead, darkening the spaces between tree branches despite the hour.

  Suddenly, I heard a man’s loud shriek issue from a window just above the street entrance to Holmes’s flat. I mobilized myself up the narrow stairway of 221b to find a flushed shopkeeper in his early forties standing at the top. His coat had a Swiss-canton emblem on one of the pockets - a key in fields of juxtaposed red and white. The result was a man with the appearance of a plump schoolboy. He grasped at his chest, his fleshy face twisted in terror, and a crown of perspiration adorning his brow. A salesman’s leather stationery case lay at his feet. Despite the disadvantage of coming toward him from a lower elevation, I blocked his exit until I could ascertain what was amiss.