The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories Part IV

by David Marcum

  “My age,” Mary agreed. “Not tall. I’m a bit taller than he was. He had chestnut hair and a sad, droopy mustache.”

  “Can you tell me about his hands?” Holmes asked. “In my profession, the hands are often the best method for learning a person’s habits. Were they like mine, covered in spots and plasters? I’m a chemist, you see. A glazier’s hand would be more likely to have a long scar or two. Someone who made his living outside is likely to have rougher hands. Calloused. Or someone who works with horses will have markings from where they handle the reins.”

  Mary shook her head. “No, nothing like that. I don’t think Tristan worked much, his hands were always so smooth. He had short fingers and once he was wearing a ring on his pinkie. I asked him about it but he was embarrassed. It was gone when I saw him next so he likely pawned it.”

  “Thank you, Miss Leahy,” Holmes said, standing. “I’ll trouble you for Tristan’s address and then be on my way.”

  Nodding forlornly she looked, not without trepidation, towards the door of her imprisonment. A judgement was forthcoming, with the guilt-ridden Mary willingly awaiting whatever penance the court deemed appropriate. Holmes left the young woman alone and despairing. He had an appointment to keep.

  A thin face, wide whiskers, and doleful eyes marked Fireman Second Class Tarven. “You the fellow who wrote about the cigar ash?” The fireman asked as they sat down.

  “Indeed I am,” Holmes confirmed.

  “Well, there’s not much I can tell you,” Tarven said, scratching his whispers absently. “Quick fire. No one noticed it until the whole place was ablaze. Found the corpses right quick once the flames were out. They’d been on the second floor. When it collapsed they fell right into the blaze. Likely dead before the fall from the smoke. Then some wee girl comes by asking about some bloke she’s sure was inside, and we all fall out to rake the ashes again.”

  “You found nothing?” Holmes asked for the sake of completeness.

  “Not a thing,” Tarven answered. “Just like the first time.”

  “I’ve spoken with the young lady in question,” Holmes said. “She claims one of your men told her the body may have been completely incinerated, but I find such conjecture doubtful.”

  “And you’d be right,” Tarven said. “It was a hot blaze but not near hot enough to incinerate a body. Sounds like one of the boys was telling stories.”

  “My conclusion as well, but I had to be sure.” Holmes agreed. “And the jugs containing the paraffin? Where were they found?”

  “One against the far wall,” Tarven said. “Other right next to the fireplace. Both looked to be leaking, punctured in the side. People have no sense of danger and that’s the truth. Went to one fire where some bloke tried to see how much kerosene was in a tank by the light of candle.”

  “I see.” Unwilling to spoil his experiment, Holmes resolved to inform Watson of the circumstances of Mary Leahy’s incarceration when sufficient time had passed. The Doctor always enjoyed rescuing young women and the situation might require a compassion Holmes often found tedious.

  Holmes and Tarven spoke for some time regarding their mutual interest in ash. All the world is ash, just waiting for the inferno. They discussed matters that those outside of their shared interest might have considered morbid and distasteful, but which they each found illuminating in their own ways. Holmes departed, deeply satisfied.

  He debated about making a further investigative stop. He had learned all he needed, and yet curiosity compelled him. The matter was delicate. It would not do to spoil his experiment, but then he was practised not just in interrogation but also in the casual, disinterested inquiry. He made his extra stop and decided he had sufficient time for dinner. Holmes penned his reports in the restaurant.

  At precisely half-past-eight, Holmes knocked on Mrs. Mason’s door. Her expression gave away nothing as she ushered Holmes to the drawing room and offered him refreshment. Amused as he was by her offer, he declined without comment or expression as he settled himself into an available chair. After a moment, Mrs. Mason took the seat opposite.

  “It seems to me quite fitting that we should meet again this way,” Holmes admitted. Leaning back, he examined Mrs. Mason quite frankly. “When you came to Baker Street, you confessed how my questions from two years ago troubled you. Let me admit that my observations of you two years ago puzzled me.”

  “I’m flattered,” Mrs. Mason said. “How could a simple woman like me puzzle such a mind as yours?”

  “Simple woman?” Holmes scoffed. “I might as well believe in unicorns and fairies. To be frank, I was denied sufficient information to draw meaningful conclusions. I saw the bruises, saw the evidence of poison, and the conclusion appeared obvious. Yet simply because something is obvious does not make it true. Perhaps your husband inflicted your bruises, perhaps it was not the first time, perhaps his poisoning the night of his death was the result. An obvious chain of logic, but the correct one? Did you know Norville never told the police how he learned of the affair between your husband and his wife? His wife certainly never confessed to him or to the police, yet it was clear Norville learned of the affair that day and acted as he did without forethought or planning. How did he learn of the betrayal? Who inflicted your bruising? These are the unresolved questions which troubled me. I’ll admit I could have answered both, had I been able to analyse the nature and dosage of the poison in your husband’s whiskey. I regret my failure to obtain a sample.”

  “You told me the police had no further interest in that,” Mrs. Mason said.

  “Oh, they don’t,” Holmes agreed. “It is purely a matter of personal curiosity. I wish to know.”

  Mrs. Mason shook her head. “All very interesting,” she said. “Though not something I care to discuss. I did not hire you to investigate my husband’s murder.”

  “Very true,” Holmes sighed. Leaning forward, he continued. “With regard to the blaze that killed Mrs. Norville and her child, the authorities are no longer investigating the incident. They have a young woman in custody who they may or may not charge with an offence. This young woman believes herself responsible for the fire. However, her guilt is misplaced. My investigation has revealed inconsistencies between her account and the findings of the fire brigade which point to the involvement of a young man-”

  “Young man?” Mrs. Mason asked, a tremble in her voice. “Is it - ?”

  “No,” Holmes answered. “It is not your son. The girl imprisoned for the crime was quite clear on that point. I had her describe his hands, remembering how your son, overwrought the night his father’s murder, had broken a pane of glass in the window and scarred himself. The imprisoned girl had reason to remember the villain’s hands.”

  “My son is innocent,” Mrs. Mason said, bringing her hand up to conceal her relief.

  “Yes,” Holmes confirmed. “I found no evidence to suggest your son had knowledge of the crime. It was his friend, the young man who accompanied him to work this morning.”

  “What?” Mrs. Mason gasped. “Are you certain?”

  “Of course,” Holmes replied. “He shares a motive with your son, perhaps more so, since his employment would be terminated first due to his more junior position. The woman in custody provided an adequate description of him, though she knew him by the name Tristan. His height, the ring he wears on the small finger of his left hand, his moustache - all matching the young lady’s description. He keeps his mustache well waxed but, when visiting the Norville’s, he scrubbed the wax out and allowed it hang in a melancholy fashion. A simple disguise but, combined with a change of clothes, quite effective. Still, there’s little doubt she knew him well enough to identify him once she sees him again.”

  Pulling a thick envelope from his jacket, he offered it to Mrs. Mason. “There are two reports here. The first is for you, detailing my investigation. In it I explain what I believe happened the ni
ght of the fire, the events leading up to it, and who I believe responsible for the murders. The second report is addressed to Scotland Yard. It describes my findings and outlines the investigative steps required to obtain a conviction against your son’s friend. Details, such as the room he rented to deceive the Norville’s regarding his situation, the likely source of the paraffin he purchased, the evidence which the fire brigade obtained proving how the blaze was deliberately set. You may, of course, read both reports, but you have my word there is nothing in the second report to implicate your son in any wrong doing.”

  Opening the envelope slowly, Mrs. Mason peered inside as of something fearsome lay hidden in the folds.

  “Mr. Holmes,” Mrs. Mason asked. “If I don’t give this report to the police, what will happen?”

  “Why, nothing at all Mrs. Mason,” Holmes answered her. “There is the matter of the young woman who believes she started the fire but, I wonder, is that any concern to you? That young woman may be charged, but who is to say? Your son’s friend committed a terrible crime but, horrible as it was, by preventing any claims to your husband’s estate, both you and your son benefitted from the deed. Without my report, it is unlikely the authorities will investigate further. “

  “Are you telling me I must hand a report to the police?” Mrs. Mason asked. “If I choose not to, what would you do? Would you make your report to Scotland Yard regardless?”

  Holmes stood, reaching for his coat and hat. “I believe our business here is concluded. I look forward to learning what you will do with your report. A little experiment if you will, relating to one of my old cases. Good evening Mrs. Mason, no need to show me out. I remember the way.”

  The Adventure at the Beau Soleil

  by Bonnie MacBird

  We all have our personal weaknesses, and neither I nor my friend Sherlock Holmes are exceptions. It is easy to note one’s friends’ idiosyncrasies, but I’m not without my own occasional indiscretions, particularly gambling. As a young man I had not yet developed the fortitude to resist the occasional wager which I could not truly afford. And so it was, in November of 1889, that I found myself, as a result of a single ill-considered bet regarding the lineage of a friend’s dog, suddenly and catastrophically without funds.

  It was still early in my marriage to Mary Morstan, and I was particularly eager to make up this lost sum quickly and to keep the circumstances of it from my young wife, if not my friend Sherlock Holmes.

  It was with great relief, then, that a visit to Holmes launched us on a long and complex case which offered not only a welcome distraction to my paltry medical practice, but the possibility of a sizable reward as well. Mary had been called away to yet another friend’s sickbed, and I was free to travel with Holmes to the South of France, where one way or another, I might make up for my indiscretion.

  I have recounted this larger case elsewhere in a tale I call “Unquiet Spirits”. It took us abroad, first to the South of France and eventually to Scotland in a curious adventure concerning spirits, both of an alcoholic and a spectral nature.

  But it was a single incident during this case which I wish to relate to you now, as it afforded one of the clearest, and most remarkable examples of that facility for observation and deduction which was the hallmark of my friend’s method.

  It was late November when we arrived in Nice on the Train Bleu, thankfully escaping the bitterness of an early winter. Enroute I discovered to my surprise that Sherlock Holmes, like myself, had embarked on this journey with practically no cash on hand.

  Despite a past year of triumphs, Holmes had somehow managed to accrue little in the way of remuneration. I will not linger on my theories as to why, but will only say that as for many gentlemen, the subject of money was abhorrent to him.

  As we arrived at the train station in Nice, it became suddenly clear that we had but one pound and a few pence between us.

  “Holmes, I had no idea that you were without funds! Did you suppose that I had enough to sustain us on this journey?”

  “Not at all, Watson. I saw your situation immediately when you arrived at Baker Street yesterday.”

  “How?

  “The cuffs of your shirt, and your hair, of course.”

  “Oh, really, Holmes!” I had begun to sweat in my winter suit, and signaled for a porter.

  “No, we will carry our own bags. In answer, Watson, it was the overlooked small ink stain on your right cuff, about which you are normally fastidious, and the self-inflicted haircut - you could not quite reach the back - both of which indicate an effort to save funds.”

  “Perhaps I have just been busy!”

  “You’ve had few patients, Watson. I know that for a fact.”

  We struggled with our bags toward the waiting cabs. The bright sun felt blinding.

  “Have you been spying on me? How?” I asked, shielding my eyes.

  Holmes smiled. “Tut tut, Watson, you know my methods. There is little in London that escapes my view if I choose to attend to it.”

  “But my practice! Surely that is beneath your notice?”

  “Watson, your association with me has brought you to the attention of some unsavory characters. I keep a watchful eye on you for that reason. I hope you will forgive me.”

  While I later grew to appreciate Holmes’s benevolent interest, at that moment it rankled. “Fine,” I said, none too amiably, “but what are we to do now? We cannot afford a hotel.”

  “That, dear friend, is a problem I have solved in advance. Come. We have just enough for a cab and a bite of lunch.”

  After a brief ride through Nice, we found ourselves shortly at the Hotel Beau Soleil, an establishment which Holmes knew well. There, he said, we would be lodged for free, courtesy of an old acquaintance, one Monsieur Dulac, the hotel detective.

  Despite the cheery exterior of pink stucco nestled in palm trees and a riot of bright flowers, the interior of the Beau Soleil was a study in faded grandeur. Its cracked marble flooring, worn sofas, and drooping palms spoke of better days.

  As we had to wait in line behind several others for the single, languid desk clerk, I distracted myself by attempting to observe the three in line ahead of me, as Holmes might. At the head were an elderly Russian couple whose proud carriage and once expensive clothing announced they could be of royal blood. Behind them was a well-tailored Englishman with sleekly styled hair and a polite manner. A rising businessman, I inferred confidently, from his highly groomed appearance - and a kind one, as well. I observed him gently directing the older couple toward the elevator after they had received their key.

  But at last we were handed our own keys, and soon discovered that our courtesy lodging was to be single, cramped room which we were to share. This contained two hard beds, a broken armoire, and just enough floor space to accommodate our valises. A small, dusty window faced the back of the hotel, and when I finally forced it open, it proved to be situated directly above the rubbish bins. A ripe and fishy aroma assailed me. I slammed the window shut.

  Holmes was already stretched out on the bed farthest from the window. He did not move.

  “Who is this M. Dulac who has been so ‘generous’?” I asked.

  “A reasonably competent house detective. I assisted him once and he invited me to stay for free in return for consulting on any matters which may arise during my stay. I have no doubt that such a case will present itself, and soon.”

  “He should only get half a case for this sorry room,” said I.

  To appease my grumbling, Holmes suggested lunch, and we pooled our meager resources to visit the hotel restaurant, so confident was he that our fortunes were about to change.

  This once grand dining area had tall arched windows looking toward the sea, a profusion of weeping ferns, and pink tablecloths the colour of the stucco exterior. A rather gaudy pink and green Oriental china service covered the
tables, and a single, forlorn waiter bustled between the three or four groups of diners.

  We ordered and Holmes began to discourse on the merits of the South of France, the village of Èze, Provençal cooking, and particularly the lavender fields nearby which supplied so many cologne manufacturers.

  As he rattled on, revealing a remarkable but tedious depth of horticultural knowledge, my attention wandered to a curious tableau across the room. A woman of perhaps fifty, with an enormous bosom, many jewels, and a large feather in her hair was holding court at a table. With her were a small boy, a very old man, and the same handsome younger gentleman who had been in front of us in line at reception.

  This suave fellow was energetic and solicitous in the extreme to all three of the others. I now realized he probably was not a businessman, but connected in some way to this family. His attentions to the small boy seemed to be instructive; he gave directions to the child to sit up, place his napkin in his lap, and the like. The boy complied with visible resentment and I smiled, remembering the efforts of my poor mother when I was that tender age.

  The older gentleman, however, drew my attention. There was something very peculiar about him. He had a wild mane of vivid red hair, evidently dyed, as white roots were in evidence. He was toying oddly with his meal.

  Suddenly, without warning, he started to flip his food across the table, using his spoon as a kind of catapult. The boy found this hilarious, though the other two were appalled.

  “Watson,” said Holmes sharply. “I perceive that lavender farming is not of interest to you. What is so funny?”

  “Haven’t you noticed the bizarre little group at the table over there?”

  “Of course. Try not to stare.”

  “What do you make of it, Holmes?”

  “A tragedy in the making. Nothing to laugh about.”

  “Really? How so?”

  “I recognize the elderly gentleman. He is the Count of Marne LeCroix. French, but he taught at Camford. He was once a renowned scholar and professor, and is now clearly senile. His wife has ceased to love him, and he is unsafe, even in the bosom of his own family.”