The Sherlock Holmes Megapack: 25 Modern Tales by Masters: 25 Modern Tales by Masters

by Michael Kurland

  Perkins nodded in bewilderment, while Lady Morris sobbed.

  “But, Perkins, why?” she cried.

  “Madam,” Holmes interjected, “Perkins was acting out of a misguided sense of loyalty. However, I am afraid I must point out that Lord Morris’s present behaviour deserved no such fidelity or respect. In truth, Lady Morris, he has used you horribly. Of late, Lord Morris had become romantically involved with an actress. Unfortunately, as I found out yesterday, she, too, had been the victim of a husband with a roving eye, and from him, she had contracted a morbus venerius. She, in turn, passed this disease on to your husband who, unable to cope with the shame, decided to take his own life.”

  “He’s right, Lady Morris. I came upon the lord, weeping in his study on Thursday. He tried to compose himself and mentioned an ailing friend, but when I observed the doctor’s bill upon his desk, he broke down and confessed everything to me.

  “Essentially, he and I grew up together, and I suppose, at that moment, he had to confide in someone. It was also at that time that I noticed the derringer in a drawer of his desk. I had never seen it before, so naturally I thought the worst.

  “Later that evening, I returned to the study and removed the bullet from the breech of the gun, putting it in a pocket of my frock-coat. I knew it wasn’t my place to do so, but I hoped that if Lord Morris knew that I had figured out his intention, somehow, it might deter him.

  “The following night, when I heard the shot, I knew immediately what had happened. As I walked down the hall, I reached into my pocket for a key to the study, in case it should have been necessary, and I found the bullet. The rest is as Mr Holmes said, though I have no idea how he could have known it. Please, Lady Morris, you must understand that I was simply trying to protect Lord Morris.”

  “At great risk to the health of Lady Morris,” chided Holmes.

  “Holmes, how did you know it was a suicide?” asked the inspector.

  “As Dr Watson said, the posture of the body and the wound were all consistent with suicide. Why would a killer want to make a crime scene which looks exactly like a suicide look like that of a murder? Also, there was no sign of an intruder. As I said before, how could the butler come into the room within one minute of the shot’s being fired and not have discovered the killer going through the appointment book or the cabinets? There really weren’t terribly many papers lying about on the floor, but to a butler it would seem like this degree of dishevelment was consistent with a robbery of some sort.

  “No, Nicholson, only the body seemed to be undisturbed. All else seemed rearranged, and there was only one person we knew of who would have had the opportunity to alter the room’s appearance. Given all this, all I had to do was discover the reason for the suicide. This proved more time-consuming than I had anticipated.”

  “What about the man in the broad-brimmed hat?”

  “That, Nicholson, was Lord Morris’s physician, Dr Edmund Samuels. According to this telegram I received today, he had come here on Wednesday to examine Lord Morris. He has promised to contact you, as well, Lady Morris, tomorrow.”

  “Well, I suppose I must now decide how to proceed in the matter.”

  “Inspector Nicholson, as you and several of your colleagues have already learned, your career can only benefit from working with me from time to time and by placing the utmost trust in my conclusions. However, just because I, who am in no way connected with the official police, have come to this particular conclusion does not mean that you, Inspector, are in any way officially obliged to accept or act upon it.”

  “Thank you, Mr Holmes. I shall take that under consideration.”

  Privileging honour over self-advancement, Nicholson never did officially solve the murder of Lord Morris, a momentary setback in a career which would soon be redeemed by many successes.

  At that moment, however, Holmes and I were still unsure of the outcome. It was already growing dark as we made our way home, and outside our cab, a wind had begun to blow from the east, and the snow had finally begun to fall.

  THE ADVENTURE OF THE MIDNIGHT SÉANCE, by Michael Mallory

  “More tea, ma’am?” our maid Missy asked, shattering the light doze that had fallen over me. “Oh, I’m sorry, ma’am, were you nodding?”

  “Only slightly,” I responded, with a yawn. Ever since John and I had returned from our brief sojourn in America I had slept poorly, which made for sluggish, tiring days.

  Not so my husband, who had returned energized, leaping back into his medical practise with a vengeance after having abandoned it to take on the role of public speaker, touring and lecturing about his great and good (and now absent) friend, Mr Sherlock Holmes.

  Making a mental note to speak to John about this beastly fatigue, I settled on the chaise and began pursuing a new book, shutting out the rest of the wet afternoon. My reading was interrupted only once, by the delivery of a letter for my husband, and I found myself halfway through the tome when John arrived home, sprinkling bits of rain onto the rug from his hat and greatcoat.

  “A letter came for you, darling,” I informed him, and while he tore open the envelope I resumed reading. But my concentration was shattered a moment later at his exclamation of:

  “Great Scott! Rupert Mandeville! I haven’t thought of him in years. He and I were in the Afghanistan together. What could he want with me now?” He read further and I noticed his face darkening. “He appears to be in trouble,” he went on. “He is asking for my assistance. Says I’m the only one he can trust!”

  “A man he has not seen in twenty-five years is the only one he can trust?”

  “He says it is a matter of life and death and only I can help,” John declared. “I will go to him at once.”

  “John, please, we have only arrived back home. Must you go running off so soon?”

  “A former comrade of mine requires my help, Amelia,” he replied, simply. “You cannot imagine what it is like to be in the midst of battle, forging bonds with the other soldiers that last a lifetime. Bonds such as those cannot be broken by something so transitory as time. They are as strong as—”

  “As the bonds of marriage?” I interjected.

  “Yes, precisely,” he answered, his hair once more ruffling from the force of the irony that just went soaring over his head. Oh, whatever was I going to do with this man?

  “I can rearrange my schedule,” he said, “and I should only be gone for a few days. Besides, I’ve always wanted to see the Lizard.”

  “Your friend lives at Lizard?” I wailed, remembering a childhood visit to that prehistoric, rocky peninsula at the island’s southernmost point and further remembering having loathed every second spent there. “Wasn’t visiting America bad enough?”

  “Really, Amelia, where is your spirit of adventure?”

  “In this chair, where it belongs,” I replied, holding up my book. “However, I suppose there is no way that I, merely your wife, can prevent you from going, so I shall begin packing in the morning.”

  “There is no need for you to accompany me,” he said, and as I glanced at his handsome face, taking in the sudden flush of excitement that belied his fifty-two years, I could not help but smile.

  “Of course there is,” I responded. “Who else will keep you safe?”

  The next day we found ourselves being jostled through crowded Waterloo Station, ready to begin the journey that would take us to the village of Helmouth, which was tucked among the rocks somewhere in Cornwall. John’s youthful glow had since faded somewhat, though his excitement remained high.

  “Do you really think this is a matter of life and death?” I asked as we steamed and rattled our way out of station.

  John sat back against the seat in the compartment and lit his first pipe of the journey. “The fact that he used those very words is what is so disturbing about this matter,” he said. “The Mandeville I knew was not one given to exaggeration.”

  I glanced out at the cold, wet day. “I trust someone is meeting us at the station in Hel
mouth.”

  John’s face fell. “Oh, dear,” he uttered.

  “John, you did send notification to your friend that we were coming, didn’t you?”

  “I fear I forgot. In the past, it was Holmes who had always taken care of such details.”

  “Well,” I sighed, “ready or not, Mr Mandeville, here we come.” John took the opportunity to retreat, rather sheepishly, into his newspaper while I contented myself with staring out the window at the countryside, which was verdant under the veil of rain.

  Getting to the village of Helmouth, however, proved even more tiring and time-consuming than I had imagined. By the time we actually set foot on the train platform I felt as though we had been travelling for days. While I supervised the collection of our few bags, John went into the stationmaster’s office to engage a carriage to take us to Rupert Mandeville’s home.

  It turned out to be an open carriage, and by the time we had arrived at the bleak-looking, multi-gabled house that was perched over the cliffs at a point that appeared to be the end of the world, my face had been so stung by the cold that it was completely numb. I had become so frozen, in fact, that I barely had enough movement in my limbs to step down from the carriage in front of the stark edifice belonging to Rupert Mandeville.

  John knocked on the great front door, which was soon opened by an elderly, prim-looking servant. “Yes sir,” he said, screwing his face up against the cold wind.

  “Dr and Mrs John Watson to see Rupert Mandeville,” he announced, but this only seemed to confuse the servant.

  “I was informed of no one’s arrival,” he countered.

  “Mr Mandeville invited me by his own hand,” John said. “We’ve come from London.”

  Now another man appeared in the doorway, a darkly handsome fellow of perhaps a year or two over twenty, but whose cool eyes emitted the blasé attitude of a jaded elder.

  “What is it, Jenkins?” the youth demanded.

  “Mr Phillip, this man says the master sent for him,” Jenkins replied.

  “Impossible,” the young man said, frowning.

  “But I have his letter!” John protested. This was quickly followed by another, lighter voice, which called: “Dr Watson, is that you?”

  “Yes!” John confirmed as another young man appeared at the door. This one bore a strong resemblance to one called Phillip, but was considerably younger and softer, perhaps still in his teen years. I took them for brothers. “Father spoke of you often,” the younger man said, “please come in.”

  “Edward, what is this about?” the elder, darker brother demanded, but before the doe-like youth could answer, yet another voice was heard, this one shouting: “Good God, close that door! It’s cold as a barn in here!”

  A third youth then appeared, this one so identical to Phillip that I assumed they must have been twins. Only a pair of wire spectacles on the face of the newly-arrived brother distinguished him from his sibling.

  Once inside (which was thankfully warm, courtesy of a raging fire in the hearth), John handed his letter of invitation to Phillip, who grimly examined it before inquiring, “When did you receive this?”

  “Yesterday,” John answered.

  The twins glanced at each other. “A pretty trick,” the bespectacled pronounced.

  “Indeed,” echoed the other. “Since you are here, I suppose I should be civil. I am Phillip Mandeville, and these are my brothers Charles and Edward. And frankly, I am quite puzzled by this note.”

  “Perhaps your father could straighten this matter out,” John said. “Might I see him?”

  “I’m afraid not,” Phillip stated. “Father was buried a fortnight ago.”

  “A fortnight?” John cried. “Then how could I receive—?”

  “My question exactly,” Phillip said.

  After a long, uncomfortable pause, Edward Mandeville spoke up. “I wrote the letter,” he said. “I copied father’s handwriting and posted it without your knowing, Phillip.”

  The anger and frustration that this confession provoked from Phillip Mandeville was tangible, and for a moment I was afraid he might actually strike his younger brother.

  “You know how father spoke of Dr Watson,” Edward continued defensively. “You know how he read and collected his stories about Sherlock Holmes. Father knew someone was trying to kill him, and I thought Dr Watson would be able to help. After hearing the circumstances of father’s murder, I hoped he would be able to get Sherlock Holmes involved.”

  Involving Sherlock Holmes would, of course, have been impossible, since he was off somewhere working on his own, labouring over a long, difficult, and quite personal case. So long and difficult, in fact, that he had put forth the story that he had relocated to Sussex to keep bees. But only John, Mr Holmes’s brother Mycroft, and myself knew this, and while we knew the truth behind his “retirement,” even we did not know where he was.

  “Edward, for once and for all, nobody killed father,” Phillip said through clenched teeth. “His death was perfectly natural.”

  “A dickey ticker,” Charles confided to us, tapping his chest for illustration.

  “But I spoke with him repeatedly,” Edward shot back, “and father believed he was being poisoned.”

  “Believed, Edward, believed!” Phillip cried. “You know that father was not himself in the last few months. He was delusional.”

  “I refuse to believe that,” Edward muttered.

  “I am sorry to have intruded,” John said. “Perhaps it is best that we go and leave this house to its mourning.”

  “Leave?” I moaned. “Now? John, I simply cannot face that train trip back tonight.”

  “We shall stay the night in the village, then,” John decided. “Is there an inn near here?”

  “Phillip,” said Edward, “it is my fault they are here, and I would feel terrible turning them away. Can’t we at least let them stay the night?”

  “Let them stay where, Eddie?” Charles challenged, “the guest room is already taken.”

  “Father’s room is unoccupied,” the boy replied.

  “Father’s room?” the twins shouted in unison.

  “We cannot simply turn them away on a night like this.”

  “Oh, very well,” Phillip sighed, adding under his breath, “though I cannot imagine a worse time for visitors. Jenkins, put a fire in father’s room. I will ask Cook to prepare some dinner for the two of you.” With that, he spun around and marched out away.

  “You know, dear brother, you have a positive genius for making things difficult for us,” Charles declared to Edward before likewise turning and leaving.

  “I guess it’s up to me, then, to show you to your room,” Edward said, instructing Jenkins to bring our bags.

  As we proceeded to the heavy-balustered, oaken staircase, we passed a dining room in which a large oblong table was set for something other than a meal, unless one was accustomed to dining with black candles. All the drapes in the room were drawn closed, behind the head of the table was a large wooden box that I recognized from a picture in a magazine as a medium’s cabinet.

  The room was set up for a séance! Edward must have noticed me staring, for he said: “I fear my brother Charles has a passion for spiritualism. A medium is staying with us; she is the one in the guest room. I find it thoroughly immoral. Come, this way.”

  Save for its chill, the room to which Edward led us could not have been bettered by the finest inn in the realm. There was a huge, four-poster bed and an ornate hearth, which Jenkins swiftly packed with logs and lit. Every wall was adorned with paintings and tapestries.

  Once Jenkins had accomplished his tasks and left, Edward opened up. “I really feel I need to apologize for my brothers,” he said. “They have always tended to treat me like a child, but of late…well, I had no idea Phillip would react this way.”

  “Why did you send that letter after your father was already dead?” John asked, draping his greatcoat over a chair near the hearth.

  “I thought that if the appeal f
or help came from him, you would respond more so than if it had come from me—someone you had never met. And you did respond. I know it is too late to save father, but I pray now that his killer can be caught.”

  “You are convinced that he was murdered?” I asked.

  “Absolutely convinced,” Edward said. “You see, I am younger than Phillip and Charles, and because of that I had a different relationship with father than they did. We confided in each other. He knew he was being poisoned, Mrs Watson. He was not delusional, nor was he imagining things, despite what my brothers say.”

  “Do you know why anyone would want to kill him?” John asked.

  “No,” Edward replied.

  “Did your father name a primary heir in his will?” I asked.

  “We assume it is Phillip, who is the eldest, though only by couple minutes. You have probably already figured out that Phillip and Charles are twins. But we cannot know for certain because father’s will was nowhere to be found at the time of his death. Phillip has turned this house upside-down looking for it, while Charles conducts those unspeakable—” His mouth seemed to fill with too much distaste to go on.

  “Let me guess,” I interjected, “Charles is attempting to raise the spirit of your father to find out where the will is.”

  Edward nodded. “To that end he has brought into this house a woman who calls herself Madame Ouida. She is the one conducting these disgraceful séances.”

  I glanced at John before asking: “Has anything resulted from these disgraceful séances?”

  “I have no firsthand knowledge of them, since I refuse to attend them,” Edward replied. “I consider them an affront to father’s memory. But common sense informs me that the only thing conjured up as a result of Madame Ouida is folly.”