“Perhaps they had done nothing - yet,” replied Holmes, “but who knows what they might have accomplished as they grew into maturity? Now, because of your avarice, we will never know.”
“You’re as soft as the rest of them,” she wailed. “But I tell you, I will not stand trial and be judged by my peers.” As she said this, she quickly poured herself another cup of tea, adding two spoons of sugar and milk, and began to drink.
“Watson, stop her,” yelled Holmes. Even as I sprang across the room, she had downed the second cup and then collapsed. She began to convulse and then appeared to go into shock.
Bending down next to me, Holmes said, “Do you smell it, Watson?”
At that point, I detected the faint aroma of bitter almonds in the air. I looked at Holmes and said, “Prussic acid.”
He nodded and said, “It’s not quite what Dante had in mind, but it is a suitable form of contrapasso, don’t you think?”
Chapter 28
Rarely did we ever have any sort of collegial gathering at Baker Street, but I prevailed upon Holmes to bring everyone together who had played a role in the case for dinner one evening. Although he was reluctant, I convinced him that telling the story once to a group would preclude him from having to repeat it over and over to all and sundry. “They will help spread the news for you,” I assured him.
And so it was that some ten days later, Holmes and I played host to Lestrade, Professor Connors, and Doctors Jeffrey Brewitt and Stephen Smith. Mrs. Hudson had prepared an outstanding meal of Cornish game hens with wild rice. After the meal, Holmes opened a bottle of Armagnac and over brandy and cigars, he began to recount the tale, taking questions as he went.
“Whom did you first suspect?” asked Doctor Brewitt.
“My initial thoughts were that Annie Lock’s young swain had murdered her, perhaps out of jealousy, perhaps because she was leaving him. However, after speaking with him, I was convinced that he lacked the guile, and the stomach, to plan and execute such a crime.”
“So did you initially then think it was a druidic cabal?” asked Doctor Smith.
“Actually, no,” replied Holmes.
“And why is that?” asked Lestrade.
“There are two reasons,” said Holmes. “The first is that everything about the murder scene looked rather theatrical. The druidic symbol and the ogham message written in blood, the evisceration and placement of the organs, surrounding the body and the various branches. All of those take time. Most murderers want to kill and be done with it.
“Also, despite my inquiries as well as those of Watson, and a few made by my brother Mycroft’s agents, no one had heard even a whisper of a secret society of modern druids.”
“But that doesn’t mean they don’t exist,” said Smith.
“No, but you know as well as I that you cannot prove a negative. However, there’s an old axiom, I believe it was the American inventor and statesman Benjamin Franklin, who opined, ‘Three may keep a secret, if two are dead.’
“I found it difficult, no make that impossible, to believe that such a society could move freely about the country, killing at will, and then vanishing without even a hint of its existence for three months at a time.
“As Doctor Watson will tell you, one of my favorite maxims is, ‘When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.’ Having discarded the druid idea, I began to search for a motive. I could find no reason for anyone to kill Annie Lock. She had no enemies here and few friends; moreover, she was leaving the country. I began to suspect there was some larger plan in motion.
“When Jeremy Mason was killed in the same manner, I saw the pattern, but there was nothing I could pinpoint. Mason was an outlier in his own village. Again, no close friends and no real enemies, but now I had two senseless deaths on my hands.”
“Did you suspect Lady Deveron right away after the third murder?” Connors wanted to know.
“Not immediately,” replied Holmes, “but as we were leaving Ravenhurst, I was struck by a painting - or should I say the absence of one - in her long gallery.”
“I had meant to ask you about that,” I said, “but I had quite forgotten.”
Holmes smiled at me and said, “Her Ladyship had one of the finest art collections in all of England. As we were departing Ravenhurst, I noticed that one of the paintings looked newer than the others.”
“How could an Old Master look newer?” asked Brewitt.
“I misspoke there,” said Holmes. “As we walked down the gallery, I observed a border of fresh paint around a portrait. Thinking it odd, I began to examine it more closely. It wasn’t fresh paint, but paint that had been hidden from the sun because a slightly larger painting had hung there previously, thus it had not faded as the paint around it had. I also took rough measurements with my walking stick.
“After making some inquiries, I learned that ‘A Converted British Family Sheltering a Christian Missionary from the Persecution of the Druids’ by William Holmes Hunt had been donated to the Ashmolean Museum of Art and Archaeology in Oxford just five months prior. A quick trip there confirmed that it was just about the size of the painting that had been removed.”
And then it hit me. I said, “Lady Deveron had the painting hanging on her wall, but she didn’t want anything connected to the druids in her home so she donated it to the museum anonymously - some time before the third murder.”
“You hit the mark, Watson!” said Holmes.
“But surely the painting was just the beginning,” said Connors.
“Indeed,” said Holmes. “So I set about to learn the value of Her Ladyship’s holdings, and they are quite considerable. When I learned that she and her stepson were not on the best of terms, I had the beginning of a motive, but I still needed more information.
“I began to look into her background. I discovered that she was originally from Ireland, and I soon found out she was from Donegal. A few well-placed wires informed me that she had been romantically involved with one Liam O’Dowd in her youth, but that her father had broken it off. It seems that he considered O’Dowd beneath his daughter.
“Having now picked up O’Dowd’s trail, I learned that he left Donegal determined to make a name for himself and prove her father wrong. Unable to find work, he eventually enlisted in the Legion Etrangere.”
“The French Foreign Legion,” exclaimed Lestrade. “That would certainly explain his skill with a knife.”
“He subsequently saw action in Indochina and fought in the Battle of Hoa Mac. At any rate, he mustered out of the Legion a few years ago, and I’m guessing here - something I am loath to do - but he had apparently kept track of Lady Deveron and since she was a widow, they were free to resume their relationship.”
“The only impediment being her stepson,” said Connors.
“Yes, the rancor between them could never be reconciled, so they set about devising a plan to eliminate the boy.”
“That is monstrous enough, but then to kill other innocent people in an effort to divert suspicion that is beyond the pall,” said Smith.
“I quite agree,” said Holmes. “I cannot say for certain which one hatched the idea, but when this case was first brought to my attention, I told Watson that I felt the presence of a truly malevolent force at work.”
“Were you ever able to link them conclusively before the arrest of O’Dowd?” asked Brewitt.
“Conclusively, no. However, Lady Deveron did call upon Watson and me when she proposed offering a reward for son’s death. I suspected that O’Dowd might be in the vicinity, so I had one of my Irregulars, Wiggins, watch her carriage when she arrived and departed. He informed me that when she left our rooms, the door was opened from within by a man using his left hand. At that point, I was certain I was on the right trail and it just became an issue of running the quarry to ground.”
“But why offer a reward at all?” asked Connors.
“A ploy designed to reinforce her innocence. And as an added benef
it, she and O’Dowd then sent letters designed to misdirect myself and Scotland Yard.”
“Sounds like they were a bit too smart for their own good,” observed Lestrade.
“Had they chosen their first two victims more carefully, they might well have gotten away with it,” said Holmes.
“I don’t think so,” said Lestrade.
“Oh, why’s that?” asked Holmes.
“Because,” Lestrade said earnestly, “there’s plenty of clever prisoners in Newgate and serving sentences in other jails, both here and abroad, but they are there because there’s only one Sherlock Holmes, and I’d wager he’s smarter than the lot of ‘em put together.”
Realizing the sincerity of Lestrade’s words and uncertain how to react, Holmes remained silent, as the five of us cheered, “Here, here.” I must confess that it is one of the few times I have ever seen my friend rendered utterly speechless.
Author’s notes
Almost all of the sites mentioned in this book are real and may be visited. I have also tried to use the names of inns and other establishments that Holmes and Watson might have patronized. Modern readers will appreciate the fact that while you can no longer meander through the slabs at Stonehenge, in Holmes’ time, there were no such restrictions.
However, it should be noted that, to the best of my knowledge, there is no estate in England called Ravenhurst.
A number of the people mentioned are real as well, including the Rev. Sabine Baring-Gould, a most interesting individual, whose grandson would go on to pen “Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street: A Life of the World’s First Consulting Detective” as well as the two-volume “The Annotated Sherlock Holmes,” which has become a standard reference for any serious Sherlockian. Perhaps there is more to the notion of “art in the blood” then we realize.
Most of the other characters, including Lady Judith Deveron and Liam O’Dowd, are the products of my own poor imagination.
If there are errors in the book, I apologize, but they are entirely my fault and cannot be laid at the feet of anyone else.
Acknowledgements
Although the book is dedicated to her, I would not have gotten through it without the incredible patience and support of my wife, Grace. I know that she has far more faith in me than I do in myself, and I thank her for never wavering.
Others who freely provided aid and comfort of all sorts include my brother, Edward; my sister, Arlene; my stalwart publisher, Steve Emecz; and the incredibly talented, cover designer, Brian Belanger.
I am indebted to a number of Sherlockians, including Robert Katz, Fran and Richard Kitts, Ira Matetsky, David Marcum and Marcia Wilson for allowing me to bother them with my questions and taking the time to research, in some cases, and provide me with answers. In truth, their patience rivals that of Holmes.
I should like to thank all my former students for their support and encouragement.
Kudos as well to the staff of the Ashmolean Museum of Art and Archaeology in Oxford, who answered my questions about the painting “A Converted British Family Sheltering a Christian Missionary from the Persecution of the Druids.”
Also, a tip of the cap to Stephen Foster, who provided me with some much-needed local knowledge about Dartmoor and its environs and to Deborah Annakin Peters for helping with any number of things British.
There are far too many people to thank - the list would be longer than the book - but I should be terribly remiss if I omitted Lauren Esposito, who started me on this journey several years ago. All I can say is, “What a long, strange trip, it’s been.”
Read on for an excerpt from the newest Sherlock Holmes adventure by Richard T. Ryan - The Merchant of Menace
Coming soon from MX Publishing: The Merchant of Menace
Introduction
With plenty of time on my hands, having retired after nearly 40 years as a journalist, I have been indulging my passion for the printed word, both reading and writing. Like Holmes, I consider myself a “voracious reader,” although my memory is not nearly as sharp as his.
One day as I was rummaging through the various cases in the tin dispatch box of Dr. Watson that I had acquired in Scotland, I noticed that the bottom seemed ever so slightly uneven. Upon a closer examination, I realized that what I thought was the bottom of the case was actually a thin piece of metal that had been cut to the exact dimensions of the box. Taking a screwdriver, I was able to pry up that false bottom, and I came across this latest case, which oddly enough, had been hidden there.
I found the notion of Watson secreting a manuscript away in the bottom of a box which he owned, and which many believed to be residing in the vaults of Cox and Company, too fascinating to resist.
As readers of past efforts know, the cases in this box had all been withheld from the public for various reasons, and “The Merchant of Menace” was no exception. While Holmes’ vanity forestalled the publication of “The Druid of Death,” and the potential political fallout precluded the publication of “The Vatican Cameos” and to a lesser degree, “The Stone of Destiny,” I can come up with no such compelling reason for withholding this particular manuscript, let alone hiding it, save perhaps the embarrassment that it might have caused had it been released.
However, after re-reading Watson’s notes, I finally came to understand his reticence. I can only think that this particular case did not see the light of day because of the good doctor’s misgivings about its publication and his sense of propriety. That bit of information having been dispensed with, I caution readers that this is one of the strangest cases that ever found its way to 221b Baker Street.
If, like the Great Detective, you have a taste for the outre, then I think you will find this tale to your liking. If nothing else, it certainly offers an insight into the sensibilities of the Edwardian era that Holmes called home.
Richard T. Ryan
Chapter 1: London, 1906
This case, which proved to be a true test of the mettle of Sherlock Holmes, began innocently enough.
One morning while reading the paper over breakfast, an item captured my attention. According to the Guardian, a rare, jewel-encrusted dagger had been stolen from the library of Lord William Thornton. Thinking that my friend might find this of interest, I asked, “Holmes, have you read about the theft of this dagger?”
“Indeed, I have,” he replied. “Probably some footman pilfered it in order to settle his gambling debts. There is nothing there for us, I believe.”
I wasn’t surprised at my friend’s lack of enthusiasm. Common crimes did little to stimulate his interest, and truth be told, he found them more tiresome than challenging. However, having warmed to the subject, he continued, “Moreover, I must say that people who keep such objects d’art around the house are just asking for trouble. Decorations are one thing, but a trophy such as that, acquired only because you are wealthy, well, that just strikes me as rather ostentatious.”
“You can’t mean that,” I said. “Look at your own collection of odds and ends that litter our lodgings.”
“Yes, but none of my possessions, strange and varied as they may be, was looted from a foreign country.” Sweeping his arm about the room, he said, “There is nothing here that has not been earned and paid for by the sweat of my brow.”
“Does that include your Stradivarius?”
Ignoring my jibe, Holmes continued, “At any rate, I am expecting a visit from Lestrade regarding that self-same dagger.”
“And what will you tell him?”
“Look to the servants,” replied my friend. “They are always among us and yet they are seldom noticed.”
Thinking those were the traits of any good person in service, I returned to my paper as Holmes resumed working on a monograph that he was preparing regarding tattoos and the criminal element. Perhaps an hour later, just as I was preparing to leave for my club, I heard the bell ring.
“I shouldn’t be surprised if that were Lestrade now,” said Holmes.
I decided to wait, and a moment later, there was
a knock on the door. “Come in, Mrs. Hudson,” my friend yelled across the room.
Our landlady entered and said, “There is a gentleman here to see you, Mr. Holmes.”
I could see by the look on his face that Holmes was genuinely surprised - and pleased. “Please show him up, Mrs. Hudson.” Looking at me he said, “A new client and perhaps a visit from Lestrade - this has all the makings of a truly exceptional day.”
A moment later, a tall, spare gentleman with close-cropped gray hair stepped into our rooms. After examining us both, he turned to where Holmes was seated and said in a deep, sonorous voice, “Mr. Holmes, I am Lord William Thornton. Perhaps you have heard of me?” he continued as he handed Holmes his card.
“I have heard of your missing dagger, and by extension, yourself,” my friend replied.
“I had rather hoped to keep the theft a secret, but apparently such things are impossible once the law is involved.”
“And with whom have you spoken from Scotland Yard? Inspector Lestrade?”
“Yes. In fact, Inspector Lestrade has arrested my butler and charged him with the theft.”
Glancing at me with an I-told-you-so-look on his face, Holmes replied, “If an arrest has been made, then why are you here?”
“Johnson, my butler, has been with me for more than 20 years. He would no more have taken that dagger than you, Mr. Holmes.”
“Do tell. Then why did Lestrade arrest him? Surely, he had evidence of some sort in order to justify the charge.”
“They found a large sum of money in Johnson’s room, and after some inquiries they learned that he also owed more than a three hundred pounds to a bookmaker.”
The Druid of Death - a Sherlock Holmes Adventure Page 17