by Lyndsay Faye
“Remarkable, in that case, that you claim a murder has been committed.”
“He was drained of blood, Mr. Holmes. His body was nearly free of it.” Lestrade suppressed a shudder. “It had disappeared.”
A chill passed down my spine. As it has been elsewhere mentioned in these chaotic memoirs that Holmes rather more admires than abhors the macabre, I shall not elaborate upon this quirk of his nature—I must mention, however, that Holmes’s entire frame snapped into rapt attention, while Lestrade’s bristled in what I can only describe as animosity.
“There’s some who would think that horrible, but you’re not to be named among them, I suppose.” The inspector leveled a challenging stare at Sherlock Holmes.
“I readily admit to thinking it varying degrees of horrible based upon the character of the deceased.” Holmes yawned, reverting to his typical supercilious character. “The facts, if you would be so kind.”
“The facts as I have them in hand are these: Mr. John Wiltshire dined with his wife and an old friend on the night of his death, and later Mrs. Helen Wiltshire called for a bath to be drawn for her husband. The housekeeper asserts that the ring occurred, the water was heated, and nothing else of note took place. The upper housemaids all confirm that Mrs. Wiltshire slept in her own room that night, afraid to upset her husband’s apparent need for quiet and solitude. Other than the fact a man has apparently been bled to death by magic, you’d not find me disturbing your supper.”
“You know very well that we would hasten to come whenever you have need of Holmes,” I asserted.
A glass of whiskey appeared before the inspector. Nodding subtle thanks to the jacketed waiter, Holmes ordered, “Do have a sip—it seems as though the circumstances merit it.”
Lestrade’s countenance dissolved into what might—save for his own restraint—have been a sneer even as he tasted the drink. “Another deduction?”
“You have clearly been much taxed,” said Holmes, as dismissive as ever. “Pray, what would you have us do? I require an invitation or a client, and presently I have neither. Shall I look up ‘vampires’ in my commonplace book and wire you upon the subject, or test your patience so far as to accompany you to the crime scene? Has the body been moved?”
“No. I came straight to you,” Lestrade retorted, taking another swallow, “whether I liked it or not.”
My mouth fell open, and Holmes’s deep-set eyes widened fractionally. I fully expected a blistering retort to follow close upon this subtle hint of dismay. To my great surprise, he merely rose, however, nodding at the quaint tobacconist’s shop nestled inside the restaurant, and said coldly, “I am at your disposal, Lestrade, after buying more cigarettes. You are giving me the distinct impression I shall have need of them. Watson, settle the bill if you would be so good.”
Never will I forget that crime scene, for it occurred after what had been so casually glad a day for me, and the shift into horror was as swift as our cab ride. John Wiltshire lay dead in his tastefully appointed bedchamber, its heavy emerald draperies thrown wide to let in the sunlight and now open to the cloud-shrouded gaze of invisible stars. He reclined in a bath over which a muslin cloth had been draped, the atmosphere in the room stale with police traffic and tense with revulsion, and a still-damp rubber tarp on the rug nearby informed me he had been examined by the coroner and then returned to his original attitude.
Mr. Wiltshire’s head and upper torso were visible; his mouth was slack and his lips were white as chalk. The setting and its centrepiece were utterly jarring, stately furnishings surrounding a body that appeared horribly—nay, obscenely—withered. Should I have reached out and touched the late Mr. Wiltshire’s skin, I could picture it crumbling to dust like paper left to desiccate for centuries. He had in life been a slender man, with deep pouches beneath his eyes and a wide, downturned mouth.
The coroner was finishing his notes wearing a grim expression and, after a gesture from Lestrade, he stepped aside to allow Holmes and myself to view the deceased. My friend whistled appreciatively, garnering a dark look from the Yarder.
“Skin white as that cloth and utterly parched, vessels drained, form shrunken, as if he had shriveled into a husk,” I summarized. “But are we certain there were no epidermal wounds inflicted which could have caused this? He was examined on this tarp, I take it.”
“Indeed, Doctor. A minute examination was made in this room, but Inspector Lestrade insisted the deceased be replaced lest his original positioning or the water itself provide a clue for Mr. Holmes here,” the coroner answered, nodding politely.
“By the Lord,” Holmes said coolly, “and here I supposed the circumstances of the killing itself the only miracle which took place today. Admirable, Lestrade.”
My friend appeared to be getting a bit of his own back at last, and the official detective ground his teeth as Holmes dipped his torso toward the bath. Avid as the most passionate connoisseur, he lifted the dead man’s dripping hand from the water and examined the ivory cuticles, checked the underside of the limb draped over the lip, made a close study of his dark hair and his unmarked scalp, even lifted the wizened eyelids to reveal his unseeing pupils. I watched, eager to help if I could, but all I beheld seemed the stuff of nightmare and not medicine. Holmes next drew his delicate fingertips along the copper rim of the tub, going so far as to touch the now-tepid water and bring it to his nose.
“For heaven’s sake,” Lestrade muttered in my ear—but at me there was directed no pique, merely the easy camaraderie of old.
I half-drew a hand over my moustache to hide a smile, but added under my breath, “If Holmes weren’t the most thorough investigator the world has ever known, I doubt he would be here.”
“More’s the pity,” Lestrade sighed as my companion pushed upright again.
“I have exceptionally acute hearing, you realize,” Holmes mentioned tartly. “Fascinating. As I happen to trust in your thoroughness, coroner—Adams, isn’t it? Yes, Mr. Adams, I suppose you correct in stating that the body lacks superficial wounds. They should have caused the body to bleed into the water if he was killed here, in any event, and this liquid is far too pure to indicate a man’s entire life-force could have possibly been drained into it. I can see no trace of blood at all. Testing it for minute amounts may prove necessary, and I have that ability, but, supposing we can keep this evidence intact, more urgent matters demand our attention.”
“Certainly, sir. I have a sample retained already.”
“Very good. I detect no more sign of poison than you do, but anyhow poisoning is a medically impossible means of sapping a fellow’s blood, unless we are dealing with a substance altogether unknown to science. So here we have a man whose blood was somehow siphoned, and the water is clear. Supposing the corpse had been moved, that would have proved nothing whatsoever, but . . .”
“But the corpse was not moved,” Mr. Adams obliged when Holmes paused expectantly, “because the deep depressions upon the back of his neck and the other on his forearm—there, where it was resting—indicate he was robbed of his blood here somehow, and left to die.”
“Capital!” Holmes exclaimed.
“Yes, we worked that one out on our own, Mr. Holmes,” Lestrade groused.
Sherlock Holmes did not deign to reply, instead turning his attention to the crime scene as Mr. Adams excused himself, intending to help the constables make arrangements to remove the remains. Holmes expended every effort, as he always does, diving into corners and walking with his slender hands hovering before him, seeking any aberration which might bring light where all was dark. After some fifteen minutes of studying carpeting, framed photographs, a mahogany bedstead, and every crevice of every object in the room, however, he tapped his fist against his mouth and turned back to Lestrade.
“Will you be so good as to deliver me this unfortunate fellow’s biography?”
“Readily, Mr. Holmes. Mr. Wiltshire is employed at
a banking firm in the city and has been for some six years since. We’ve scarce had enough time to question anyone, but this afternoon his direct superior sent me a good report of him. The servants seem to think him a somber man, but altogether a satisfactory employer. He has no outstanding debts and no known enemies—he lives in a quiet fashion with his wife, Mrs. Helen—”
Holmes snapped his fingers. “I hadn’t forgot the detail, but was admittedly distracted by so very dramatic a corpse. They entertained an old friend last night—the wife, take me to the wife,” he commanded, and quit the room.
Lestrade followed, and I matched my stride to the shorter man’s. “I cannot help but sense that our presence on this occasion distresses you, Inspector.”
He glanced backward in surprise. “Oh, I could never be distressed by your help, Doctor. It’s always a pleasure to see you. It’s merely that Mr. Holmes—well, never mind, Mr. Holmes has never cared a fig what I think, and I don’t see why he should start now, so I’ll say no more. He’s right to want interviews at this stage. There was a visitor, and it was the wife who rang for the bath to be drawn. I’ve not been able to question Mrs. Wiltshire yet—she fainted dead away at the sight of her husband and only recovered whilst I was fetching you. Never mind Mr. Holmes’s quirks when there’s a murderer to run to ground, I always tell myself.”
Still mystified for multiple reasons, I could do nothing save accompany him downstairs. We waited in a pretty parlor with all the lamps blazing, a room full of light and colorful decorative china, its walls masked by potted greenery. Something about its coziness unnerved me, and the chamber seemed all the more garishly cheerful when my imagination flashed upon the ghastly events doubtless taking place upstairs, as the shrunken rind which had once been a man was taken out the back through the servants’ entrance and at last to the morgue.
When Mrs. Helen Wiltshire entered, she naturally appeared greatly disturbed. Her comely complexion was sickly with dismay, her full lips were atremble, her green eyes were red at the edges, and her pale blond hair was disarrayed from her clutching it in the extremity of her emotion. She was of an age with her late husband, midway between thirty and forty, and was a lovely woman despite her distress. My friend was up in an instant and led her to the settee, where she perched as if about to take flight.
Holmes smiled gently as he regained his own chair, displaying the almost mesmeric softness he expends solely upon the fair sex, and only when he desires information from them; but then, I am not being quite just when I say so. My friend may not seek the company of women, but he genuinely abhors seeing them harmed.
“Are you quite comfortable, madam? Should you like a little refreshment to strengthen you? My friend here is a doctor, and he will be happy to locate something fortifying.”
“I . . . I don’t think that would be . . .” Mrs. Wiltshire shifted, attempting with scant success to smile. She was silent for so long that Sherlock Holmes continued, face alive with encouragement.
“You are of Scottish origins, I observe. In the vicinity of Paisley, Renfrewshire, unless my ears deceive me.”
A wash of color infused Mrs. Wiltshire’s dulled cheeks. “Aye, Mr. Holmes, though I’ve lost a good deal of that manner of speaking.”
“Yes, it’s extremely subtle. You went on a long stroll this morning, Mrs. Wiltshire? It must be pleasant, living so close to Battersea Park and its walkways, especially at this time of the year—though I discern from your boots that you wandered alongside the Thames on this occasion.”
She glanced up, twisting her fingers in her coral skirts. “Why, yes, Mr. Holmes. I was out walking. That is the reason I learned only at around noon that—oh, I can’t, I can’t,” she said upon a small sob. “I very often take long constitutionals. I’ve never regretted the habit so much as I did this afternoon, when I arrived home and discovered the house was in an uproar and the police had already been summoned over . . . over . . .”
“Quite.”
“I was most unwell afterward. I’ve only just found a tiny store of strength—I hope you will forgive my weakness, but . . .”
Again she trailed off, and again Holmes continued. “Will you please tell me about your caller of last night?”
Helen Wiltshire nodded, more tears forming. “His name is Horatio Swann, an explorer of some note.”
“Indeed!” Holmes exclaimed. “Yes, I have heard of him. He has made quite the name for himself in scholarly monographs.”
“Yes, that is the man,” she agreed with another weak twitch of her lips. “My husband and he were acquainted years ago, but Mr. Swann has been traveling in Siam, studying indigenous wildlife. We passed a most pleasant meal, and afterward John seemed fatigued at having spent so much time over vigorous conversation and plentiful claret. I ordered him a bath and left him to himself. He could grow . . . melancholy at times, Mr. Holmes. But for such a fate to befall him . . .”
To our universal dismay, Mrs. Wiltshire at this point dissolved entirely and ran from the room.
Lestrade exchanged a glance with Holmes, all pique forgotten in the peculiarity of the moment. He leant forward with his elbows on his knees. “She must have been quite devoted to him.”
“It would seem so,” Holmes replied without inflection.
“The poor woman must be wrought to her highest pitch of nerves over such a ghastly shock. We must seek out this Horatio Swann,” I conjectured, “and ascertain whether he has anything to do with the affair.”
“As usual, Watson, you have hit upon the obvious with uncanny accuracy,” said Holmes drily. “But I wonder . . . Well, there may be nothing in it after all.”
“Nothing in what, Mr. Holmes?” Lestrade questioned, a furrow forming above his narrow nose.
“It’s only a whim of mine, perhaps a trivial one at that. But why should one walk along the Thames, noisome as it is, when one could walk through Battersea Park?” Holmes mused, rising and ringing the bell.
A maid appeared within seconds. “Show in the housekeeper, please—what is her name?” Holmes inquired.
“Mrs. Stubbs, sir.”
“Mrs. Stubbs, then. Thank you.”
Lestrade nodded absently, stretching his legs out before him as if in agreement over Holmes’s choice of witness, and I dared to hope that whatever mood had plagued him had been a fluke, and that all would henceforth be well again. Mrs. Stubbs proved a broad woman with neatly arranged curls, the flinty spark of extreme practicality in her eyes, and a direct manner. She stood upon the carpet with her hands clasped placidly before her, the slump of her shoulders the only indication she had been sorely tried that day.
“Yes, gentlemen?”
“Mrs. Stubbs.” Holmes remained standing, making small perambulations as he questioned her. “My name is Sherlock Holmes, this is my friend and colleague Dr. John Watson, and this is Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard. We wonder whether you might help us in clearing this matter up. You have been the housekeeper for how long?”
“Six years, sir. As long as the Wiltshires have lived in Battersea.”
“You find the position agreeable?”
“I do.”
“Would you describe for me the nature of your late employer?”
“John Wiltshire was a good provider, and I hadn’t much cause to speak with him. At times, he seemed a bit wistful perhaps, but he never lashed out or gave me the impression such spells were anything more serious than fatigue.”
“Then you would say Mr. and Mrs. Wiltshire were happy together?” Holmes pressed.
Mrs. Stubbs sniffed, seeming more impatient than offended. “As happy as anyone, I hope. They never quarreled, and when banking cost him long hours away, she never begrudged him the time.”
“Did she not? That was understanding of her. They seem to have had an unusual affinity. Have you any theory as to what happened last night?”
This at last seemed to move her, but s
he maintained a neutral expression, swallowing. “That’ll be for you gentlemen to decide, I’m sure.”
“Was there sign of any intruders this morning?” Lestrade put in.
“No, sir. Well, not precisely.”
Both Holmes and Lestrade paused at this, tensing.
“What do you mean by ‘not precisely,’ Mrs. Stubbs?” Lestrade urged.
“It’s a silly thing, but the new scullery maid has misplaced the marketing basket.” Mrs. Stubbs shrugged. “She’s more than a bit simple, and everything is so tospy-turvy today—I’m sure it will turn up. Last week she managed to put the cheese wheel in the bread box after clearing the servants’ supper.”
Lestrade sagged, disappointed.
“Would you describe this basket, Mrs. Stubbs?” Holmes requested, abruptly resuming his pacing.
Our eyes flashed to the detective in disbelief.
“It’s a plain split willow basket, about a foot and a half long though not so wide, with a handle for the shoulder, lined with a blue cotton kitchen towel,” Mrs. Stubbs answered readily, though her tone was skeptical.
“Thank you,” said Holmes, speeding as he strode in tight loops before the fireplace. “One question more, I beg. What was Mr. Wiltshire’s mood like after Mr. Horatio Swann had departed?”
“Morose, sir,” the housekeeper replied flatly.
Sherlock Holmes stopped, quirking an agile brow. “The usual affliction?”
“Worse, sir. Perhaps he’d a premonition.” Mrs. Stubbs set her lips grimly. “To die in such a way . . . God knows he deserved warning of it. Do call for me if you need aught else, but I’ve plentiful extra tasks to see to and would fain take my leave.”
When she had departed, Lestrade slapped his knees and hopped to his feet, his unexplained ire fully returned. “This is a serious investigation, Mr. Holmes!”
Holmes twisted to face the inspector, his brow furrowed beneath his high hairline, for the first time visibly vexed at the criticism. “I assure you I am treating it as such.”