He shook his head. “Gentlemen, on any other day I would value the chance to spend a few hours in your company and perhaps to persuade you to discuss some of your unrecorded cases. Who knows? Possibly I could seek to dress them up in the guise of fiction. However, my immediate priorities lie elsewhere. I must try to find John, even if it means trawling through every drinking den in London, and see if I can make him see reason. I owe our late mother nothing less. When I have more news, I shall let Maxwell Dowling and your good selves know. Perhaps I could call at Baker Street tomorrow and see for myself the famous consulting room.”
“You will be most welcome,” I said warmly. “By then, I shall have read your manuscript. It really is good of you to afford me the opportunity in advance of publication.”
Holmes was quiet throughout our journey home and once we had arrived, he sank into a meditative trance. I sensed that he was disturbed by the day’s events, but knew better than to trouble him with questions or idle conversation. After dealing with certain correspondence, I decided to amuse myself by turning to the first chapter of Hugh Abergavenny’s novel and devoured it within minutes.
“By Jove, Holmes, this is splendid stuff!” Such was my pleasure in the tale I could not help disturbing his reverie. “It is almost unbearable that I cannot continue reading. The description of the hero’s visit to a warehouse in the East End and what he finds there - but no, I must not spoil the story. You must read it for yourself.”
Holmes opened his eyes and said languidly, “I am afraid I do not count myself amongst Hugh Abergavenny’s devoted admirers. His early books were lively enough, but compared to Collins or even Conway, he seems to favour contrivance ahead of the creation of plausible characters. The later stories are so dependent upon coincidence as to make it impossible to suspend disbelief. As for his hero, I fear that Alec Salisbury makes Lecoq appear to be a master detective.”
“You need not worry,” I said, rather stiffly. “As we were told, Salisbury does not appear in this book. It really is rather fine, Holmes. Don’t allow your prejudices to cause you to ignore it.”
“You are the one who should have taken up the law,” my friend remarked. “You are a persuasive spokesman. Very well, pass me the chapter.”
He read the first pages of the book in silence and then, before I could ask his reaction, lapsed back into a dream-like state. Suddenly he sat bolt upright.
“I have been obtuse, Watson! Quick, we need to call on the younger Abergavenny at once!”
“But Holmes, what can we hope to achieve that his brother cannot?”
His strong-set features were twisted with pain. “We must strive to prevent a terrible crime. Yet I fear that already we may be too late.”
“I don’t understand,” I said. “What crime are you talking about?”
“The murder”, he said bitterly, “of John Abergavenny.”
We hailed a cab and asked the driver to take us to the tailor’s shop in Lamb’s Conduit Street. When we reached our destination,
I saw that a small crowd of onlookers had gathered outside the door beside the entrance to the shop. As we dismounted, two familiar figures emerged from the doorway.
“As I feared,” my friend muttered under his breath. “We have been out-foxed.”
“Mr Holmes!” cried Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard. “Were your ears burning? We have just been talking about you.”
He indicated Matthew Dowling, who stood by his side. The old solicitor’s face was grey and drawn.
“How is John Abergavenny?” demanded my friend.
“He was taken to hospital less than a quarter of an hour ago. He is in a coma.”
“Not dead, then?” A flame of hope flickered in the eyes of Sherlock Holmes.
“Not expected to live, though,” said Lestrade. “Seems that after marching out of his office, he came home took a massive overdose of chloral hydrate. There’s a half-empty jar of the stuff on his sideboard.”
Holmes’s shoulders sagged and so did mine. We both knew the power of the notorious sedative. Many East End publicans, to my knowledge, still kept a jar of chloral hydrate underneath their counter so that they could slip one or two knock-out drops into the drink of any customer who started spoiling for a fight. A highly effective remedy for trouble-makers, perhaps, but if administered in excess it was lethal.
“Apparently the fellow’s been behaving oddly,” Lestrade continued. “Mr Dowling here and his brother have explained to me his peculiar actions over the past few days.”
“Hugh Abergavenny is present also?”
“Not now,” said Dowling. “He arrived here a few minutes after I did. I had become increasingly concerned about John’s safety after he left Essex Street. Finally I plucked up the courage to come out here. I wanted to talk to John, to make him see sense.
I could see a light in John’s room, but my knocking was not answered. Ultimately I prevailed upon the tailor, who lives in the back basement, to let me use the spare key. I rushed upstairs and found John in a dreadful state. It was clear that he was very sick. I immediately made arrangements for him to be taken to hospital and contacted the police. No sooner had I done that than Hugh turned up. He explained that he’d been searching for John, going round the drinking dens in which he might be found. When he had no luck, he came here. Like me, he was hoping that reason might prevail. The pity is that we were too late. I suggested to Hugh that his place was by John’s side at the hospital, but we both fear the omens are bleak.”
Suddenly Holmes clapped a hand to his brow. “Lestrade, has anyone touched the jar of chloral hydrate?”
“Why, no,” the detective replied. “There was no immediate need.”
“Mr Dowling?"
“I did not, sir. The contents are plainly marked. I fear that John knew what he was doing.”
“Not John," Holmes said harshly. “Hugh”
“I don’t understand, Mr Holmes. What do you mean?”
“I mean.” said my friend, “that your partner was poisoned by his brother. Quick, Lestrade, let us go upstairs. The question now is whether we can prove our case.”
It was late the following night before my friend and I had the opportunity to talk at length about the case over a whiskey-and- soda at Baker Street. By then John Abergavenny had died, a victim of cardiac and respiratory collapse, without having regained consciousness and his brother had been arrested on a charge of fratricide.
“My interest in the case," Holmes said, “was aroused by the differences in the way John Abergavenny reacted when his senior partner put complaints to him. He quickly acknowledged his acts of carelessness. It was plain that he was over-tiring himself. That might have been because he went out drinking every night, but it seemed entirely out of character for him to do so. Besides, there was a possible alternative explanation. Perhaps he was continuing to work on his fiction late into the night after a full day’s legal work, keeping it a secret because of Dowling’s disapproval and a natural lack of confidence in his own literary talents. I also entertained a degree of scepticism about the incidents reported by both Bevington and Stewart - which John vehemently denied. Yet why should the witnesses lie? The contradictions intrigued me. When I mentioned the case to you originally, I drew an analogy with Stevenson’s romance and from the outset the business seemed to me to possess certain of the features of a cheap thriller. An apparently respectable man leading a double life, dipping his toe in the world of vice. It is a perennial theme.”
He took another sip from his glass. “I had only to meet Bevington and Stewart to be sure that they were not lying. On the contrary, they seemed unimpeachable. So - either John was behaving as wildly as they described, or someone was impersonating him. I noticed at once that Hugh resembled him in build and features. True, he did not have a moustache, was balding and his hair was different in colour. But any actor worth his salt could easily change all that.”
“But Hugh was a writer, not an actor,” I objected.
“He had been a cou
rt advocate,” Holmes said impatiently, “and few men are better suited to playing a part than barristers. They have the advantage of professional training coupled with constant practice. I once said to you, Watson, that when a doctor goes wrong he is the first of criminals, but I should have added the rider that a practitioner of the law comes a close second.” He gave a grim chuckle. “I hope I was not unduly prejudiced because I had found his writing slick and meretricious. It puzzled me that, as little better than a hack wordsmith, he had not published a book for some time. With that in mind, I regarded his explanation for haunting his old chambers as less than convincing.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Surely he was wise to be seeking out fresh stories?”
“If that was so, why had he been silent for so long? I wondered if he was suffering from simple inability to write. It is a curse which, I believe, afflicts many authors. I had rather the impression of a man living on past glories, a pathetic shadow of his former self, hanging around the legal world where he had scored his early successes. A sad man, too, no doubt overtaken by younger men who had not been distracted from their careers by the lure of appearing in print. Did you notice that his cuffs were threadbare?”
“I thought it a Bohemian touch, appropriate enough in a man who had given up his wig for the pen.”
“That is no doubt what he hoped people would think,” Holmes said dismissively. “He seemed alarmed to see us, which further fuelled my suspicions. Yet he was no fool. How careful he was to portray himself as a man on the brink of renewed success. I could not guess why he would wish harm to his brother - who had, according to Dowling, always envied him. I was concerned for John, but failed to realise that his life was in imminent danger. As soon as he knew of my involvement, Hugh decided that the time had come to perfect his plan.”
“The cold-blooded devil,” I said with a shiver.
“The legal world is small and enclosed. He must have known Bevington and Stewart or known of them and he successfully used them as his dupes. He was intent on creating the impression that his brother was on the downward slope and contemplating suicide. His own visit to Dowling ensured that the calumny seemed credible. Yet in his haste he made a crucial mistake. After he left us, he called on his brother - who had returned home to cool his temper after quitting Essex Street - and pretended to sympathise with him about Dowling’s behaviour in calling on my assistance. They had a drink together. When a chance came, he slipped a murderous dose of chloral hydrate into his brother’s glass. But in his haste to be away before the poison took effect he forgot to wipe the jar containing the sedative.”
“Leaving his fingerprints on it, then!” I exclaimed.
“As Lestrade has now established, I am glad to say. Do you recall that as recently as last December, Lord Belper’s committee of enquiry recommended that Edward Henry’s method of identification of criminals by fingerprints be adopted in place of anthropometry and dactylography? The details are in my scrapbook, if you care to consult it. The decision is an excellent one by the way. Henry is a sound man and he has been kind to acknowledge the assistance of a monograph of my own in compiling his text book for police on the science of fingerprinting. Hugh Abergavenny was back in King’s Bench Walk before it occurred to him that it would be prudent to clean the jar. Thankfully, by the time he returned to his brother’s rooms, Dowling was on the scene and Hugh had no opportunity to make good his mistake without arousing suspicion.”
“How did you hit upon the truth?”
“By reading the manuscript. The first chapter of the new book was written too beautifully and boasts a plot too original for it to have been the work of a man who could never aspire beyond the pot-boiler. I realised at once that Hugh Abergavenny had lied when he claimed it as his own. It must have been the story which his brother had lent him for an opinion. Hugh told John it was worthless at the time as he was covertly transcribing it in his own hand.”
Holmes sighed. “I shall always regret my inability to save John Abergavenny, Watson. There is only the crumb of consolation that his novel will serve as a fitting memorial to him.”
“It is a kind of justice,” I said.
My friend’s sallow cheeks flushed. “And I sincerely trust that Hugh Abergavenny, too, will receive his just deserts when his case comes to trial.
It was a sentiment that I echoed, but the murderer contrived to cheat the law. Five days before his trial, Hugh Abergavenny hanged himself in his prison cell. It emerged that he, rather than his younger brother, had a long history of nervous trouble and he had once before attempted to take his own life, when the last book he managed to complete was rejected by every publisher in London.
The Case of the Persecuted Accountant
Mr. Sherlock Holmes’ abrupt retirement from practice as a consulting detective in the autumn of 1903 provoked intense relief among the criminal classes. It also, regrettably, gave rise to much ill-informed speculation on the part of the public at large. I am not at liberty at the present time to disclose the reasons for my friend’s decision to quit his rooms at Baker Street and to take up residence on the Sussex Downs. Suffice it to say that many of the rumours concerning the matter were not merely deplorable but also patently absurd.
Gossip is always mischievous, and from the time of Holmes’ departure, I found the swirl of whispered calumny deeply offensive. It was also shocking to me that certain individuals should so quickly forget the debt that the law-abiding citizens of our country, and further afield, owed to my friend. When I intimated as much to Holmes, however, he dismissed my concerns with a wave of the hand.
“My dear Watson, I have never entertained the slightest interest in the opinions of others about me. Why should I, at this stage of my life, change that habit of mind? You are a splendid fellow, but you pay too much heed to that which is here today and gone tomorrow.”
It was a bright Tuesday in spring. I had, with my wife’s reluctant agreement, arranged to stay with my friend at his villa for a few days. Other than on a short visit one week-end in January, it was the first time that I had seen him since his abandonment of the capital’s hurly-burly. Looking back, I see more clearly with the aid of time and distance that the relations between us were beginning to change. I should say at once that there was no question of a personal estrangement between us. The hints which I have heard to the contrary are as unfounded as those slanderous suppositions about the cause of Holmes’ retirement at a period when, in the view of many eminent authorities, he remained at the height of his intellectual powers.
The truth was, as Holmes himself might have said, elementary. I, like my friend, had entered a new phase of my life. My practice at Queen Anne Street was flourishing as never before and, in addition, marriage placed upon me its own inevitable constraints.
I could no longer behave like a selfish bachelor and come and go as I pleased. As for Holmes, he did not hunger for the excitement of the days when he was retained in some of the most sensitive as well as many of the most baffling cases that can have confronted any professional detective. He was wise enough to let the past alone. Never a man to indulge in false sentiment, he concentrated his still considerable energies on his new environment. Increasingly, he became something of a recluse, but in my judgement a contented recluse.
Yet one of the reasons why I take up my pen to relate the tale of the persecuted accountant is to dispel the widely held view that, after leaving full-time practice, my friend had scarcely any opportunity to exercise his gifts as a detective. Holmes has himself, albeit with much hesitation and far too modestly, chronicled the manner in which he solved the mystery surrounding the bizarre death of Fitzroy McPherson. I have personal knowledge of certain other investigations which he consented to undertake. Quite apart from the little conundrum which forms the subject matter of the present narrative, these included the shocking case of the chorus girl’s hair and the sequence of tragedies which followed the establishment of the Hayhurst Tontine. Holmes did not lose the taste for detection when he left his r
ooms in London. He merely reordered his priorities. When he pursued new interests - for example the fascination with photography which played such a critical part in the case of the blind woman and the Eastbourne bicycle race - he did so with the single-mindedness which had always been his hallmark.
He demonstrated his altered outlook on that balmy April morning, after his elderly housekeeper had cleared away the breakfast things. I had enquired as to his progress with the book which, he had often assured me, he would compile once the other calls upon his time diminished.
“Ah, Watson, your aim is unerring. The Whole Art of Detection, yes! I recall swearing to you that it would be my most signal contribution to the elucidation of criminal mysteries.” He raised his eyebrows in gentle mockery. I could see that he was not in the least discomfited. “A vade-mecum which would prompt even the most seasoned investigator to reappraise his methods, root and branch. I shall not attempt to deceive you, my dear fellow. For all my boasts, I have found the task as challenging as any that has faced me. There is so much to be said. If I were not to edit my notes with a ruthlessness worthy of Moriarty, the resultant text would make a vast encyclopaedia seem like a flimsy pamphlet. Thus it is that I have for the moment embarked on a different task, albeit one that may prove even more fulfilling.”
He pointed to a sheaf of manuscript notes on the sideboard and I walked over to glance at the title page.
“A Practical Handbook of Bee Culture?”
“Do not sound so disapproving, Watson!” He chuckled. “I trust you are not about to chide me for wasting the talents which you have so lauded in your somewhat sensational accounts of certain of my more remarkable enquiries.”
“I should have thought - I began stiffly.
“Yes, you should most certainly have done so,” he rejoined, with a touch of the familiar asperity. “May I assure you, Watson, that there is a deal to be learned from those fascinating creatures. As much, perhaps, as from a lifetime’s observation of the curious behaviour of our fellow human beings. As to which, perhaps you might care to cast an eye over this letter and to advise me as to whether I should consent to the see the lady who wrote it.”
The New Mysteries of Sherlock Holmes Page 3