‘And what occurred to you as the explanation for the vanishing room?’
‘All in good time, Watson. I said the same to young Leith, when he pressed me for an opinion. You of all men know that I am unwilling to theorise in the absence of data and I needed to know more about the Henrietta Street house before I formed a definitive view. Leith, needless to say, found my calm reply infuriating. He wanted to know if I thought he was mad or if, alternatively, he ought to start believing in ghosts. Was the scene he had observed in the first floor room a figment of his imagination, was the person on the chaise-longue a poltergeist? He might have been a Scot, he told me, but he was a modern man with a robust disbelief in the supernatural. Yet his experiences at Henrietta Street had left him doubting his senses. All I could do was to observe that I had met few men who seemed saner, but that he would need to exercise patience if he wanted me to uncover the secret of the disappearing room. Within half an hour, he had recognised the futility of further argument. Grinning ruefully, he said, “Well, Holmes, if you insist on having the last word, so be it. I’m still not sure whether I believe you’re capable of making head or tail of this infernal business. But if you do, make no mistake, the pocket watch is yours. It would be a fitting reward should you prove that my mind has not turned and the room I saw actually existed. When I replied that I expected to have an answer for him within the week, I believe he thought I was indulging in bravado. But after combing through the newspapers of the previous fortnight, I found enough circumstantial support for my little idea to believe that it held water. The following day was a Saturday and shortly after lunch-time, I presented myself at the house in Henrietta Street.’
‘You sought to rent a room for yourself?’
‘Precisely, Watson. I could conceive of no better plan. Miss Ottilie Vyse interviewed me in the presence of her young niece. Both corresponded in appearance with the description that Leith had given, but my impression was that they were much more troubled creatures than he had appreciated. As Miss Vyse opened her front door, she cast a quick glance up and down the street, as if dreading what she might see, before ushering me inside with almost unseemly haste. As she introduced me to Thalia, I observed from the girl’s frayed skirt, as well as from half a dozen other indications, that the pair were, if not paupers, scarcely affluent. The house was well cared for, but shabby and it seemed inconceivable that any room in it could be furnished in the luxurious manner that Leith had described. Before I could investigate further, however, I needed to convince the landlady that I was a fit person to have under her roof. Miss Vyse was unwilling even to show me the room to let until I had answered a series of searching questions designed to elicit my background and bona fides.’
‘You told her you were a detective?’
‘My dear Watson, you will recall from our shared adventures that, regrettably, occasions arise where it is not possible to comply with the strict letter of the law, never mind the truth. This was such an instance. I had composed a fictitious curriculum vitae and adopted the identity of one Edwin Grout, a clerk employed since leaving school at the Capital and Counties Bank in Oxford Street. When I flourished references which left Miss Vyse in no doubt as to my character and solvency, she became positively eager to show me to the room. As we passed the first landing, I gave a cry of disappointment. “Is that a spare room as well, or is it occupied?” I asked, pointing to the door that, if Leith were to be believed, led to the vanishing room. “I have no head for heights and I should much prefer to live on this floor rather than up a further flight of stairs.”
‘The landlady’s answer was unequivocal. “I am afraid that is impossible, Mr Grout. It is only a small room, but it was once occupied by my dear niece’s late father. I could not dream of letting it to a stranger.” Excessively sentimental as this seemed twelve months after the man’s demise, Miss Vyse was beyond persuasion. The final staircase was not steep, she emphasised, and I should not place myself at risk of suffering vertigo by reason of the additional climb. She insisted that the top floor room would suit a young bachelor ideally, as well as making only minimal demands upon my pocket. The figure for rent that she mentioned was indeed modest. After a cursory inspection, I expressed my contentment and paid Miss Vyse for a month in advance. Once my new landlady and Thalia left, I took the opportunity to study from all angles and afterwards I went into the street outside, where I surveyed the building from a couple of vantage points on the other side of the road. Satisfied with my observations, I returned to Montague Street for a valise, as well as a singlestick. My belief was that affairs in Miss Vyse’s household were approaching a crisis and I intended to be prepared for any eventuality.
‘As it happened, events moved even more rapidly than I had anticipated. I suspected that any incidents of interest would occur during the hours of darkness. The room had but a solitary window, which overlooked the street and, as night fell, I kept a lonely vigil, sheltered by the curtain. I was watching for a man, not a ghost. Nor was I disappointed. That very evening, shortly after eleven o’clock, I heard a noise outside. It was a faint yet determined scuffling, as though someone was trying to climb into the house from a ledge that, from the street, I had noticed on the first floor of the adjoining building. Looking down through the murk, I thought that I detected a human shape and a glint of metal – a knife, as I presumed. This was as I had expected. The secret that Ottolie and Thalia Vyse had striven so hard to keep had been uncovered.’
‘You had foreseen a burglary?’
‘Let us say that I had formulated a working hypothesis that fitted the known facts. At all events, I recognised that I had not a moment to lose. Seizing my singlestick, I quit the room, taking the utmost care not to make a sound as I inched down the stairs. As I reached the half-way point, however, a commotion broke out below me. A man’s voice was roaring and I heard Thalia cry out in terror. Abandoning caution, I raced down the remaining steps. The door of the first floor room had been thrown open and, on looking in, I could see a parody of the vision that had greeted Campbell Leith when he returned to the house the worse for drink.
‘Half a dozen heavy paintings were propped against the wall facing the door. The candelabra that Leith had seen lay on the floor. Miss Vyse was cowering in a corner and on the chaise-longue sat an elderly man in a dressing gown. His breathing was laboured but he was clutching a pistol.’
‘Good Lord!’
‘You may recall, Watson, that I have studied firearms extensively since my earliest days as a consulting detective. This was a brass barrel flintlock and I recognised the handiwork of Henry Nock. Curious to choose a weapon a century old, perhaps, but Nock made guns for the Board of Ordnance and knew his business well. The old man’s hand was unsteady and the pistol wavered as he pointed at the intruder, a burly man with cruel eyes and a misshapen nose. The blackguard had a beefy arm wrapped around Thalia Vyse and was holding a wicked blade to her throat. As I took in the scene, the old man attempted to get to his feet, only to slump back on the chaise-longue. The intruder swore in triumph and tightened his grip on the girl. There was not a second to lose, yet I dared not risk the girl’s life.
‘“Jethro Bicknell, I presume?” I enquired, with all the suavity at my command. “I suppose you have come to reclaim what you believe to be rightfully yours.” I tell you, Watson, the ruffian’s eyes almost sprang out of his head. A few seconds passed before astonishment turned to blind rage. He released the girl and lurched towards me, knife in hand. Even as I lifted the singlestick, a shot rang out and my assailant slumped on to the floor. The girl screamed and I crouched by his body, checking for vital signs, but in vain. The old pistol had done its terrible work well. The girl sobbed as she said, “Father, father, what have you done?”’
‘Extraordinary!’ I exclaimed. ‘Then Vyse had not drowned?’
‘Frankly, my dear fellow, that was an elementary deduction. If Leith was to be believed, the seemingly impoverished landlady had something to conceal. In such a household, I was driven to supp
ose that the mystery concerned the true fate of Thalia’s father.’
‘So Miss Vyse and the girl were liars?’
‘Watson, I beg you, temper your sense of outrage. Mendacity is not the prerogative of our sex. Besides, I sympathised with their predicament. The true culprit was Stanley Vyse, whose greed had exposed his sister and daughter to mortal danger.’
‘And the vanishing room?’
‘On Leith’s account, the room he saw during the night not only contained an assortment of items of considerable value, but was also significantly larger than the room he was shown by Miss Vyse the next morning. I wondered if some form of partition or false wall had been employed to create a second, hidden chamber and my suspicion was confirmed when I studied the lay-out of the first floor from within the house and without. It was plain that there was more accommodation there than Miss Vyse was willing to admit. Who was the figure on the chaise-longue? If not a lodger, then someone whose existence needed to be hidden from the world. The existence of a man believed to be dead, for instance. Vyse was said to be a collector of curios and an incompetent amateur artist. Evidently he was not a wealthy man, but many collectors have lavish tastes. Perhaps that explained the paintings, the candelabra and the other opulent furnishings. Each night, I believe, he insisted on surrounding himself with his trophies, for the sole purpose of gloating over them. But if he had obtained their possession lawfully, why would they be stowed away out of sight during the day, and why did he need to hide? I inferred that he was a participant in a criminal conspiracy. He had become involved in a theft, or perhaps a series of thefts and in consequence obtained possession of many valuable items. He might be hiding from the police, but I thought it more likely that he had pretended to be dead in order to escape the clutches of one or more confederates. I recalled the recent conviction of Jethro Bicknell and a couple of associates, men responsible for a sequence of thefts from the great country houses of Kent and Essex. The police had failed to recover the stolen goods and no clue as to their whereabouts had been yielded by Bicknell and his cronies. What is more, I had read a few days earlier of a convict’s escape from Wormwood Scrubs. That man was Jethro Bicknell.’
‘Small wonder Miss Vyse and her niece were nervous,’ I said.
‘They were becoming increasingly desperate. I was struck by the landlady’s interest in Leith’s occupation and guessed that she contemplated making use of his assistance in secreting the valuables. No doubt, her brother was unwilling to part with his ill-gotten gains, but when I called at the house in Henrietta Street, I thought it prudent to identify myself as an employee of a bank. And so it proved. Miss Vyse was interested in anyone who might be able to offer help and guidance with the storage of stolen paintings and other assets. When I confronted them with my deductions, the Vyses admitted that they were planning to flee to the Continent. Stanley Vyse was a sick man. His sister explained that he suffered from emphysema and was reluctant to travel. Nevertheless, the two women had persuaded him that it was essential for them to find a new home abroad that Bicknell would be unable to trace. In the event, he moved too quickly for them, although he paid the ultimate price for his determination to retrieve his share of the booty.’
‘Presumably the pistol was also stolen?’
‘As was the pocket-watch that Thalia had given to Leith.’ Holmes contemplated his time-piece with a quiet smile. ‘The question, as you will understand, was how to see justice done in such circumstances. The stolen property had to be returned to its rightful owner, and Vyse deserved to be punished for his crimes. But I wanted to safeguard the two women. They would still be at risk if Bicknell’s associates became aware of the part they had played in the little drama. Accordingly, I put a proposition to them. I offered to negotiate on their behalf with the emissaries of Scotland Yard with a view to achieving an equitable solution to the dilemma, provided that they accepted the outcome without demur, whatever it might be.’
‘And they agreed?’
‘In truth, they had little choice,’ Holmes said calmly. ‘At all events, I talked at length with Gregson and reluctantly he agreed to everything that I proposed. The alternative was for him to lose the chance of portraying the recovery of the stolen goods as a triumph for his methods. As for myself, the scion of one of the distinguished families that had lost a great deal to the burglars insisted that I should keep the pocket watch as a token of his gratitude. Thalia and her father set sail the following night from Dover, while Miss Vyse remained in London. The gentlemen of the fourth estate were informed that Jethro Bicknell had been found shot dead in the East End, possibly as a result of a feud between thugs. Leith was reassured that his sanity was not in question and within a few weeks he determined to return to Scotland and be reunited with his sweetheart.’
‘So you brokered a happy ending for everyone, including the murderer?’
‘The Almighty moves in mysterious ways, Watson. Within a month of their journey across the Channel, Stanley Vyse had died and his daughter was back with her aunt in Henrietta Street. When last I heard of them, Thalia had found a beau and her aunt was making ends meet. At least the first floor was available again for letting to suitable tenants. Now, my dear fellow, I trust I have quenched your thirst for mystery for one evening at least. Do you hear the clock striking? Ten, eleven, twelve…Happy Christmas!’
The Case of the Musical Butler
In the months following my marriage, I remained in regular contact with Mr Sherlock Holmes, and ten days after he paid a welcome visit to our home, I took a week’s holiday from my practice, and returned to the lodgings he and I had shared; my wife was visiting her mother, who was suffering from a minor indisposition. During this period, Holmes was consulted by Sir Greville Davidson with regard to his butler, but the circumstances of the case were so delicate that it remains impossible for my account of it to be published whilst the last of the principal characters in the little drama remains alive. Nevertheless, I have decided to write up my notes before memories fade, since the whole affair provides a remarkable insight into an unexpectedly compassionate side to Holmes’ personality, as well as demonstrating his skill as a solver of puzzles.
Sir Greville entered our lives on a cold and blustery October afternoon. As I watched from the bow window as a brisk wind blew leaves across Baker Street, I noticed a tall man, limping along the pavement with the aid of a stout walking stick. I estimated that he was some sixty five years of age, with craggy features and silver hair, and that he was a man of means, given the smartness of his black frock coat and grey trousers, and the shine of his shoes. As he examined the numbers of the houses, I described him to my friend.
‘I suppose that will be Sir Greville Davidson from Oaklands Hall, on the outskirts of Wallingford,’ Holmes murmured absently, ‘I anticipated that he might wish to seek my advice.’
‘Holmes, you astound me!’ I exclaimed. ‘In London alone, there must be scores of men who match the description I supplied. How can you possibly assert..?’
Holmes yawned. ‘It is of no consequence, Watson. Besides, I may very well be mistaken.’
For Sherlock Holmes to admit the possibility that one of his deductions – even when proffered in such casual fashion and on the basis of the slenderest evidence – was a sign that he had become gripped by ennui. This I found disturbing, for I knew, none better, that in order to alleviate boredom, he was apt to reach for the morocco case in which he kept his syringe and cocaine.
The bell clanged, and when Mrs Hudson flourished a card and announced that Sir Greville Davidson wished to see Holmes, I was about to offer my congratulations on the inspired nature of his guesswork – for what else could it have been? – when my friend murmured, ‘Send him away.’
‘Holmes!’ I expostulated. ‘You cannot simply decline to see the man!’
‘Pray, why not?’ Holmes lifted his right eyebrow, as if he lacked the energy to raise both. ‘I crave the stimulation of an unorthodox and knotty problem. I am a consulting detective, not a nursema
id to the gentry.’
‘And how can you be sure that Sir Greville does not wish to seek your advice on a matter of breath-taking complexity?’
Holmes waved a hand at the sheaf of clippings which lay on his roll-top desk. ‘Because bloodstained clothes, apparently belonging to a tramp, have been found in a ditch near the Thames outside Wallingford. Of the hypothesised tramp, there is no sign, and the police’s lack of concern appears to border on lack of interest, but an excitable journalist with nothing better to write about has penned a paragraph raising the spectre of foul play. If my memory of the geography of Oxfordshire does not fail me, the discovery was made adjacent to the boundary of the Oaklands Estate, one of the most notabl in the county. If a crime has perchance been committed, Sir Greville is unlikely to be interested in identifying the perpetrator. He withdrew from society some years ago, as I recall, and a man in his position is apt, in such a case, to think only of protecting his reputation and privacy. Assisting the wealthy to keep their names out of the Press is, however, a task for others.’
The long-suffering landlady cast a despairing glance in my direction, but knew better than to argue with her lodger when he was in such a humour. Scarcely did she leave the room, however, than the door was flung open again, and the gentleman whom I had seen in Baker Street appeared before us. His face was red with the exertion of climbing the stairs, and his brow glistened with perspiration. The look in his gray eyes betrayed a deep anxiety.
‘Mr Holmes, I must apologise for disturbing you in such an unseemly fashion, but I must speak to you!’
My friend frowned. ‘Sir Greville, I fear that...’
‘For pity’s sake!’ the intruder exclaimed. ‘I am at my wits’ end! Will you not allow me five minutes to explain the circumstances that bring me here?’
A curious look passed across Holmes’ face and I saw that, although it was out of character for him to change his mind on such a matter, our visitor’s evident anguish had made an impression upon him.
The New Mysteries of Sherlock Holmes Page 12