The Sensible Necktie and Other Stories of Sherlock Holmes

by Peter K Andersson

  “Astonishing!” I exclaimed. “I have never heard anything quite like it. Even in the case of the Marie Celeste, the disappearance of the crew took place without witnesses, and the ship was only found after the event. But here we have a disappearance right in front of several observers!”

  “Exactly, Watson! That was just the aspect that attracted me to the case. I immediately accompanied Frome back to Lydmouth to examine the scene of the mystery for myself.”

  “I would have expected nothing less from you. What did you find?”

  “Precious little. Two days had gone by since the event, and still nothing had been seen or heard either of the boat or its crew. A meticulous search had been conducted along the coast to the east and west of Lydmouth to try and find any remains of the wreck, and three ships had gone out from Lydmouth harbour to scan the area where the cutter had been lost in search of any traces. But not so much as an oar had been found. Upon my arrival, I was taken out with the spare cutter, a boat of similar manufacture to the Alicia, and we circled once more the area of the disappearance. I asked Frome and his men about the men who had been on board it. Richard Wexton, he claimed, was an experienced pilot who had been based at Lydmouth for twenty years. He has a wife and three children, two of which are of mature age and have families of their own. He is described as a pillar of the community, much liked by locals and seafaring visitors alike. The three crew members included Thomas Fulford, a local fisherman and old sailor, just as established in Lydmouth as Wexton, and two men who were brothers by the name of Taylor. These two brothers are apparently newcomers to the area, claiming to be shipbuilders from Southampton. You know how suspicious people in small towns can be of strangers, Watson, and the Taylor brothers were no exception. Frome spoke of them with caution, making sure not to put any unfair blame on them, but conspicuously sparing in his praise of them. They are both quite young men, one of them not yet twenty, and they lodge together at one of the harbour taverns. But before I could consider the role these men could have played in the disappearance, I had to try and explain the disappearance itself.

  “I continued by examining the Lizzie May, which was now anchored in the harbour. I found nothing out of the ordinary, neither by inspecting the hull nor by going through the interiors. The crew is made up to a large extent of indigenous West Indians who speak little English, and the rest of the crew are strangers to Lydmouth, which makes it unlikely that they would have any interest in making away with a small cutter and its crew. It was easy to dismiss a number of possible scenarios by asking what the motive would have been. The problem was that nobody seemed to have stood to gain from the disappearance of the Alicia and its crew. In consequence, I saw myself compelled to turn to forces outside of human agency. The explanation had to be connected to the powers of nature or human error. I considered the conditions of the disappearance, and compiled a list of five possible causes: a fire, a large sea wave, a shoal causing the boat to sink rapidly, an encounter with a whale or some other large creature, or an explosion. The problem was that the course of events had to have taken place within a very limited timeframe of no more than four minutes, from the moment when the patch of mist formed to when it cleared away. In this time, the boat could not possibly have been consumed by a fire - unless the mist was no mist but smoke from a fire on a different boat - but it could have sunk as a result of running aground, being attacked by a large animal, consumed by a wave or exploding. All of these eventualities, however, would have left behind a wreck that would have surfaced at least partly, not to mention dead bodies that would eventually have been swept ashore. None of this has happened. I returned to Baker Street from Lydmouth vexed by the lack of clues in this case, and have spent several days testing a number of hypotheses from the comfort of this sitting room. Today, I thought that I had hit upon something promising. I conjectured that the patch of mist in which the cutter was lost was created by artificial means, and have attempted to find the method used by recreating the process in my laboratory.”

  “That accounts for the mess on the table. And have you found the method?”

  “That is not the problem, Watson. A cloud of smoke or vapour could easily be created by human hands, but the question is how could it be done several yards out into the open sea? In conjunction with my experiments, I have tried, as I mentioned, to acquire a complete picture of the weather conditions at Lydmouth that day using as many newspaper reports as I could find. You see the remains of them scattered around you.”

  “It is a veritable newspaper graveyard. And what does your complete picture indicate?”

  “Nothing conclusive. There were no reports of fog anywhere in the vicinity on that day, but the weather was not clear, and the creation of small areas of mist cannot be excluded.”

  “Could it not have been a cloud of smoke drifting from a nearby fire or factory?”

  “Only to thicken once more on the open seas, where it should have been dispersed by the ocean breeze? A queer cloud of smoke, Watson.”

  “So what are we to make of it all? That the explanation is a supernatural one?”

  “Oh Watson, don’t be foolish. There is clearly some vital piece of evidence lacking.”

  “I do hope you will find it, old chap. We don’t want another James Phillimore on our hands. After that ordeal, you had to spend a month at a resting home.”

  “The case haunts me to this day, Watson. It was a perfect vanishing act. His colleague was standing in the street outside, waiting for Phillimore to fetch his umbrella before accompanying him to their office in the City, and inside the house the maid heard the door open and slam shut just seconds before she looked out into the hallway and found it completely empty.”

  “I remember. In the room to the right, another maid was cleaning, and in the room to the left, the butler was clearing the breakfast table. They heard the door too, but saw no sign of their master. How many weeks did you devote to the case before giving it up?”

  “Ten at least. I was positive that the staff of the household had conspired, but in that case, what would they have done to him, and why were there no signs of struggle?”

  “And then there was that report from South America. Peru, was it? That a man of his description had checked into a hotel in his name at exactly the same moment that he disappeared in London. Chilling.”

  “My dear Watson, that must have been a pure coincidence. But it serves to demonstrate how willing people are to welcome impossible solutions.”

  “Do you think the cutter Alicia has ended up in the same place as James Phillimore?”

  “Hum! I shall refrain from indulging you in your attempts to allow for supernatural eventualities.”

  “It only stands to reason to assume that science has not yet explained everything.”

  “And among those unexplained things you count magic umbrellas and clouds of mist with the power to dematerialise a ship?”

  Holmes pulled up his legs into his armchair and peered dreamily into the fire. I enjoyed my cigar in silence for a few minutes, meanwhile picking up one of the newspapers that Holmes had opened on the item that described the Alicia affair. There was a picture of Jack Frome accompanying the article, a gentle-looking face framed by a thick chinstrap beard, and I began to contemplate it, musing on this man and his predicament.

  “You say that Mr Frome appeared agitated and uneasy when he came to you?” I asked Holmes.

  “Yes, and he complained of headaches. But he dismissed my expressions of sympathy, saying that he had regularly occurring headaches and that they usually went away after a while.”

  “Was it anything more than headaches?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I was only reminded of an article I read a few years back about a French physician who described a condition that I have encountered in some of my own patients. It connects migraine headaches with distorted vision or even a loss of
vision in one eye.”

  “You interest me, Watson. Go on.”

  “Well, there is no mystery about it. The phenomenon is commonly linked to cerebral disturbances, and a decreased arterial blood flow is the probable cause of these distortions, which the medical men term ‘auras’. In some it presents itself like zigzagging lines across the field of vision, in some a blurring of the sight on one eye, and in some rare cases a complete loss of sight on one eye.”

  Holmes looked at me as if frozen stiff. He did not move a muscle for what must have been twenty seconds. Then I could see his eyes moving about as if he was letting his gaze scan across an invisible book in front of him. Finally he rose from his armchair and walked up to the nearest bookcase, from which he took down a folio-sized binder. He carried it to the table, pushed away some of the chemical instruments and placed it there. Untying the ribbon that held the covers of the binder together, he opened it, and I could see that it contained a large bundle of maps. Sea charts, to be exact. Flipping through them, Holmes was clearly searching for one in particular, and when he found it, he made a loud victorious cry.

  “Yes, yes, it all fits together. Splendid, my boy! As I have said on numerous occasions, you are a conductor of light. But this time, Watson, you excel yourself. I must admit that you have cracked it, and I am very much in your debt.”

  “Cracked it? Surely not. A mere sight loss cannot account for the disappearance of an entire ship and its crew!”

  “Not on its own, of course, but taken together with the fact that only Frome was following the cutter with his eyes the whole way, and that the patch of mist in all likelihood was not static, but drifted some yards to the side before it cleared away, it is all perfectly obvious. Here, look at this chart of the waters outside Lydmouth. Do you see? Just southeast of Lydmouth is a small group of islands, barely visible from land but close enough to allow a small boat to sail there in a matter of minutes. Now, the waters around here are treacherous, Frome said so himself, and if the conditions are just right, then it is perfectly possible for the Alicia to have sailed into the mist, lost its bearings - a small cutter like that has no need for any advanced navigational instruments - and followed along with the patch of mist to the east. Thus, it would have drifted to the left from Frome’s point of view, and if it is as you indicated, that he suffered from a blurred field of vision in advance of the migraine headache that he received the next day when he came to see me, then it is likely that he had no view of it. And once the mist cleared away, the cutter, going in the direction of the mist, would have drifted out past the Lizzie May, where the captain was keeping lookout for her towards the harbour. Do you see? The Alicia needed only go past the Lizzie May to become invisible to all who kept a lookout for her. This she could easily have done in the time before the mist cleared away, and once she was on that side, the journey to those islands is a short one, and quite possibly the only way to go once the treacherous undercurrents have taken the upper hand.”

  “Do you really think this is possible? The undercurrents would have to be very strong for the cutter to go such a long way.”

  “An experienced sailor knows better than to try and fight currents. The men in the crew had a good reason for not taking any unnecessary risks.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Like most sailors, they did not know how to swim.”

  Holmes walked over to his desk and started scribbling a note. Just then, Mrs Hudson walked in through the door, bearing the latest morning editions.

  “Ah, Mrs Hudson,” said Holmes. “I need you to take this over to the telegraph office. It is for a Mr Jack Frome of Lydmouth harbour.”

  I took the newspapers from the landlady and glanced over the front page of The Times.

  “Holmes!” I cried. “You are too late!”

  He looked up from his note and I showed him the headline that read: “Crew of Alicia found on Channel island.” He took the newspaper and read it while making strange noises of contentment and delight.

  “It is just as we deduced! The cutter, when driven off course by the mist and the current, was forced to steer towards the islands to avoid drifting out into the open sea. The captain of the Lizzie May admits that all eyes were directed towards the harbour from whence the cutter was expected to come, and if only someone had glanced in the other direction, they would have seen the boat and there would never have been any mystery. The crew of the Alicia is reported to be all right in the circumstances, although were found to be suffering from mild dehydration. Oh, and listen to this, Watson: ‘Harbour-master Jack Frome also confesses to having withheld the fact that he occasionally suffers from impaired vision due to chronic migraines, a condition which presented itself on the day of the disappearance, and may have contributed to the official’s failure to see the cutter as it drifted along with the mist.’ Ha-ha! Watson, I am very much indebted to you. Allow me to buy you dinner tonight. Mrs Hudson, you may forget about that telegram.”

  “But are you not frustrated by the fact that no one will give you credit for actually solving the case without this information?” I said.

  “Not in the least. The satisfaction I get from my work comes from myself and not from the acknowledgment of others. It is enough to know that I did solve it, or indeed that there was a solution to it. I often repel at the word ‘mystery’ that we use for cases like this. There are no mysteries in this world, my friend, only problems that are not yet solved.”

  “I must say, however,” I remarked, “that the promise of a remarkable explanation when the problem is yet unsolved often surpasses the prosaic nature of the real explanation once it is revealed. Seeing the solution to this mystery, for instance, it is plain and simple. And a bit boring.”

  “That is why people go to magic shows, Watson. They need the illusion of unexplainable mysteries. But I am no conjuror. I am a mechanic, pure and simple, and I solve problems.”

  “Then perhaps cases like the Phillimore mystery are rather refreshing from time to time?”

  Holmes reclined into his armchair once more. “To a collector of fairy-tales, perhaps.”

  The Adventure of the Cawing Crow

  There are, deep within the accumulation of papers in my possession relating to the many cases of Sherlock Holmes, notes of numerous incidents which, if made public, would damage the reputation of many a distinguished aristocrat. I need only intimate the fracas of late that ensued when it was suggested that I publish the data in the case of the Robertson twins and the duplicate drawing-room, and I have more than once been implored to destroy my records of the Otwell House mystery, but there is one case in this category which I am now at liberty to publicise, as all of the major characters in the drama are beyond the reach of public scandal.

  It took place in the year ’93 or ’94 - memory fails me - and provided Holmes with a challenging diversion from a number of protracted commissions from eminent clients. It was a cold day in early spring, and we had just returned from a long morning walk when Mrs. Hudson informed us that a lady was waiting in our sitting room. Holmes examined the calling card.

  “Miss Madeleine Crabb of Pettigrew Lodge, Sussex. Her business must be pressing. There was a railway accident on that line only this morning, which must have lengthened her journey considerably.”

  He climbed the stairs three steps at a time, and I followed readily. We came upon a thin and frail young woman sitting in one of our chairs. She was dressed in a grey plain dress with no decorations, and her brown hair fell in a single long braid across her back. In her hand, she held a simple straw hat of an unfashionable but dainty sort. To me, she was every inch the archetypal girl from the country.

  “Miss Crabb, I hope your wait has been brief,” said Holmes, pressing her little hand. Then his face changed, and he looked down upon the hand enveloped by his own palm. “But my dear, you are cold as ice! Please draw nearer to the fire.”

 
“Please, do not concern yourself , Mr Holmes,” she said. “I am anaemic and always have been. Several doctors have tried to cure my lack of circulation over the years, without succeeding. But I assure you, I am quite all right.”

  “Nevertheless,” Holmes insisted. “The fire cannot hurt. This is my friend and associate Dr Watson, before whom you may speak as freely as before myself.”

  “That is most comforting,” said the lady as we sat down together by the hearth, “for what I have to tell you is most pressing and yet very delicate. It concerns my poor father, who was once a distinguished peer, but is now retired, even though his name is still known in some circles. It is therefore of the utmost importance that what I have to say will not go further than this room.”

  “You have my assurance,” said Holmes.

  “And my word as a soldier and servant of Her Majesty,” I added. Holmes shot me an amused glance.

  “I thank you, gentlemen,” the woman replied. “The facts, briefly, are these. My father, Wilfred Crabb, used to be a sharp and opinionated politician who moved in the highest of circles and spent most of his time in London. When he retired, he moved permanently to his newly purchased house at Pettigrew so as to make a clean break with the city life he so loved but was no longer able to lead. The adjustment to this new way of life was trying, but in time, it seemed that he would be able to make the transition, and his urban restlessness gradually gave way to an ability to take pleasure in the attractive scenery of his estate. He started to interest himself in the ancient history of the region, befriended the local vicar who is an amateur archaeologist, and took up the habit of making long walks across the fields and woodland. I quietly started to entertain the notion that my father had found happiness at Pettigrew, until he started to behave strangely. Mr Holmes, perhaps I would do better to consult a medical expert, for my father’s problems are basically connected to his health. His mental health.”