The Sensible Necktie and Other Stories of Sherlock Holmes

by Peter K Andersson

  At the sound of the door, he peered up from behind the back of his armchair, and welcomed me heartily.

  “Watson! Such a pleasure. I dare say you will be staying for lunch?”

  “If you wish me to,” I said and walked up to my old place next to him. “I trust you have had a pleasant Christmas?”

  “Hmm?” Holmes was distracted by some papers that had been laying in his lap, and which he was now carelessly pushing down on the floor. “Has Christmas been? I must admit, dear fellow, that it has passed me quite by. I have been absorbed by a most engaging study into a couple of fascinating incunabula that I managed to retrieve from a bookshop in Charing Cross Road.”

  “As a result of which you simply happened to miss Christmas and New Year’s Eve?”

  “That too? Well, if only a case had come my way, I would at least have found an excuse to leave the house, but people have become so excruciatingly law-abiding these days.”

  “Holmes, if I didn’t know you better, I would think you would commit a crime yourself one of these days if only to have something to solve.”

  “That would require me to forget how I had gone about it immediately after I had committed the crime. Hm! Which would make it very nearly the perfect crime! A somnambulist, perhaps, quite unaware of his own wrong-doing.”

  “Or maybe you could commit it to fiction, like so many people nowadays.”

  “Fiction? Ha! Don’t you think the world is big enough as it is? But soft, as Shakespeare would say, unless I am mistaken that was the sound of the doorbell.”

  And sure enough, within moments heavy steps were heard ascending the stairs, and a gentleman stood in the doorframe. He was a large, heavyset fellow, balding, though barely middle-aged, and with a pair of very small wire-rimmed spectacles on his nose. His get-up was slightly dishevelled, but in a way that suggested a lack of routine rather than a breach of it. Holmes stood up and greeted him, introducing ourselves.

  “Good day, gentlemen,” said our visitor. “My name is Perivale Parkins, professor of ontography at Cambridge. I apologise for coming to you unannounced, but I have a matter I would like to have your opinion on, unless you are otherwise engaged?”

  “Please, take a seat, Professor, and lay your problem before us. We shall help you in any way we can.”

  The man took a seat, showing some signs of impatience, while Holmes eyed him discreetly.

  “I understand, Mr Holmes,” he began, “that you are a man of reason?”

  “I hope so.”

  “And you would not accept uncritically a statement professing to be an account of the supernatural?”

  Holmes glanced at me. “On seven occasions, Watson and I have been called out to investigate phenomena purporting to be proof of the supernatural. In all cases, we have been able to show that they were examples of the incredible or the grotesque, but never the supernatural. The curious thing is, Professor, that people assume that the supernatural is the paragon of the strange and amazing, when my experience tells me that often that place should be assigned to the strange and disgusting freaks of human nature.”

  “Your attitude is reassuring. I am in considerable need of reassurance in this matter. You see, until a few weeks ago, I was the most stern opposer of the supernatural, or indeed of magic or religion, or any thing beyond that which is verifiable according to the laws of science. I am known among my colleagues and friends for my unwillingness to concede to claims of the paranormal.”

  “And then something happened to make you waver?” I conjectured.

  “Quite so. It was the end of full term, and I was planning on spending a few days in the country before Christmas. I have just taken up golf, you see, and was eager to devote myself to it as much as I could before the obligations of the holidays. A friend of mine had recommended the little town of Burnstow on the east coast, and I booked myself into a hotel called the Globe Inn, which was the only place not shut up at this time of the year. An archaeologist friend mentioned to me before leaving that Burnstow was the site of an old preceptory of the Knights Templar, and suggested I have a look at it to see if it would be suitable for excavation. I was only too glad to oblige him, and promised that I would write to him with details of the lay of the land.

  “The Globe was a fine enough hotel, but since it was the only place open in the area, I had to make do with their last room, which had two beds in it and a dodgy gas radiator. As for the rest of the place it was rather dull, and the other boarders were golfers, like me. I conversed with a few of them at dinner, and was utterly bored in the process. Only one of them seemed to share my interests and promise conversation at a slightly superior level compared to the others. His name was Wilson, a retired colonel up from London seeking to improve his handicap. He invited me to join him for a brandy on that first evening, and he was interested to hear about my research. We spoke for about half an hour on diverse topics, including politics, art and philosophy. Eventually, however, it transpired that the man was devoutly religious, and when I implied in what I told him about my work that I was a sceptic, he started to become uneasy. I managed to steer clear of the most flagrant discord, and although the man was clearly put off by what I said, we decided we would join each other for a round of golf the next day.

  “I dare say the old army man was approaching the day when he would be forced to give up the game, for only an hour after teeing off, he started looking pale and worn. We finished the game in due course, but it seemed that the colonel’s debility influenced his comportment. He became increasingly irritated and snappy, and I struggled during the last hour to maintain the civilised level of conduct in which we had begun. I suggested he return to the hotel for a cup of tea before dinner, which he said he would do. As for myself, I had remembered the promise I gave to my archaeologist colleague, and fancied I would walk back along the beach to try and find the remnants of that preceptory he had been talking about. I thought it was a good excuse to avoid the company of Colonel Wilson for a while.

  “I found my way from the golf course down to the shingle beach, and came upon a narrow path that led through the undergrowth bordering onto it. It was growing dark quite quickly now, and I hurried along for fear of losing my way. As I did so, my foot must have got caught in a root or something, because all of a sudden I fell forwards and tumbled a good way down a grassy slope. When I got my bearings, I noticed I was surrounded by a selection of low mounds. I examined the area, and came to the conclusion that this was the very place I had been looking for. The mounds consisted of blocks of flint put together with mortar and overgrown with grass and bramble. I was delighted at my discovery, and glad to be able to bring my friend the good news. This would be an easy place to excavate, and easier still for me to estimate the layout of it. I paced the site and managed to get an idea of the buildings and their scale. In the centre, the mounds were arranged in a circle, suggesting the type of round church the Templars were in the habit of constructing, and there was still light enough for me to sketch out a plan of the place in my notebook.

  “I was just about to leave, satisfied with the work I had done, when I made an amazing discovery. At the end of the site, I found a large flat stone. At first I thought it must be some sort of monolith that had fallen over, but upon closer examination, it seemed to me rather that it had been placed like that to form some sort of altar. I stepped up on top of it and let my hand slide across the surface. At one end, there was a break in the stone, suggesting a cavity. I produced my penknife, and poked into the hole. I tried to light it up with a match, but the sea wind kept blowing the flame out. Tapping into the bottom of the cavity, I could feel something moving about down there. I reached my hand down, and picked it up. There was barely light to see, but I reckoned it was man-made, a metal stick, about four inches long. Deciding I would examine it later, I let it slip into my pocket, and within seconds I was on my way.

  “To make sure I wo
uld find my way back to the Globe in the twilight, I chose the easy way of walking on the beach. After a minute or two, I looked back to see if the ruins were visible from the beach, when I saw that there was somebody behind me. A dark figure was moving on the beach in the same direction as me. I didn’t think much about it at first, but after looking over my shoulder a few more times, I fancied that the figure, although clearly moving, was not getting any closer to me, and all the time, it was far enough from me to make identifying it impossible. It was just a silhouette. The experience - I will not deny it - upset me, and I walked faster. By the time I turned inland to walk the last yards up to the hotel, the figure was still there. I must admit I ran the last bit.

  “I do not know why I was seized by such apprehension then on the beach. I suppose we all have the instinct for fear whenever we are confronted by something strange, and I do believe that the fear of darkness is something that we are born with rather than a fear of what may lurk within that darkness. But the rest of my story destabilises my attempts at rationalisation.

  “First there was the object I found at the preceptory. I had quite forgotten about it until the boy at the hotel informed me it had fallen out of my pocket while he had been brushing my coat. After an evening of bridge with the colonel, I retired to my room and sat down to inspect it. I was startled to find that it was made of bronze, and a few minutes of scratching away cakes of mud off the surface informed me that it was a pipe rather than a stick, and more than a pipe, it was a whistle! It was exquisitely made, and very attractive, and what’s more it looked quite ancient. Holding it up to the light, I saw to my astonishment that the carvings on it which I had taken for a primitive pattern, were actually writing. In due course, I had deciphered the print and copied it out in my notebook.”

  The professor produced a small notebook from his pocket and read from it:”‘Fla fur bis fle.’ That was one side. And on the other side there was: ‘Quis est iste qui venit.’”

  I noticed how Holmes worded the two sentences quietly to himself, discreetly committing them to memory.

  “My knowledge of Latin is sizable enough,” continued the professor, “for me to be able to translate the latter one. ‘Who is this who is coming?’ I suppose would be the closest rendition. The other one eludes me. I interpreted the phrase as referring to the one who would come in answer to the whistle. I was now so animated by my discovery that I simply put it to my lips and blew it. The sound was quite astonishing, both beautiful and mysterious. I was interrupted in my work by a sudden violent gust of wind that managed to force open the windows, and it took me quite some time to close them again. In the silence that followed, I could hear the colonel pacing in his room above me; I had apparently woken him. This business quite distracted me from my examination of the whistle, and I decided to go to bed. A sleepless night ensued, characterised only by an occasional dream of the beach I had walked on that afternoon, and the black figure on it.

  “Please don’t think me weak-minded, gentlemen, but I was sure at some moments during that night that I could hear something stirring in the dark corners of my room. It can of course be ascribed to rats, the faulty gas fixtures or whatnot, but the next morning, as I was preparing for another round with the colonel, the maid came into my room with an extra blanket for the bed. She stopped halfway towards it, however, and asked me on what bed she should put it. When I asked the girl what she meant, she said that she had made both of them up that morning, as it seemed both of them had been slept in. In the dim morning light, I had not noticed this, and it seemed very strange to me, although I could not help but think of the sounds I had heard that night. Nevertheless, I banished all these thoughts from my mind, and spent the day on the golf course. This second game was much more enjoyable than the first, but as we walked back to the club house afterwards, our conversation happened to venture into the area of folklore, when the colonel remarked on the wind last night and how he had heard someone whistling, which reminded him of the common superstition of it being able to create a wind by whistling for it.

  “An argument was again avoided, however, since a boy ran up to us, looking very out of breath and a little frightened. He told us he had seen something in one of the windows of the Globe while he had been watering plants with the garden hose in the front lawn. It was a figure standing in the window, all white, waving at him. I believed he was talking a lot of nonsense, and said so, but the colonel insisted we go back to investigate, so we did. There was no one in the windows when we came to the hotel, but the window that fit the description the boy had given could only be my own window, which made me laugh. I said there could not possibly be anyone in my room, since I had taken care to lock it when I left that morning. All the same, we went up, finding the door still locked, and I remarked to the colonel that I didn’t like it when servants went in and out of rooms that should be locked. Stepping into the room, the colonel drew my attention to one of the beds, in which the sheets had been upset. I told him this was not the bed I was using, and that clearly a crime had been committed. Nothing seemed to have been stolen, however, and the maid, when questioned, said she had made the beds that morning, and that neither she nor anyone else had been in the room after that.

  “Since the staff at the hotel all seemed to me to be decent people, my suspicions fell on the boy who had given us the news. I concluded that he must have been lying, and that we had fallen victim to his childish prank. The colonel did not seem to agree with my supposition, but said nothing, and we left it there. There was no further conversation between us that evening, and dinner passed in silence. It wasn’t until we went up to our beds that I was reminded of my whistle. I had made some passing mention of it to the colonel, and wanted to show it to him, thinking he might make something out of the inscription. He looked at it closely, and there was immediately something anxious about his face. I told him I might hand it over to an archaeologist at Cambridge, or maybe present it to a museum, but he only frowned and told me I’d be better off chucking it into the sea. I don’t know what made him say this, but by now I had really had enough of him, and bade him goodnight.

  “That night, I experienced the most fantastic and fearful occurrence of my life. Once more, I was tossing and turning in my bed, and it was not until I rose to draw the curtains that I noticed to my great surprise that they were gone. In fact, the entire curtain rod had been removed. I assumed it was the maid who had done it to wash the curtains and then forgotten to replace them, and since it was late I did not want to make a fuss, so I managed to make up for it by making use of my railway rug. In the middle of the night, however, I was woken by the sound of my rug falling from its place, leaving the window bare. The moon shone brightly into the room, and I wondered whether I should go to the trouble of rearranging it. Just then, I heard the sound that had disturbed me the previous night. It was the sound of someone, or something, shifting in the other bed. Within seconds, I was out of my bed, grasping my walking stick, when I saw, as clearly as I see you now, a figure rising up from beneath the sheets, and sitting upright in the bed. And then, suddenly, it bolted up, and stood on the floor, right in between the two beds. It now blocked the door and started to float through the room towards me. It was a figure, much the size of a man, a tall man, but if you were to ask me to describe it, I could only say that it was all bed linen.

  “I backed towards the window, which by now was my only escape. It came closer, and I could not keep myself from crying out. Upon hearing this, it was as if it had finally managed to locate me, for now it hurried towards me, and was only inches from me, when the door was thrust open and Colonel Wilson appeared, framed by the light from the corridor outside. And with his appearance, it was as if the creature vanished into thin air, or at least whatever it had been which had filled the sheets, for they were still there, but simply fell onto the floor in a large jumble. The colonel came up to me, and managed to calm me down. I dropped onto my bed, and I must have fallen asleep, or fainted
. When I woke up, it was daylight, and I saw that the colonel had slept in the other bed, wrapped in a rug. The linen was still on the floor by the window.

  “He and I had a long talk after breakfast, during which we tried to wrap our heads around what had happened, and what we had both seen, for he maintained that he had also seen the figure, just before it disappeared. I am afraid that I found it impossible to hold onto my rationalist outlook in this intercourse, and the colonel was most understanding. I gave him the whistle to dispose of, and he threw it into the sea, just as he had advised me to do. The next day we both left the Globe, and I returned to Cambridge, only to find that I could not leave this whole experience behind me. I spent all of Christmas trying to occupy my mind with other things, but it kept haunting me, not least because I simply cannot incorporate it into my worldview. And so, last night, I decided that I would put the matter into your hands. Perhaps it is too late to investigate it, but simply telling you about my experience will put me at ease, knowing that another rational mind will have the opportunity to meditate on it.”

  The professor fell silent, removing his spectacles to polish them with his handkerchief. Holmes was tapping his fingertips on the armrests of his chair.

  “Have you spoken to your archaeologist friend since you came back?” he asked.

  “I have not. I did not feel it was very urgent, and besides, he is away until the beginning of next term.”

  “And what happened to the bed clothes?”

  Parkins lowered his eyes. “Since I was so panic-stricken, I insisted that they were burned, and paid the hotel-owners for a new set.”

  “Did you or anyone else examine them?”

  “No. Wilson carried them from the room and out into the back garden, where the landlord burned them.”