by David Marcum
“If these things are but fancies of an addled brain, Watson, how do you explain this?”
He got up from his chair and went over to his desk. He opened the drawer and returned with our poker. It had been bent in half, just as Roylott had done on his visit. I sat in silence. I knew now that any answer I made would not appease him. Instead I asked him what he needed me to do.
His eyes glazed over once more and in a hushed voice he said, “There is a distinct element of danger. Your presence might be invaluable.” Then he seemed to return to himself again as he added, “For goodness’ sake let us have a quiet pipe, and turn our minds for a few hours to something more cheerful.” Instead of reaching for his pipe, his hands clenched into fists, his eyes seemed to roll up into his head and he lapsed into unconsciousness.
As Holmes slept for what might have been the first time in days, I built up a fire and tidied the room a little. I collected up as many dirty plates as I could and carried them down to Mrs. Hudson. I took tea with her and assured her that I would take good care of Holmes. I asked her to trust me when I said that I was sure that he would soon be returned to his old self.
I returned to our rooms to find Holmes was still unconscious. I unpacked my case then, washed and refreshed, I took a Clark Russell sea story from the bookcase and settled in for a long night ahead. As I read, the adventure took me onto the high seas far away from my friend’s troubles and spirit snakes. I became so engrossed in my book that I lost track of the time and it was soon eleven o’clock.
As the clock struck the hour, Holmes opened his eyes. “That is our signal,” he said, springing to his feet just as he had done at the Crown Inn many months ago.
Lighting a lamp, he crossed the room and put his ear to his bedroom door, then silently motioned me to him. Making a trumpet of his hand, he whispered in my ear. “The least sound would be fatal to our plans.” With the lamp before him he slowly opened the door and stepped into the room. Of course, it was empty.
Holmes returned to himself again. “Good. Roylott is unlikely to try anything until I am in bed, so this is what we must do. Watson, you must stay with me tonight, keeping watch. As we know from the events at Stoke Moran, the snake does not strike every time and the victim may escape for nights. I have been lucky so far, but eventually it will kill me. Therefore you must be ready to kill it first.”
Holmes removed his dressing gown and hung it behind the door. I placed a heavy chair against the same in order to bar any means of entry or exit. I set tables at both sides on which I placed a drink, my book, a lighted candle, some matches, and a stout stick. As I settled into the chair, Holmes climbed into bed and extinguished his lamp, leaving the flickering flame of my candle as the only illumination. It cast strange shadows across his anxious face.
“Do not go asleep, your very life may depend upon it,” he whispered, his voice taking on that far away quality once more. “Have your pistol ready in case we should need it.”
“And risk shooting you in the dark? If anything should appear I am sure my stick will suffice.”
No answer came. Holmes had lapsed into unconsciousness once more. I took up my Clark Russell in the hopes that the thrill of the tale might keep me awake, but with the strain placed on my eyes from the dim light and the tiredness of a long day, I am ashamed to say that I fell asleep.
A sibilant sound penetrated my mind, like the hissing of a kettle. I opened my eyes but could see little for my candle had burned down to a stump and was barely flickering. The hissing stopped, and as my eyes grew accustomed to the gloom I could make out Holmes, resting up on his elbows and looking down his body.
“You see it, Watson?” he yelled. “You see it?”
Fear gripped me for upon Holmes’s chest there was something long and thin in the shape of a letter ‘S’. I could not make out any details in the dim light, but it appeared to be trying to move towards Holmes’s neck as if to strike at it.
With no thought for my own safety I leapt across to the bed, grabbed the vile thing and hurled it into the corner of the room. Taking up my stick I followed it and beat it, and beat it, and beat it, until I was certain that it must be dead.
Quickly I lit the lamp on Holmes’s bedside table. He was now sat upright in bed, his face ashen, sweating profusely. His eyes were fixed on the corner of the room, his lips quivered. “The band! The speckled band!” Holmes whispered, and then his eyes closed. He sank back onto his pillow and was asleep once more.
Turning away from him I approached the corner of the room and could now make out the coiled object on the floor against the wall where it had fallen. I could barely believe what I saw lying there. It was the cord from Holmes’s dressing gown.
It was Christmas Day, and all the churches around were ringing out their glad tidings. It was now late morning and I was sat before a roaring fire with a cheery drink and pipe. When Holmes’s bedroom door opened he was dressed, and I had to admit that he looked more like his old self than he had done on the previous night. He certainly sounded like his old self as he bellowed, “Merry Christmas, Watson, and the greetings of the season to you.” Crossing to me, he handed me a box. As he stood warming himself before the hearth with a broad smile, I opened the box. Within it was the morocco case containing his syringe and bottles of drugs. I looked up at him.
“What does this mean, Holmes?”
“It means that it is all over,” Holmes answered. As he prepared his first pipe of the day, he began to explain. “As you were aware before you left on your travels north, there had been little to stimulate my brain. As a result of this I began to use more and more drugs to counter the boredom that possessed me. Without your presence to keep me in check my intake grew to the point where I began to fear for my safety. One night I resolved to stop completely in order to surprise you with the news upon your return, and that is what I did. Unfortunately-”
I interrupted him. “Unfortunately, you suffered the consequences of your actions. As a medical man I have read much about the misuse of drugs and their effects upon the body, and I am well aware of the symptoms caused by sudden withdrawal from them. There is a growing feeling of agitation and much restless behaviour, and then paranoia sets in. This was why you began to believe that Dr. Roylott was haunting you, and explains why you shut yourself away from all visitors, even Lestrade. You became convinced that he was in your room, even believing that you could hear his voice. It was no wonder that Mrs. Hudson believed you had a new lodger, for as well as holding bizarre conversations, you were eating enough for two. An increased appetite is another symptom of sudden withdrawal. I think I am correct in saying that you began to suffer vivid and unpleasant dreams, and that during one of these dreams you walked in your sleep. Do you remember how, in April, you had the strength to straighten the poker again after Roylott had bent it?”
Holmes chuckled at the memory, but said nothing, to allow me to continue.
“It was you who bent the poker in half this time, and then returned to bed with no knowledge of your actions. Finally, we come to the events after my return. How long had it been since you last slept?”
Holmes lit his pipe and sank into the chair opposite me. “Two days, maybe three.”
“And by that point you could not distinguish fantasy from reality. Hence, the drama that played out last night. I believe that you have been reading my notes on the Roylott case.”
Holmes smiled. “How do you deduce that?”
“My notes are my memory of what was said and done, and thus may vary from the actual events. Yet, you quoted me word for word on many occasions.”
Holmes gave a hearty laugh and clapped his hands. “Wonderful, Watson.”
“Then the dressing gown cord arranged upon your chest to look like a snake, the hissing sound you made to waken me. Due to the flickering light of my guttering candle, I did think that I saw a snake slithering up your body, but I ha
d been deceived. It was your conscience that created the entire illusion. You told me that you did not think that Roylott’s death would weigh very heavily upon your conscience, but I believe that it had more of an effect upon you than you realise.”
“Perhaps it did, but thanks to you, I hope to have finally defeated my demons. Hence, my gift to you.”
I looked once more at the case before me. It appeared that not only had I saved my brother from the path of self-destruction, I had now assisted in saving Holmes from his personal demons. But, I wondered, in both cases, for how long?
“Holmes, I cannot accept this gift. I will accept you as a patient and help you as much as I am able, but you must appreciate that only you can ultimately conquer this thing.”
“But we have conquered it,” Holmes replied.
“Not yet, Holmes. You must understand that this might not be the end of your troubles, and that dark days and nights may still lie ahead for the both of us.”
“Nonsense, Watson. The ghost of Dr. Grimesby Roylott has been well and truly exorcised.” As Holmes puffed on his pipe, he paused to add, “But there is one detail, however, that appears to have been overlooked within your theory.”
“And that is?”
“The dressing gown cord.”
“I have explained that,” I replied.
Holmes shook his head. “Not at all, my friend. Consider this. How could I have got up from my bed, crossed the room, and taken the cord from my dressing gown without waking you? Remember, you were sat against the door and my dressing gown, with tables at both sides blocking my approach. It would have been impossible to reach without moving either a table or yourself, and what is it that I try to impress upon you? When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. Don’t you agree, Watson?”
The Allegro Mystery
by Luke Benjamen Kuhns
As I glance over my notes between ‘82 and ‘90, I fondly remember those early years. I, having returned to London from my Afghan campaign with a Jezail bullet as a souvenir in my limb, was by no means ready for civilian life. I will always be grateful to Stamford for introducing me to that strange bohemian man, Sherlock Holmes, whose powers of observation and deduction continue to astonish for nearly quarter of a century.
It was in the autumn of 18– when one of the strangest cases found its way to the doorstep of 221b. While the story received some press, a proper and accurate account of the event has yet to reach the public. I feel, also, that the parties concerned in the matter have reached a time of life where these events would be nothing more than a thrilling story of their youth. A wound long since healed as opposed to a freshly bandaged scrape.
“I have put her away for good, Watson. I have put her away for good!” said Sherlock Holmes with a sweeping entrance into the study. I folded the paper.
“Who have you put away?” I asked.
“Miss Susan Sutherland, my dear fellow! For months she’s plagued chapels, music halls, theatres and busy streets, pick-pocketing any inattentive fool.”
“Well, this is the first I have heard you mention her, Holmes.”
“Yes, well, you have had your own matters to attend to of late. Though I deduce you aren’t friendly with Miss Edwards any longer.”
“Good heavens, Holmes!” I barked. He smiled.
“She has kept you from our work the past few months, but looking at the state of your hair, the longest it’s been since you met her, and the state of your whiskers, your personal grooming says there is no one to impress.”
“Not that it is any of your business, but you are, as always, correct.” I rubbed my face, my whiskers had become rather unruly and were in need of a good trim. “Tell me about this Miss Sutherland.”
“Right!” Holmes began as he continued through the study and fell into his chair. “Sutherland, quite the villain I should say.” Holmes picked up his pipe and filled it with tobacco from his Persian slipper. “I got word that men and women were being robbed in church services across London. And don’t give me that look, Watson. The robbery was not the minister collecting the tithe. The robberies were from individual pockets and handbags. Change, watches, bracelets, and even rings were slipped off. Raptured away! I discovered that each of the robberies were on the person’s right side. So, I was looking for a left-handed crook. Of course the difficult thing was finding the person hiding in plain sight. I had to find the disguise among the general public façades in the crowd.”
“How on earth did you catch them, then?”
“Accessories, Watson. It all came down to simple muff.”
“A muff?”
“Correct.” Holmes took a deep inhale of his pipe before exhaling and continuing. “This is where I found Susan Sutherland. She always kept her left hand inside her muff.”
“I thought you said the thief was left handed.” Holmes raised his finger to me.
“So I planned my trick to take place at one of her places of worship. Having disguised myself splendidly as an old woman with a monstrously huge bag ripe for the plucking, I sat and waited. Soon enough, she sat by me, just to my right and her left. Then I felt it!” Holmes said slapping his hand upon his knee. “Her hand was inside my bag. I peered over to see her left hand still in her muff. My assumptions were correct. I, too, had a similar plan. As she reached into the bag what she did not expect to find was my hand inside. I grabbed hers, threw off my disguise, and exposed her. Then one of Scotland Yard’s finest came to cart her off to a cell.” Setting down his pipe and pressing his fingers together, he leaned his head back and a smile of satisfaction stretched across his face. “Though, there is no guarantee that any or all the stolen belongings will ever be recovered. Most are likely lost to the pawnbrokers.”
I clapped my hands together.
“Well done, Holmes!” I paused a moment. “And I am sorry for my absence of late. I pray you won’t hold it against me?”
“Watson, all matters of love I leave in your hands. While I haven’t the time or energy for such commitment, I can, at the very least, understand the game you play. For love is a game, maybe the most dangerous game of them all.”
There was a ring on the bell followed by the sound of hurried steps up the stairs. A woman, my God, a woman burst into the study. I turned quickly, Holmes slowly lifted his head. The fairest creature I had ever seen stood there, pale faced and gasping for breath. There was a familiarity about her, I thought, as I marvelled at her tall slender frame. She wore a long green dress and large floral hat. Her dark blonde hair had fallen loose from under her hat. This porcelain woman, with striking rosy cheeks, darted her blue, gem-like eyes between myself and Holmes.
“I am looking for Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” the woman asked in a French accent.
“I am he,“ Holmes returned
“Then you must help me, sir!” she pleaded, still standing in the doorway panting.
“My dear, won’t you have a seat. You are flush,” I said. She looked at me with a blank stare before nodding quickly. She glided across the floor, her green dress flowing with every step. I called for Mrs. Hudson to bring us some tea.
“Mademoiselle Dipin,” Holmes said, “what can the West End’s shining star need with my services?”
“You know me?’
“I know you are rising star, with a one-off stint at Her Majesty’s Theatre performing an exotic ballet. No paper in London has missed the show.”
“It is a beautiful story,” Mademoiselle Dipin began. It seemed that whatever concerns she had upon entering our rooms vanished as her mind turned back to her art. “The movements, the music, oh it’s...» She pressed her fingers to her soft lips and kissed them.
“So I’ve heard, though yet to see,” said Holmes.
“And you might never get the chance.” Her face turned to stone. “I cannot say how mu
ch longer I’ll survive the show.”
“Is your life in danger?” I asked. She looked at me, her eyes piercing.
“For the last two-and-a-half months we performed and all seemed fine, but it began with letters.”
“Tell me all from the beginning. Leave no detail out, no matter how trivial you might think it,” said Holmes.
“Then, to tell you of recent events, I need to tell you about my past. My stage fame has inspired many devoted followers. They attend more shows than the lead actor or actress themselves, it seems. They wait outside the stage door, they bring you flowers, chocolates, many different gifts. If you miss a show they send you a card. It’s quite remarkable what the fanatics will do for you. A mutual appreciation for the art brings people together.
“I love these types of people, Mr. Holmes, those who love the art and can discuss the art. But some,” she paused and clasped her hands, and nervously twiddled her thumbs, “they see you as the embodiment of art, and assume you are the final authority on it, rather than one of the many channels by which one can demonstrate it’s beauty. Back in France I had many admirers. Some were harmless. Some were more... forceful.
“There was a man named Jean Javet. He believed he was in love with me. He started by offering flowers after performances. I thought nothing of it at the time. I graciously accepted his gifts. That was my first mistake. Next, he started sending letters. In the beginning, they spoke of his love for my art and how passionate my movements were. Saying how he’d never seen such marvellous style and superb technique.
“From time to time I would write very gracious letters in return, thanking him for his compliments and coming to see the performances. I started to become a concerned after a rather poor review was published in one of the local papers. The critic called our performance a disgrace, scandalous, and said it should be ended now. One never forgets a terrible review. I did my best to put it to the back of my mind. Some people will always hate your art.