by David Marcum
There was a moment of awkward silence. I imagined Warren dwelling on her final few words. “Now listen,” he said at last. “I don’t believe I’ve ever acted in an ungentlemanly manner towards you.”
“I thought that the flowers-”
“They were intended for your aunt as well as for you.”
“So you might get the papers. Perhaps that’s what my aunt was thinking all along. In the end, bringing the two of us together must have meant more to her than spending her final hours with her niece.”
Warren wouldn’t give in. “I should imagine that all along her plan had been to give me the papers.”
“No!” said Miss Rita firmly. “She never wanted outsiders to get their hands on them.” There was a pause of a few moments during which Miss Rita must have been fashioning her most convincing smile and most flirtatious voice. “Now if you were a relation...”
The word could have but one meaning.
“Me - and you?” Warren spat out.
“I’ve liked our time together.”
“But for the rest of our lives? Not even the receipt of all your aunt’s papers would be worth such misery!”
We heard her gasp and then the rustle of clothing and the stomp of heavy feet. Warren had obviously stood and was about to make a grand exit up the stairs to his room. “I’ll be leaving in the morning!” he shouted. “Early!”
Muted sobs filled the silence.
Sitting on the damp ground by the open window, we managed to stay awake through an uneventful night. With only the routine activities of nocturnal creatures to distract us - mice scrabbling among the tree roots, crickets drumming their songs, an owl hooting his displeasure at our presence - we had to wait until the next morning for human passions to become enflamed.
Sometime before dawn, Holmes reached inside the window and, adjusting the green-velvet curtains that had blocked our view, created a gap of about half-an-inch through which we could peer. The morning activities in the house played out before us as if we were attending the theatre. Off-stage, the clatter of dishes and clanging of pans announced that Rosa was preparing breakfast in the kitchen. At half-seven, Miss Rita made her entrance from the sleeping quarters on the ground floor. Dressed in austere black, she was prepared for her meeting with the undertaker. At almost the same moment, as if he’d been waiting, Thomas Warren emerged from his chamber and hurried down the stairs. Despite his threat to leave before the removal of the body, he wore the same black suit we’d seen the previous day. Miss Rita turned at his approach, a melancholy look colouring her down-cast face.
“I’m sorry,” Warren said, reaching for her right hand. “I’ve been cruel. I should have taken your proposal more seriously last night.”
She raised her head.
“In fact,” he said, sounding full of contrition, “I’ve given myself the chance to examine your offer once more, and I believe I now see much wisdom in its implementation. I owe my career to the securing of those papers; and while I did all I could in the most proper way to obtain them from your aunt, I believe she never seriously appreciated my efforts. I think that for as long as she lived, she intended to use those papers as bait to bring me closer to you.”
Miss Rita’s wide eyes looked even wider. And more melancholy. Perhaps she sensed what Warren was about to suggest.
“In fact, I believe we should honour your aunt’s wishes and agree to such a union. I believe she intended for you to do with them exactly as you had proposed to me last night. I am, you see, quite prepared to accept your aunt’s papers - the Aspen papers, if you will - as a dowry.”
At some point during Warren’s last few words, Miss Rita’s left hand had begun a slow journey upward until it was covering her now open mouth.
“Why, what’s the matter?” asked Warren. “I know it’s what you want. Everyone will be pleased. You will get a husband; I will get the letters; and your aunt’s memory will be honoured.”
Miss Rita lowered her head.
“What’s the matter?” Warren asked again. His eyes signalled fear; his tone had grown desperate.
“Oh, Thomas,” she said slowly, “I burned the papers last night. Once you refused me, I saw no point in keeping them.”
“You burned them? The key to my life’s work?”
“I was going to have them buried with my aunt,” she explained, realizing that she’d also destroyed any future she might have envisioned with this man. “But you made me so angry last night that I burned them one by one. It took a long time.”
Warren’s eyes began to bulge. “After what I’ve already done?” he muttered, his face turning dangerously red.
“What?”
“And to think,” he snarled, “I almost found you charming.”
“We can still marry,” Miss Rita urged. “You’ll see. I can make you a good wife.”
Thomas Warren glared at her. The silence seemed interminable. In the end, he threw back his head and laughed. It was a loud, raucous laugh, but it slowly transformed itself into a maniacal shriek. Suddenly, he was upon her, his white fingers tightly gripping her throat.
Without a word, Holmes sprang up, jerked open the French window and raced towards the struggling pair. Wrapping an arm around Warren’s neck, he yanked him off the poor woman, who fell heavily to her knees on the hardwood floor.
In an instant, I had joined Holmes; and between us we managed to wrestle Thomas Warren onto one of the sheet-covered armchairs. Rosa ran out from the kitchen to see what the trouble was. She helped her mistress to stand, and Holmes ordered her to go out in the street to find the nearest constable.
“La policía!” he instructed.
Soon we heard the blast of a police whistle, and within the hour Inspector Gregson arrived at The Hollows.
Not long thereafter, we had the satisfaction of seeing Thomas Warren charged with the murder of Miss Olivia Borden - whom he confessed to smothering after he’d secretly returned to the house - and the attempted murder of Miss Rita Borden. Between two uniformed officers, he was marched to the police van, which immediately drove off in the direction of Scotland Yard.
As it clattered down the road, it passed the undertaker’s hearse, which was just then approaching the house.
V
The following afternoon, Henry James joined us for tea at Baker Street. Holmes had sent a request to the writer at his rooms in De Vere Gardens following Warren’s arrest, and James eagerly accepted. In addition to the tea, Mrs. Hudson set out small chocolate biscuits and a few of the sugary doughnuts James was known to enjoy.
Sherlock Holmes reported the details of the case to our guest as we sampled our tea.
“Good Lord,” said James, when Holmes had finished. “I had no idea my letter regarding Jeremy Aspen would create - would weave - such a tangled skein.”
“More tangled than you can imagine, Mr. James,” Holmes observed. “For it is my conjecture that the Aspen papers contained more value of a personal nature than even your world of belles-lettres could estimate. I have no valid proof, you understand; but judging from my own observations - the similar facial structures, the widespread eyes, the curved nose - not to mention the concern that Olivia Borden expressed regarding her niece’s welfare - I can only conclude that a major topic of the correspondence between Jeremy Aspen and his mistress was the welfare of their child - a daughter I believe to be Miss Rita Borden.”
At this revelation, the doughnut Henry James was poised to devour fell onto his plate.
“And does Miss Rita know of your conjecture?” I asked.
“Only if she read the letters before she burned them - and, of course, only if my supposition is accurate. Based on so little evidence, it is certainly nothing I would share with her.”
James took a small bite of the doughnut he’d dropped. “So,” he said after finishing the morsel, “in addition to the tale -
the mystery - surrounding the Aspen papers, we also have a story dealing with the secret love-child of a writer and his mistress. Not to mention the cunning machinations of a so-called scholar.”
“Just so, Mr. James,” said Holmes.
The author didn’t respond for a moment. Staring off as they were, his grey eyes suggested his mind was somewhere else. If my own writing experiences were any model, I imagined him already at work, composing in his head some sort of novel dealing with the bizarre triangle of old woman, forlorn niece, and obsessed academic.
“One writer to another, Mr. James,” I dared to say, “quite a story, is it not?”
“Indeed, Dr. Watson. Perhaps one we might both attempt to record - each in his own fashion, of course.”
“An excellent suggestion,” said I, already devaluing my factual narrative when compared with the intimate psychological embellishments so typical of James’ fiction. His ornate and methodical style could perfectly reflect the labyrinthine twists and turns of a mind diseased.
“I would, of course, purge the story of obvious references,” said he. “And shift the scene of the adventure to somewhere outside of London. Maybe even outside of England.” Suddenly, he clapped his hands together, the notion of subterfuge obviously gaining in appeal. “Who knows?” he cried. “Perhaps I’ll even fudge or doctor my notebooks - change Jeremy Aspen to Byron. Or Shelley.”
Holmes nodded in appreciation. He often worried about the inadvertent but harmful revelations that occasionally found their way into my own accounts of his cases.
“I shall walk - no, I shall drive - to the National Gallery this very afternoon and look at landscapes for inspiration. Turner’s watercolours of Venice might be just the thing!”
Sherlock Holmes poured himself more tea. “I envy you, Mr. James. The world of detection offers no such escape. My boundaries are limited by the rules of logic and the confines of reality. The detective cannot go willy-nilly where inspiration calls him.”
“Ah, yes, Mr. Holmes,” said Henry James. “But it is the claustrophobia created by such rules that leads the literary artist to the world of fiction. Imagination trumps reality every time.”
Such abstract arguments usually make my head spin. But on this occasion, I was ready to do battle. “I - I take your remark as a challenge, sir,” said I to Henry James. “Let us each report the story of the Aspen papers in our own manner and leave it to posterity to judge who has rendered the stronger case.”
With a smile, Holmes pointed first at the gasogene and then at the spirit case. I understood his gestures and, producing three glasses, mixed the sparkling water with brandy. Once everyone was served, we hoisted our drinks.
“To the judgment of posterity,” proclaimed Sherlock Holmes.
“Hear, hear,” Henry James chimed in, and then the three of us emptied our glasses.
The Ululation of Wolves
by Steve Mountain
The wolf howled. He knew when his leader was dead. The crisp, red, warm smell of life was becoming tinged with the acid, blue, icy smell of death, creeping like a snake through the early spring air. Ahead lay a time of uncertainty - a new leader would have to be chosen. One by one, more wolves joined the mournful lament.
Sharing accommodation with Holmes was never dull. We had been at Baker Street for seven years, and yet still I could rarely predict at the start of a day what would have come to pass by that day’s end. One day would perhaps herald the start of a protracted adventure, another would end having resolved a seemingly intractable problem in a matter of hours due to Holmes’s genius. My least favoured, of course, were those days when nothing happened and which led to monotony and depression, and the inevitable arguments over his use of various substances to ward off the effects. But whether with work or without, Holmes had become a rare attraction, no part due to my efforts (I felt) once my reports of his successes had started to be published.
This day had started typically enough; Mrs. Hudson had brought our breakfast and Holmes was settling down after reading the newspaper when we heard a commotion in the street. Holmes rose to see what was unfolding below.
“Someone in a hurry!” he exclaimed, returning to his seat. “I wonder what he wants of us?”
“Perhaps nothing at all,” I replied. “It is entirely possible for people to have business of their own without conferring on them the need to make use of your services.”
He smiled, a slight look of pity on his face. He seemed to be counting under his breath.
Shortly there was a violent knocking at the door, which we heard Mrs. Hudson open. Holmes looked to me and rubbed his hands. “Adventure?”
“How did you know - as if I should dare ask?”
He passed me a telegram as he rose. “This was delivered earlier, whilst you were getting dressed.”
I read it quickly, and gave it back. “Adventure indeed, Holmes. Mr. Reynolds appears in desperate requirement of you.”
“I think perhaps his desperation stems from an understandable lack of progress with more conventional means of investigation.”
Shortly afterwards, our guest was sitting in the chair facing me, flushed and breathless from his exertions in reaching us from the station in under ten minutes. Holmes stood over him.
“Brandy?”
Reynolds politely accepted Holmes’s offer and took the glass with trembling hands. He seemed to relax slightly. I made to offer a cigar, but was declined. Holmes walked back to the window and looked down onto the late morning bustle of Baker Street. The spring sunshine was streaming through the bay, against which he then half drew the curtain and returned to his seat. Dust hung in the air. Our visitor drew a deep sigh.
“So,” said Holmes, “Tell me what brings you from Ellington House. Your telegram spoke of great urgency.”
“Nothing less than murder, Mr. Holmes,” replied our visitor. “But the local force are at a loss,” he added. “So they have sent in the Metropolitan force, led by an Inspector Lestrade I believe-” Holmes coughed quietly - “but all I know is that from the good Doctor’s account, we need you, Mr. Holmes, to solve this.” Holmes raised an eyebrow.
My pride was short lived. “The good Doctor’s account paints my successes in an overly dramatic light which I fear the reality may fail to live up to,” replied Holmes. “There have been situations in which I have had to admit defeat or error.”
Reynolds laughed. “Not so, Mr. Holmes! I know some of those with whom you have had dealings. We gentlemen’s gentlemen share many secrets, I can assure you.”
Some colour came to Holmes’s cheeks. “Pleasantries aside, then, tell me what troubles you. From the beginning.” He sat back in his chair and lit his pipe as Reynolds started to recount his tale.
“I am - was - Sir Cedric Wolfe’s valet.”
“The Director of the London and Colonial Bank,” interrupted Holmes.
“As you say, Mr. Holmes. I have been in my post these past eleven years and can vouchsafe my master as being a man of honour and deserving of total respect.”
“The perfect master, then,” I opined.
“In many ways, yes, Doctor,” replied Reynolds. “He was seen by some to be a hard man, cold even, but fair. He had responsibilities which he took very seriously, and sometimes I felt these weighed heavily on him. Like all of us he had his ways but, indeed, a better master I have not served in twenty years. He was always the gentleman to me.”
“We all know about little ways, don’t we, Holmes?” I said. Holmes waved my comment aside impatiently, although I caught a glimpse of a wry smile.
“When you say, ‘ways’, what do you mean?” Holmes enquired. “In detail, please.”
Reynolds thought for a moment, as if marshalling his thoughts. “He was a pedant, Mr. Holmes. Everything he used had to be under his control - stamped, embroidered or engraved with the family crest,
even down to the linen, crockery, cutlery; the curtains were made specially with the crest within the woven design. Visitors have to sit at specific places at table. You could set a clock by his routines.
“I have started rather negatively I fear - please forgive me. Mr. Holmes, my master was a great man, rich of course through his work, but generous in equal measure to those to whom he chose to show liberality. Always on his terms, though! The Ellington estate is only small, some two hundred acres of Buckinghamshire park and farmland, and so has only a small number of house and estate staff. He cared passionately for the good of the estate, which he inherited from his father some eight years ago, and he his father before that - six generations in all, Mr. Holmes.” He paused; Holmes drew quietly on his pipe.
“Perhaps he cared for the estate more than he cared for those closer to him in familial ties - but that was the measure of him. As to his ‘ways’, well, as I said everything had to be just so, and he was unnerved and became anxious and upset if anything was different or out of place. He was an insecure man, Mr. Holmes, and afraid of the dark. Not insecure in his profession, of course,” he added quickly, “in which he was peerless; but he oft spoke to me of various fears. And...” He paused again. When he next spoke, I thought I detected a slight air of reserve in his voice. “He kept the menagerie his grandfather started half-a-century ago.”
“A zoo? What animals?” I asked.
“Only one species now, Doctor. In former times it included big cats, for the old man spent long in Africa. But now, only wolves, and they unpenned. I think it is supposed to be a play, a poor one in my humble opinion, on the family name. I must admit to that collection being the one distasteful feature of my life serving him. One becomes almost a prisoner in the House and estate, there being a high wall running the full length of the boundary, and just the one gate as entrance, from the Bicester Road. A second wall surrounds the House, closer in, and the wolves have free run between the twin circuits of the walls.”
“That would certainly play well to a fear of anything out of the ordinary,” mused Holmes. “He would feel secure knowing he was so well guarded...”