A Slight Trick of the Mind

by Mitch Cullin

  Naturally, he concluded when catching his breath at the front door, a degree of sluggishness on his part wasn't unexpected; he had ventured halfway around the world and back, forgoing his usual morning meal of royal jelly spread upon fried bread—the royal jelly, rich in vitamins of the B-complex and containing substantial amounts of sugars, proteins, and certain organic acids, was essential to maintaining his well-being and stamina; without its nourishment, he felt positive, his body had suffered somewhat, as had his retention.

  But once outside, his mind was invigorated by the land awash in late-afternoon light. The flora posed no quandary, nor did the shadows hint at the voids where fragments of his memory should reside. Everything there was as it had been for decades—and so, too, was he: strolling effortlessly down the garden pathway, past the wild daffodils and the herb beds, past the deep purple buddleias and the giant thistles curling upward, inhaling all the while; a light breeze rustled the surrounding pines, and he savored the crunching sounds produced on the gravel from his shoes and canes. If he glanced back over his shoulder just now, he knew the farmhouse would be obscured behind four large pines—the front doorway and casements bedecked with climbing roses, the molded hoods above the windows, the exposed brick mullions of the outer walls; most of it barely visible among that dense crisscrossing of branches and pine needles. Ahead, where the path ended, stretched an undivided pasture enriched with a profusion of azaleas, laurel, and rhododendrons, beyond which loomed a cluster of freestanding oaks. And beneath the oaks—arranged on a straight-row plan, two hives to a group—existed his apiary.

  Presently, he found himself pacing the beeyard as young Roger—eager to impress him with how well the bees had been tended in his absence, roving now from hive to hive without a veil and with sleeves rolled high—explained that after the swarm had been settled in early April, only a few days prior to Holmes's leaving for Japan, they had since fully drawn out the foundation wax within the frames, built honeycombs, and filled each hexagonal cell. In fact, to his delight, the boy had already reduced the number of frames to nine per hive, thereby allowing plenty of space for the bees to thrive.

  “Excellent,” Holmes said. “You have summered these creatures admirably, Roger. I am very pleased by your diligence here.” Then, rewarding the boy, he removed the vial from his pocket, presenting it between a crooked finger and a thumb. “This was meant for you,” he said, watching as Roger accepted the container and gazed at its contents with mild wonder. “Apis cerana japonica—or perhaps we will simply call them Japanese honeybees. How's that?”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  The boy gave him a smile, and, gazing into Roger's perfect blue eyes, lightly patting the boy's mess of blond hair, Holmes smiled in turn. Afterward, they faced the hives together, saying nothing for a while. Silence like this, in the beeyard, never failed to please him wholly; from the way Roger stood easily beside him, he believed the boy shared an equal satisfaction. And while he rarely enjoyed the company of children, it was difficult avoiding the paternal stirrings he harbored for Mrs. Munro's son (how, he had often pondered, could that meandering woman have borne such a promising offspring?). But even at his advanced age, he found it impossible to express his true affections, especially toward a fourteen-year-old whose father had been among the British army casualties in the Balkans and whose presence, he suspected, Roger sorely missed. In any case, it was always wise to maintain emotional self-restraint when engaging housekeepers and their kin—it was, no doubt, enough just to stand with the boy as their mutual stillness hopefully spoke volumes, as their eyes surveyed the hives and studied the swaying oak branches and contemplated the subtle shifting of the afternoon into the evening.

  Soon, Mrs. Munro called from the garden pathway, beckoning for Roger's assistance in the kitchen. Then, reluctantly, he and the boy headed across the pasture, doing so at their leisure, stopping to observe a blue butterfly fluttering around the fragrant azaleas. Moments before dusk's descent, they entered the garden, the boy's hand gently gripping his elbow—that same hand guiding him onward through the farmhouse door, staying upon him until he had safely mounted the stairs and gone into his attic study (navigating the stairs being hardly a difficult undertaking, though he felt grateful whenever Roger steadied him like a human crutch).

  “Should I fetch you when supper's ready?”

  “Please, if you would.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  So at his desk he sat, waiting for the boy to aid him again, to help him down the stairs. For a while, he busied himself, examining notes he had written prior to his trip, cryptic messages scrawled on torn bits of paper—levulose predominates, more soluble than dextrose—the meanings of which eluded him. He glanced around, realizing Mrs. Munro had taken liberties in his absence. The books he had scattered about the floor were now stacked, the floor swept, but—as he had expressly instructed—not a thing had been dusted. Becoming increasingly restless for tobacco, he shifted notebooks and opened drawers, hoping to find a Jamaican or at least a cigarette. After the hunt proved futile, he resigned himself with favored correspondence, reaching for one of the many letters sent by Mr. Tamiki Umezaki weeks before he had embarked on his trip abroad: Dear Sir, I'm extremely gratified that my invitation was received with serious interest, and that you have decided to be my guest here in Kobe. Needless to say, I look forward to showing you the many temple gardens in this region of Japan, as well as—

  This, too, proved elusive: No sooner had he begun reading than his eyelids closed and his chin gradually sagged toward his chest. Then sleeping, he wouldn't feel the letter slide through his fingers, or hear the faint choking emanating from his throat. And upon waking, he wouldn't recall the field of marigolds where he had stood, nor would he remember the dream which had placed him there again. Instead, startled to find Roger suddenly leaning over him, he would clear his throat and stare at the boy's vexed face and rasp with uncertainty, “Was I asleep?”

  The boy nodded.

  “I see—I see—”

  “Your supper will be served soon.”

  “Yes, my supper will be served soon,” he muttered, readying his canes.

  As before, Roger gingerly assisted Holmes, helping him from the chair, sticking close to him when they exited the study; the boy traveled with him along the corridor, then down the stairs, then into the dining room, where, at last slipping past Roger's light grasp, he went forward on his own, moving toward the large Victorian golden oak table and the single place setting that Mrs. Munro had laid for him.

  “After I'm finished here,” Holmes said, addressing the boy without turning, “I would very much like to discuss the business of the apiary with you. I wish for you to relate all which has transpired there in my absence. I trust you can offer a detailed and accurate report.”

  “I believe so,” the boy responded, watching from the doorway as Holmes propped his canes against the table before seating himself.

  “Very well, then,” Holmes finally said, staring across the room to where Roger stood. “Let us reconvene at the library in an hour's time, shall we? Providing, of course, that your mother's shepherd's pie doesn't finish me off.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Holmes reached for the folded napkin, shaking it open and tucking a corner underneath his collar. Sitting upright in the chair, he took a moment to align the flatware, arranging it neatly. Then he sighed through his nostrils, resting his hands evenly on either side of the empty plate: “Where is that woman?”

  “I'm coming,” Mrs. Munro suddenly called. She promptly appeared behind Roger, holding a dinner tray that steamed with her cooking. “Move aside, son,” she told the boy. “You're not helping nobody like that.”

  “Sorry,” Roger said, shifting his slender body so that she could gain entrance. And once his mother had rushed by, hurrying to the table, he slowly took a step backward—and another, and another—until he had removed himself from the dining room. However, there would be no more loitering about on his part; otherwise, he k
new, his mother might send him home or, at the very least, order him into the kitchen for cleanup duty. Avoiding that eventuality, he made his escape quietly enough, doing so while she served Holmes, stealing away before she could leave the dining room and summon him by name.

  But the boy didn't head outside, fleeing toward the beeyard like his mother might expect—nor did he go inside the library and prepare for Holmes's questions concerning the apiary. Instead, he crept back upstairs, entering that one room in which only Holmes was allowed to sequester himself: the attic study. In truth, during the weeks that Holmes was traveling abroad, Roger had spent long hours exploring the study—initially taking various old books, dusty monographs, and scientific journals off the shelves, perusing them as he sat at the desk. When his curiosity had been satisfied, he had carefully placed them again on the shelves, making sure they looked untouched. On occasion, he had even pretended that he was Holmes, reclining in the desk chair with his fingertips pressed together, gazing at the window, and inhaling imaginary smoke.

  Naturally, his mother was oblivious to his trespassing, for if she had found out, he would have been banished from the house altogether. Yet the more he explored the study (tentatively at first, his hands kept in his pockets), the more daring he became—peeking inside drawers, shaking letters from already-opened envelopes, respectfully holding the pen and scissors and magnifying glass that Holmes had used on a regular basis. Later on, he had begun sifting through the stacks of handwritten pages upon the desktop, mindful not to leave any identifying marks on the pages while, at the same time, trying to decipher Holmes's notes and incomplete paragraphs; except most of what was read was lost on the boy—either due to the nature of Holmes's often nonsensical scribbling or as a result of the subject matter being somewhat oblique and clinical. Still, he had studied every page, wishing to learn something unique or revealing about the famous man who now reigned over the apiary.

  Roger would, in fact, discover little that shed new light on Holmes. The man's world, it seemed, was one of hard evidence and uncontestable facts, detailed observations on external matters, with rarely a sentence of contemplation pertaining to himself. Yet among the many piles of random notes and writings, buried beneath it all as if hidden, the boy had eventually come across an item of true interest—a short unfinished manuscript entitled “The Glass Armonicist,” the sheaf of pages kept together by a rubber band. As opposed to Holmes's other writings on the desk, this manuscript, the boy had immediately noticed, had been composed with great care: The words were easy to distinguish, nothing had been scratched out, and nothing was crammed into the margins or obscured by droplets of ink. What he then read had held his attention—for it was accessible and somewhat personal in nature, recounting an earlier time in Holmes's life. But much to Roger's chagrin, the manuscript ended abruptly after only two chapters, leaving its conclusion a mystery. Even so, the boy would dig it out again and again, rereading the text with a hope that he might gather some insight that had previously been missed.

  And now, just as during those weeks when Holmes had been gone, Roger sat nervously at the study desk, methodically extracting the manuscript from underneath the organized disorder. Soon the rubber band was set aside, the pages placed near the glow of the table lamp. He studied the manuscript in reverse, briefly scanning the last few pages, while also feeling certain that Holmes had not yet had a chance to continue the text. Then he started at the beginning, bending forward as he read, turning one page over onto another page. If he concentrated without distractions, Roger believed, he could probably get through the first chapter that night. Only when his mother called his name would his head momentarily lift; she was outside, shouting for him from the garden below, searching for him. After her voice faded, he lowered his head once more, reminding himself that he didn't have much time left—in less than an hour, he was expected at the library; before long the manuscript would need to be concealed exactly as it had originally been found. Until then, an index finger slid below Holmes's words, blue eyes blinked repeatedly but remained focused, and lips moved without sound as sentences began conjuring familiar scenes within the boy's mind.

  3

  THE GLASS ARMONICIST

  A Preface

  On any given night should a stranger climb the steep stairs which conclude here in this attic, he will wander a few seconds in darkness before reaching the shut door of my study. Yet even in such pitch, a dim hue of light will steal past the closed doorway, just as it does now, and he might stand there in thought, asking himself, What sort of preoccupation keeps a man awake well after midnight? Who is it, exactly, that exists within as the majority of his countrymen slumber? And if the knob is then tried so that his curiosity could be satisfied, he will find the door locked and his entrance forbidden. And if, at last, he resigns an ear against the doorway, a faint scratching sound will likely reach him, signifying the quick movement of pen upon paper, the preceding words already drying as the following symbols arrive watery from the blackest of ink.

  But, of course, it is no secret that I remain elusive at this time in my life. Nor has the chronicling of my past exploits, while apparently of infinite fascination to the reading public, ever been a gratifying endeavour for me. During the years in which John was inclined to write about our many experiences together, I regarded his skilful, if somewhat limited, depictions as exceedingly overwrought. At times, I decried his pandering to popular tastes and asked that he be more mindful of facts and figures, especially since my name had become synonymous with his often superficial ruminations. In turn, my old friend and biographer urged me to write an account of my own. “If you imagine I have done an injustice to our cases,” I recall him saying on at least one occasion, “I suggest you try it yourself, Sherlock!”

  “Perhaps I will,” I told him, “and perhaps then you will read an accurate story, one lacking the usual authorial embellishments.”

  “Best of luck to you there,” he scoffed. “You are going to need it.”

  Yet only retirement afforded me the luxury and inclination finally to engage myself with John's suggestion. The results of which, though hardly impressive, were nonetheless enlightening on a personal level, if simply to show me that even a truthful account must be presented in a manner which should entertain the reader. Realising such an inevitability, I abandoned John's form of storytelling after publishing just two stories, and, in a brief note sent to the good doctor later on, offered a sincere apology for the derision I had heaped upon his earlier writings. His response was swift and cleverly to the point: No apology required, my friend. The royalties absolved you ages ago, and continue to do so, despite my protests. J. H. W.

  As John is now once again in my thoughts, I would like to take this opportunity to address a current irritation of mine. It has come to my attention that my former helpmate has recently been cast in an unfair light by both dramatists and so-called mystery novelists. These individuals of dubious repute, whose names are not worthy of mention here, have sought to portray him as little more than an oafish, blundering fool. Nothing could be further from reality. The very notion that I would burden myself with a slow-witted companion might be humourous in a theatrical context, but I regard such forms of insinuation as a serious insult to John and to me. It is possible that some error of representation could have stemmed from his writings, for he was always generous in overstating my abilities, while, at the same time, treating his own remarkable characteristics with tremendous modesty. Even so, the man I worked beside displayed a native shrewdness and an innate cunningness which was invaluable to our investigations. I do not deny his sporadic inability to grasp an obvious conclusion or to choose the best course of action, but rarely was he unintelligent in his opinions and conclusions. Above that, it was my pleasure to spend my younger days in the company of one who could sense adventure in the most mundane of cases, and who, with his customary humour, patience, and loyalty, indulged the eccentricities of a frequently disagreeable friend. Therefore, if the pundits are honestl
y inclined to pick the most foolish of the pair, then I believe, without question, they should bestow the dishonour upon me alone.

  Lastly, it should be noted that the nostalgia which the reading public maintains for my former Baker Street address does not exist in me. I no longer crave the bustle of London streets, nor do I miss navigating through the tangled mires created by the criminally disposed. Moreover, my life here in Sussex has gone beyond pure contentment, and the majority of my waking hours are spent either in the peaceful solitude of my study or amongst the methodical creatures who inhabit my apiary. I will admit, however, that my advanced age has diminished my retentive abilities somewhat, but I am still fairly agile in both body and mind. Almost every week, I manage an early-evening walk down to the beach. In the afternoons, I am usually seen wandering about my garden pathways, where I tend to my herb and flower beds. But as of late, I have been consumed with the significant task of revising the latest edition of my Practical Handbook of Bee Culture, while alternately putting the finishing touches on my four volumes of The Whole Art of Detection. The latter is a rather tedious, labyrinthine undertaking, although it should stand as an indispensable collection when published.

  Nevertheless, I have felt compelled to set my masterwork aside, and, at this moment, I find myself beginning the chore of transferring the past to paper, lest I forget the specifics of a case which, by whatever inexplicable rationale, sprang to mind on this night. It might come about that some of what is to be said or described henceforth is not as it was actually spoken or seen, so I shall apologise beforehand for any licence that is used to fill out the gaps and grey areas of my memory. Yet even if a degree of fiction should prevail in the following events, I guarantee that the overall account—as well as those individuals who were involved in the case—is as accurately rendered as I can make possible.