Sherlock Holmes

by Martin Rosenstock

  “They were completely relevant. You merely wished to cover them up. You will now give us the details, and you will hold nothing back.”

  Digby seemed to collapse within his own frock coat. He slumped into a chair and waved a hand towards Epplestone, who took a step forward and told us a story that chilled me to the bone. In essence, a plague of insanity appeared to be spreading through the aristocracy in the same way that cholera or typhoid might spread through a population of people living too close together and sharing the same contaminated water supply. The idea that madness could be so transmitted was something I found both abhorrent and frightening. As a doctor I was used to treating injury and illness of the body. The mind, however, was a closed book to me, and to most of my colleagues. We knew how to deal with broken limbs and upset stomachs, but hysteria or psychic neurosis – that was beyond my, or anyone’s, abilities to fix.

  “What has happened to these persons?” I asked. “Are they also in Bethlem?”

  “Three of them, yes,” Digby said heavily. “My intention was to keep word of all this out of the press. You know as well as I do what thought immediately comes to people’s minds upon hearing the diagnosis of madness: syphilis. However, in all cases there was no indication of… immoral activity. Nor do any of the men have a history of madness in their families.”

  “You say three of the five are currently in Bethlem,” Holmes interjected. “What of the other two?”

  “One poisoned himself, and the remaining man ran out into the middle of the street stark-naked one lunchtime and was run over by a coach-and-four.”

  “I remember two cases that must be these,” Holmes said, “although I recall that the first death was ascribed by the newspapers to a sudden embolism, and the second was written up as a tragic and unexpected accident occurring as the fully clothed peer was crossing the road to visit his tailor.”

  Digby shrugged. “Discretion, Mr. Holmes, is half my job. I also had to consider the sensibilities of the bereaved.”

  “But by directing me to discover what had happened to the most recent victim you hoped I would answer the question of what had happened to all of them, without me digging into the full extent of the matter.”

  “That is the nub of it, Mr. Holmes.”

  “Vital clues have been missed. Evidence has been lost. I should have been consulted earlier, and I should have been given all the facts.”

  “Perhaps. I acknowledge the validity of your accusation.”

  Holmes shook his head as if to dislodge an irritating fly. “No matter. I have ascertained enough links between the affected persons to enable me to proceed. It may take more than the day that I estimated, however.”

  “Please, Mr. Holmes,” Digby entreated, leaning forward in his seat, “the sooner the better. I do not wish there to be another such incident.” He paused. “Is there anything you can tell me about your investigations so far?”

  Holmes shook his head. “My habit is to say nothing until I know everything.”

  Digby nodded wearily, then stood to leave.

  “A question,” Holmes said suddenly, also rising.

  “Anything,” Digby said, and I felt that he meant it.

  “Are you in the habit of unexpectedly giving your staff the night off, then disguising yourself as a common man in the street and leaving your house so disguised?”

  Digby frowned. “I am not,” he said. “I should take exception to the question, but I will not. Does your question have some bearing on the matter in hand?”

  “Take this as today’s report,” Holmes said. “I will communicate further in the near future.”

  Digby and Epplestone left. I stared at my friend. “I am following you,” I said, “with some confusion, however. Peers and nobility secretly meeting up on certain nights for purposes which would be embarrassing if revealed, that I can understand. Such meetings leading to mental instability – it is a leap, but some novel drug or bizarre poison or strange tropical infection might, I suppose, be the cause, or perhaps some new strain of venereal disease. But Lord Elmsfield’s murder – what has that got to do with all of it?”

  “That is simple,” Holmes said, packing his pipe with tobacco from the Persian slipper on the mantelpiece and striking a lucifer. “He was killed to silence him, to stop him from babbling about whatever links these affected personages together – presumably the place they go when they are in disguise and their staff have been allowed out on the town, or allowed to go to sleep early.”

  “I should point out that there are three others in Bethlem who have been there longer than him but who are still alive.”

  “Indeed, but remember the testimony of his valet. Lord Elmsfield had been babbling of ‘the fields of Elysium’.”

  “Where the spirits of heroes went in Greek mythology. A place of fair weather and beautiful landscapes. I do not see the connection with his death.”

  “Neither do I, at the moment, but it is instructive that only he was babbling about them.”

  “And how was he killed? There was no weapon in his cell, and no way I could see that anybody could have gained access.”

  “Oh,” Holmes said with some surprise, “that is the simplest thing of all. Had you not worked it out?”

  I sighed. “Some of us need some help with these things.”

  “When I examined the bars on the window in the door,” Holmes said, “I noted that there were two areas on the iron that were shinier than the rest – two rings, one on each of the two middle bars, about halfway up.” He looked at me as if the conclusion were obvious. “No? Consider, then – no person could get inside, and no weapon could easily be projected inside past the bars—”

  “Except for an arrow?” I suggested.

  Holmes stared at me scornfully. “Difficult to obtain in a hurry,” he pointed out, “and of course none was found, which does tend to count against your theory. A length of gutta-percha, however, or similarly elastic latex material – perhaps vulcanised rubber – could easily be found. I would suggest that this length of elasticated material was threaded through some heavy object and then the ends secured to the two middlemost bars. The miscreant who did this would merely have to pull the heavy object back against the resistance of the gutta-percha or rubber, then attract the attention of Lord Elmsfield. When he approached the door the heavy object – I would suggest, given the distinctive flat face and straight edge that you observed impressed in the wound, that a heavy iron nut, removed perhaps from the wall around the gardens or one of the garden sculptures – was released, in the manner of a catapult, with the rubberised material threaded through the hole in the centre. It struck Lord Elmsfield between the eyes, killing him instantly. The latex or rubber strip would have retained the weighted object, and the whole thing could be quickly removed, leaving a dead peer in his cell and no trace of the means of his death apart from two polished sections on the bars where the material had been attached.”

  “So the mystery over the fact that there was no evidence of human involvement—”

  “Was an accidental by-product of the rather convoluted means of attack, which itself was due to haste. His ravings about the Elysian Fields had been heard, and perhaps our visit had been announced. Something had to be done, and quickly.”

  “So – the orderly?” I ventured.

  “I would imagine so. He had the opportunity, as he was there much of the time. He also, you might have noticed, attempted to diminish the importance of Lord Elmsfield’s ravings. I would imagine he was suborned by some outside force to help keep Lord Elmsfield, and the others, quiet. He is a minor player. I will pass my findings in this regard on to Mr. Digby.”

  “What do we do now?” I asked.

  “We know several peers and members of the nobility who share the same secretive habits as Lord Elmsfield. I will spread a few shillings around the maids, valets, and butlers of these men so that they alert me if their masters abruptly give them the night off. Once we receive a few telegrams, we can follow one of the peers an
d see where he goes. I would suggest, Watson, that you obtain clothing similar to that suit in the back of Lord Elmsfield’s wardrobe – something that would be worn by a common manual worker.”

  He said no more, but sat staring into the fire and watching the coals as they popped and spat. I was reminded of his statement the day before that he needed anthracite to fuel his brain but was being given bituminous coal instead. It appeared to me that since then some anthracite had been forthcoming.

  * * *

  It was three days later that a slew of telegrams arrived on Holmes’s desk, delivered by our page in a state of high excitement.

  “There’s somethin’ goin’ on, Mr. ’Olmes!” he cried.

  “Indeed there is,” Holmes said. He turned to me and waved the slips of paper. “And not before time. I fear that Mr. Kenelm Digby is becoming increasingly annoyed at our lack of progress.”

  “At the Home Office, he should be used to lack of progress.”

  Holmes did not acknowledge my quip. “It appears several peers have unexpectedly given their valets and other staff tonight off,” he said, scanning the telegrams, “and, instructively, none of those employers have anything in their social calendars, nor is there any party, gathering, dinner, or other event to which they might be going. I believe this is it. Do you have your suit?”

  “I do,” I said. In fact, I had bought it at a market stall in Ladbroke Grove. The thing was a disreputable green affair that had seen its best days twenty years ago. The thought reminded me of Lord Elmsfield’s suit, hidden away in his wardrobe. “Holmes, I recall that there were a few things about Elmsfield’s suit that caught your attention. Might I ask what they were?”

  “Small things, but instructive nonetheless,” he said. “The suit itself smelled of smoke, and there were many tiny scorch marks on the sleeves where sparks had hit it. I deduced, therefore, that his lordship had been travelling in an Underground train, something no man of his station would normally consider doing.”

  “Why not another type of railway train?”

  “Because of the number of scorch marks, which were caused by sparks and lit fragments of coal flying back from the engine. In a train running above ground, these ignited elements would disperse into the air; in a tunnel, however, there is nowhere for them to go, except through gaps in the windows and into the carriages where they can deposit themselves on travellers’ clothes.” He frowned. “I also found, in his turn-ups, fragments of detritus whose provenance I have yet to establish. One day I shall write a monograph on soil types around London, but I have yet to collect all the relevant data.”

  “But there was something you removed from an inside pocket,” I pressed.

  Holmes reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out a key. From where I sat it looked to be of the Yale design, although it appeared to have been enamelled in black.

  “Certainly a man should be allowed to possess a key to his own house without it being deemed suspicious,” I pointed out.

  “Certainly. There were, however, no Yale locks on Lord Elmsfield’s house. Now, get changed quickly. We are about to find the lock that matches this key.”

  * * *

  In order to maximise our chances, Holmes sent us in two different directions. I was to watch the premises of Sir Ashton Lyle, while he observed the rather more palatial residence of the Earl of Cathcart. It was possible that one of them might, for some reason, not make it to their final destination, but one of them surely would. Holmes also sent word to the Baker Street Irregulars to follow the other eminent personages whom we could not cover.

  “If Sir Ashton hails a cab,” I asked urgently as we were about to leave Baker Street, “what should I do? Should I hail one myself?”

  “Dressed like that,” Holmes said, “I doubt he will. He will either walk or take the Underground. Or,” he said, one end of his mouth twisting into a smile, “he might use a bicycle. You might need to commandeer one if you are to maintain pursuit.”

  Irritated at Holmes’s good humour, I set off into the night.

  Sir Ashton Lyle maintained a spacious flat in Chelsea for when he was in London. There was an alleyway within sight of his front door, and I waited at the corner, my collar turned up against the chill. Half an hour after I arrived, a gaggle of servants left, chattering away. They seemed happy at their unexpected freedom. Forty-five minutes later the door opened again and a shadowy figure slipped out and down the short flight of steps to the pavement.

  I followed.

  I kept my quarry in view as he walked down through the area of housing rightly known as World’s End and along the Embankment to the new Battersea Bridge. Every now and then, as he cast furtive glances over his shoulder, I caught sight of his face. He seemed worried. His suit, as with Lord Elmsfield’s and, sadly, mine, was disreputable, with patches on the elbows and an area stitched up along one sleeve where something had ripped it. He wore a cloth cap pulled low over his face. Had any of his fellows in the House of Lords seen him they would have been astonished. Well, I considered, perhaps not those other peers who were also skulking through London dressed in equally unsuitable clothes.

  Sir Ashton crossed Battersea Bridge and continued south, through Battersea itself, passing groups of rough-clad men warming themselves over fires lit in metal buckets. I was feeling the cold as well, and I cursed my lack of foresight in not having brought a scarf. I tried to vary both my distance from Sir Ashton and also the side of the road along which I walked, in order to avoid raising his suspicions. I was familiar with the area, having attended cockfights and bare-knuckle bouts when I first arrived in London and had a taste for gambling – a taste that Holmes had weaned me off some years ago to the great benefit of my wallet. We passed a public house known as the Four Thieves, from which the sound of a badly tuned piano and loud singing drifted on the cool night air. Shortly afterwards, Sir Ashton stopped halfway along a stretch of brick wall. After looking around he removed a key from his pocket and opened a door that was set back in a niche in the brickwork.

  A hand caught my elbow and pulled me sideways into another such niche. I was about to struggle against my assailant when I heard a voice whisper in my ear, “It’s me, Watson!”

  “How long have you been here?” I asked, embarrassed that I had walked straight past my friend.

  “Twenty minutes or so, and in that time I have seen several people enter who, judging by their posture and manner, are highly uncomfortable in the clothes they’re wearing.”

  “What now? Do we wait until they come out?”

  “Certainly not,” my friend whispered. “I am curious to find out what all these eminent men are up to – men and women, I should say, for I saw several ladies entering who might have been taken for common prostitutes were it not for their bearing.”

  After glancing around to make sure we were alone, Holmes moved quickly along the wall towards the hidden door. Once there, he pulled from his pocket Lord Elmsfield’s black-enamelled key and inserted it into the lock.

  The door opened, and we entered, uncertain – at least, in my case – what to expect.

  What we found was a red-lit and red-painted anteroom where a footman with slicked-back and pomaded hair took our hats and Holmes’s scarf and hung them up on a rack in an alcove. I almost wrote that he did it without batting an eyelid, but I could not have told as he was wearing a blindfold. Everything he did in taking our things was done, I presumed, by hearing and by his familiarity with the layout of the room.

  He bowed to us, and gestured towards a curtained doorway on the opposite side of the room. Holmes led the way as if he was familiar with the place and had every right to be there.

  I sniffed. Above the sulphuric smell of the gaslights and the overpoweringly flowery scent of the footman’s pomade I was sure I could smell… food!

  I was not wrong. Once we penetrated past the curtain and through the doorway, we found ourselves in what was very obviously a restaurant, quite as large as any I had been in before. There were perhaps fifty
tables, most of which were occupied by men wearing rough suits, but who were eating their meals with silver cutlery off bone china plates.

  I glanced around entranced, but tried to look like a regular customer. Red velvet curtains hid the walls, while several ornate gas chandeliers hung from the ceiling. The rich aroma of roast meat hung over everything. It was as refined an establishment as any one might find in Mayfair or Marylebone. Waiters in immaculate black tails, white ties and, of course, black blindfolds across their eyes moved between the tables carrying silver salvers and domed plates. Their actions were performed smoothly and without bumping into tables or diners, and without tripping over anything. The level of skill demonstrated was impressive. I thought I recognised a system by which they circled through the tables on foreordained paths, to avoid colliding with each other. The blindfolds were, I presumed, to ensure the diners’ anonymity. On second thought, I corrected myself. This was more akin to the dining room of a gentlemen’s club than a restaurant, given that most of the diners were alone. Only five tables had several diners: four of them couples, and one a trio of men who conversed in low voices.

  Off to one side was a raised stage, where a blindfolded string quartet played Brahms – the music was necessary, I supposed, to cover the lack of conversation.

  We found the maître d’, who was just as extravagantly dressed as his waiting staff, and just as restricted by a blindfold, and Holmes made him aware of our presence – without, of course, saying who we were. Judging by his calm demeanour he had no idea that we were interlopers.

  We were led directly and unerringly to one of the few unoccupied tables. A waiter pushed in the chairs behind us and then presented us with menus in leather covers with gold thread tassels. The pages inside had been written in quill pen on parchment.

  I skipped over the appetizers and let my eye rove down the list of main dishes.

  I felt my heart skip a beat.

  “Holmes—” I whispered.

  “I have seen the same things you have,” he replied. “Try not to look amazed or discomfited.”