Sherlock Holmes

by Martin Rosenstock

  “Where are the rest of you kept?” I asked the lad. “Are you imprisoned? How can we get you all out?”

  He shook his head, glanced briefly at the dying polar bear, then turned, ran past the gate, and disappeared into the angry crowd – who, I noticed, had gathered around the tophatted bookies, demanding to know how the sudden change in events impacted upon their bets.

  “Come on,” Holmes said. “Before they decide to pair you against something else.”

  “But—”

  “No argument now,” he said. “We cannot rescue every man nor free every animal. We will take a carriage directly to Scotland Yard and notify them of this location and what transpires here. I doubt, however, that there is much they can do, apart from investigating whether the men fighting here are pressed into service or have volunteered.” He raised his hand to stop my instinctive protest. “I shall also notify Langdale Pike. His gossip columns are our best chance of exposing this place to the light of day. If the people making these bets and eating that meat are ridiculed publicly, all this viciousness might come to an end.”

  * * *

  We did not return to Baker Street. Holmes’s prediction concerning acts of violence that might be perpetrated against us still stood, until the police and Langdale Pike did their work. Having sent several messages by private courier, Holmes suggested that we tidy ourselves up as best we could and then retreat to a tavern. We chose one on Northumberland Avenue, given its location close to both Scotland Yard and the Foreign Office, to which Holmes intended to report early the next morning.

  We sat in the bar, nursing whiskies, each of us lost in his own thoughts.

  “I still find myself at a loss,” Holmes said eventually, staring into the fireplace. “We were retained specifically to explain how or why Lord Elmsfield went mad, and ran amok in the House of Lords. In the days since then we have discovered murder, cannibalism, and what I can only think of as the most degenerate form of competitive ‘sport’ I have ever encountered, but we have not solved that central mystery. Was he driven insane by some inner conflict, some moral quandary where he could not reconcile his membership in this exclusive ‘club’ with his Christian faith, perhaps?”

  “I believe it was the food,” I replied simply.

  He stared at me. “Please explain.”

  “I have heard anecdotal stories from colleagues who have worked in New Guinea and the South Sea Islands that tribes and communities that regularly consume human flesh, especially brain tissue, have a much higher prevalence of mental defect or disease than usual. Nobody has yet carried out any research to establish this for a fact, but I feel that it is only a matter of time.” I snorted and took a gulp of whisky. “Perhaps the Good Lord has provided a medical reason for people not to eat people.”

  Holmes considered for a moment. “But such a condition would take time to develop,” he said. “Possibly several years.”

  I shrugged. “A previously unknown tropical disease or parasite then,” I suggested, “infecting one of the species of monkey being consumed – or a gorilla, perhaps. Perhaps it has leaped from the simian species to our own via a rare steak.”

  Holmes nodded slowly. “I defer to your superior medical knowledge, Watson. The inescapable conclusion, however, is that there may well be other cases of this madness waiting to happen. I doubt Mr. Kenelm Digby will enjoy hearing that news.”

  “Perhaps,” I said quietly, “it is right that those peers and other eminent personages taking part in the events we have experienced today be subject to some form of cull.”

  “A dark thought,” my friend said, “but an understandable one.” He sighed. “I fear, given the distasteful elements of this case, the fact that it penetrates to the very highest echelons of society, and my failure to bring it to a proper conclusion, that you will not be able to write it up in your normal way – which will be a shame, as the very nature of events would fit your lurid style rather well.”

  “I may write it up anyway,” I said. “Perhaps readers in some future generation might learn some lesson from it.”

  “A lesson about the underside of our supposedly ‘modern’ society.”

  I was about to say something meaningless but comforting when I became aware of a hotel servant standing at my shoulder.

  “Forgive me, gentlemen,” he said, “but I shall be sending the chef home shortly. Was there anything you wished to order before he leaves?”

  “No,” we both said as one.

  “Thank you,” Holmes added, “but I do not think that either of us is in the right state of mind for food at the moment.”

  “And probably not for a good while,” I murmured.

  THE MONKTON HOUSE MYSTERY

  DAVID STUART DAVIES

  The December of 1899 was a severe one. Heavy snow fell in the early part of the month and then a fierce frost secured its grasp on the white covering which lay on the many thoroughfares of the great metropolis, turning the city into a treacherous ice rink. As dusk fell and the lamps were lit, Baker Street resembled a cheery Christmas card, but venturing out into the bitter cold on the dangerous pavements was far from a cheery experience.

  The inhospitable weather created a dearth of clients for my friend Sherlock Holmes, who was not in the best of humours when there was no case on hand to occupy him. Initially, during this fallow period, he had applied himself to writing a monograph on the use of animals in detective work, but gradually he grew bored with this pursuit and sat coiled up in his armchair by the fire, wrapped in his mouse-coloured dressing gown, with his brow contracted in deep thought while he smoked copiously. The acrid fumes of his strong, coarse tobacco could on occasion give rise to the impression that the chamber was actually on fire. I prayed that some client would ring our bell to shake my friend out of his malaise and deliver me from this poisonous atmosphere.

  My prayers were answered ten days before Christmas. We had just taken an early breakfast and the air was still clear in the room as Holmes had not yet tackled his first pipe of the day. However, having just risen from the table, he was in the process of collecting the dottles from the mantelpiece in preparation for a smoke when there came the long-awaited urgent ring.

  Holmes stiffened, his face suddenly bright with expectation. He replaced his pipe and gave me a brief smile. Moments later there was a hard tap at our door and Inspector Stanley Hopkins entered. The figure that stood before us was far from the fresh-faced policeman I knew. His face was pale and haggard, with dark half-circles beneath his eyes. He stumbled into the room and for an instant I thought he would collapse in front of us onto the hearth rug. However, he seemed to rally, but before he was able to speak, Holmes stepped forward and led him to a chair.

  “Pour the fellow a hot coffee, Watson. His bloodshot eyes clearly indicate that he has not been to bed for over twenty-four hours.”

  Gratefully, Hopkins accepted the coffee and drained the cup eagerly. “Thank you, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson. I apologise for my somewhat dramatic entry, but as you deduced I am rather weary. I had a very long day at the Yard yesterday, and I was about to go home around midnight when—”

  “You were called out to investigate a brutal murder.”

  Hopkins’s eyes widened. “How do you know it was a murder?”

  “I doubt if any lesser crime would have brought you to my door seeking help – with a smear of blood on your wrist, indicating that you wiped your hands hurriedly. After examining the corpse, no doubt. If there was so much blood, the murder must have been a brutal one.”

  Hopkins gave a bleak smile. “You are correct, of course, Mr. Holmes.”

  “And the crime must be somewhat mystifying in order for such a clever and resourceful detective as yourself to hurry here and call on the services of Sherlock Holmes,” my friend observed smugly.

  Hopkins responded with a grim smile. “Indeed, it is.”

  Holmes sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers. “Then do tell us all about it – in your usual exact and precise manner.”


  Hopkins took a large gulp of coffee from his cup, which I had refilled, and then began his narrative. “I was called to Monkton House in Chelsea just after midnight. There had been a murder in the home of Sir Ronald Martin—”

  “The Egyptologist,” I remarked.

  “Yes,” said Hopkins. “But he wasn’t the victim. That unfortunate soul was Alfred Langton, Sir Ronald’s butler. He was attacked from behind and bludgeoned to death. The skull had been cracked open. He was discovered by his wife, Cora, who, as you might imagine, is now in quite a state.”

  “Is there any indication of motive?” asked Holmes.

  Hopkins shook his head. “None that is apparent.”

  “Does Sir Ronald hold an opinion on the matter?”

  Hopkins leaned forward in his chair. “That’s where the mystery deepens, Mr. Holmes. Sir Ronald has disappeared.”

  Holmes’s eyes flashed with excitement. “Disappeared?”

  “His bed has been slept in, but there is no sign of him in the house.”

  “Who are the other occupants?”

  “Sir Ronald is a widower. His niece, Celia Martin, lives there. She is the daughter of Sir Ronald’s brother. Both her parents are deceased.”

  “Were there any signs of a forced entry?”

  “That was my first thought, but my sergeant and I checked all the doors and windows and found none.”

  “So the crime was committed by someone in the house,” I ventured.

  “Or a person who had easy access to the premises without the need to break in,” observed Holmes.

  Hopkins nodded in agreement. “Naturally, the suspicion falls on the missing owner, Sir Ronald Martin. The problem being…”

  “Why would he wish to murder his own butler – and in such a brutal and obvious fashion?”

  “Exactly, Mr. Holmes. Langton had been in the situation over fifteen years and according to his wife was thought of highly by Sir Ronald, who often expressed the opinion that he would be lost without ‘his right arm’. This view was supported by Miss Martin.”

  “Intriguing,” said Holmes. “So we have two mysteries: who killed Langton the butler, and what has happened to Sir Ronald? Any theories, Hopkins?”

  The inspector ran his fingers through his hair and sighed before replying. “None, I’m afraid. There seems to be no peg on which to hang any inferences, so…”

  “So you would be obliged if I came along to Monkton House to see if I can clear the fog a little.”

  Hopkins leaned forward eagerly. “If you would be so kind. I have kept the murder scene undisturbed. The body is still in situ. What do you say, Mr. Holmes?”

  “Well, as Watson will affirm, I am currently in desperate need of some mental stimulation and this affair seems an excellent opportunity to recharge the brain cells. Watson, you will join me?”

  “Of course.”

  “Excellent. Then, Inspector, give us a few minutes to muffle ourselves up against the winter chill and we shall be ready for the excursion.”

  * * *

  Within ten minutes we were rattling through the icy streets of London in a brougham, en route to Monkton House. The day was bitterly cold, but a bright sun shone in the cloudless sky. During the journey Holmes attempted to elicit more details from Hopkins concerning the affair.

  “Did Sir Ronald have no children of his own?”

  “I gather there is a son, Simon, but he is estranged from his father. Apparently, they fell out a while ago. It was Miss Martin who imparted this information. She knows little of the details, but she told me that Sir Ronald refused to talk about him. It was, she said, as if his son had never existed.”

  “The breach must have been a serious one indeed,” I said.

  “Where is the son now?” asked Holmes.

  Hopkins shrugged. “Miss Martin did not know. She says she has not seen him for several months.”

  “We may be able to extract more information concerning the son from Mrs. Langton. If she and her husband have been with Sir Ronald for over fifteen years, she will know more things about her master and his household than most. Servants are like blotting paper, soaking up the secrets of their employers. I’ll warrant she will be able to give us an insight into the rift between father and son.”

  “Let’s hope she is able to speak, Mr. Holmes. The lady was extremely distressed at the loss of her husband. A local doctor gave her a sedative. There was some talk of her moving to her sister’s in Peckham for a while to recover.”

  Holmes shook his head gently. “She must not be allowed to leave the house until we have investigated thoroughly.”

  “Very well.”

  “Now, what do we know of this Egyptologist, Sir Ronald Martin?”

  “Well, perhaps I can help a little here, Holmes,” said I. “I like to keep abreast of archaeological matters.”

  “I am all attention.”

  “Sir Ronald was responsible for discovering the tomb of Ramesses VIII in the Valley of the Kings some five years ago. He had unearthed a small collection of artefacts on a previous expedition and these provided him with the clues as to where this particular pharaoh of the New Kingdom was buried. Originally, he mounted an expedition with another Egyptologist, Hugo Carrington.”

  “Ah, yes,” said Holmes. “I remember a little of the matter. There was a ferocious disagreement between the two of them and Martin struck out on his own and made the discovery himself.”

  “Yes. The result was even greater bitterness between the two men. Carrington felt he had been cheated out of sharing the credit for the find. Martin received all the glory and a knighthood, Carrington faded from the picture altogether. I don’t know what happened to him.”

  “It is quite possible that we will find out before this investigation reaches its close,” observed Holmes tartly.

  * * *

  Monkton House was a substantial Georgian townhouse standing in its own grounds. The amber stonework glistened in the winter sunlight. A caped constable stood on duty by the portico, stamping his feet and slapping his hands together in a vain attempt to keep warm. As we approached, he stood to attention and saluted the inspector.

  “I should like to see the body straight away,” announced Holmes once we were inside.

  Hopkins nodded and, without a word, led us through a large sepulchral hall, which was decorated with several ancient Egyptian artefacts, no doubt collected by Sir Ronald on his many expeditions.

  “Langton’s body was discovered in Sir Ronald’s study,” said Hopkins, opening a door. Behind it lay a spacious chamber that appeared less so because of the large bookcases against two walls, crammed with numerous volumes, and glass cases filled with items, which appeared to be Egyptian relics. One of the cases had been knocked over, spilling its rich contents onto the floor. Upright against the far wall stood a large decorated mummy case, its presence dominating the room. Despite all these strikingly beautiful treasures, Holmes’s attention was immediately drawn to the body lying by the fireplace.

  The body lay face down, the back of its head glistening like a scarlet sponge. Holmes, his foxhound instincts aroused, knelt down and examined the wound. Whipping out his lens he proceeded to scrutinise the butler’s body, inspecting each hand and the fingernails. Then Holmes turned the head gently to the side and studied the dead man’s face. Once this operation had been completed, he carried out a thorough search of the room, ignoring the inspector and me and all the while muttering to himself. At one point he dropped to his knees and then, lying flat on the floor, he peered under the chaise longue.

  At length, he returned to our side. “There is very little to learn here, I’m afraid. It appears the man was caught unawares by the attack and had no direct contact with his assailant. The candlestick on the floor with the half-burned candle was clearly his only form of illumination, and so the murderer could easily hide in the shadows.”

  “Why should Langton come into this room in the dead of night?” asked Hopkins.

  “Well, if the fellow was
, as we have been led to believe, an honest and loyal servant, it is likely that he came down to investigate the source of the noise.”

  “What noise?”

  Holmes pointed to the upturned display case. “The murderer accidentally or deliberately knocked that over, and the sound prompted our diligent retainer to investigate what was amiss. No doubt Mrs. Langton can confirm this scenario.”

  “Deliberately knocked it over? What do you mean, Mr. Holmes?” the inspector exclaimed in surprise, but Holmes ignored the question.

  “If you delve under the chaise longue you will discover the murder weapon: a brass poker, the end of which is heavily stained with blood. There is one question, though, which at the moment I am unable to answer and which is vital to this investigation.”

  “What is that?”

  Holmes surveyed the room again before answering. “I wonder if anything is missing. Has any item been taken from this collection of Egyptian artefacts?”

  “You mean, has something been stolen?”

  Holmes gave a gentle shrug. “Possibly. Now, I would like to see Sir Ronald’s bedroom.”

  Hopkins nodded silently.

  * * *

  Sir Ronald’s bedroom lay on the first floor and was dominated by a large four-poster bed. Holmes examined the rumpled bedclothes, at one point scrutinising the sheets with his magnifying glass. He lifted two earplugs from the pillow and held them up for inspection. Then, after a tour of the room, he returned to us, smiling grimly. “Well, it is clear to me that Sir Ronald was taken forcibly from his bed.”

  “How do you come to that conclusion, Mr. Holmes?”

  “His slippers are still beside the bed, his dressing gown is hanging on the back of the door, his overcoat remains in the wardrobe, and more tellingly there are fibres of rough cord on the sheets that indicate that he was bound before being taken from the room. The linen is in terrible disarray, which indicates that a struggle took place.”

  “Taken where?”

  “I have a strong notion, which is easily tested. For that we must return to Sir Ronald’s study.”