Sherlock Holmes

by Martin Rosenstock

  As I spoke, Holmes whipped out his lens and began examining the wall at close quarters. “If I’m not mistaken… ah, here we are. This raised knothole. If I press it…”

  As he did so a narrow panel, like a small door, sprang open in the wall.

  “Fetch that candlestick and light the candle, Watson.”

  I did as instructed and handed Holmes the candlestick. Passing through the narrow aperture, we found ourselves in a small antechamber. The atmosphere was cold and clammy and I gave an involuntary shudder. The flame brought but a frail light to this gloomy, cramped room. In the centre was a long trestle table covered by a muslin cloth. With a deft twist of the wrist, Holmes pulled back the cloth, sending a fine shower of dust into the air. There on the table lay an array of Egyptian relics, glinting in the flickering light.

  I gazed in awe at these items, possessions from a bygone age, still vibrant with a mystical reality in our modern times.

  “Look, Watson!” exclaimed Holmes. “Rings, seals, scarabs, a papyrus, a funerary boat! No doubt the former property of Hugo Carrington.”

  “They are magnificent. Is this what you were expecting to find?”

  “This and more.”

  “More?”

  Holmes opened the lid of a flat wooden box. “This is what I was seeking!”

  He reached inside with his left hand and brought out a golden object. He held it closer to the candle flame. From his fingers flowed a golden bracelet decorated with winged scarabs and a hawk-like figure, inlaid with lapis lazuli and obsidian.

  “The amulet of Ramesses VIII,” he said. “Indeed a wondrous work of art.”

  “Great Scott!”

  “Obviously, Carmichael stole it from Monkton House on one of his visits to see Simon Martin. I believe that he cultivated his friendship in order to gain easy access to the property. This has been a long game for him. It is clear to me now that they have been planning the destruction of the Martin family for some time.”

  “‘They’?”

  “Carmichael was not operating alone. Certainly his actions were in large part governed by his hatred of Sir Ronald, encouraged no doubt by his father, Hugo Carrington. Fuelled by his father’s anger at Sir Ronald’s treatment of him, which no doubt contributed to Carrington’s early death, Carmichael set about his plans of retribution. He created a fatal rift between father and son by stealing the amulet and allowing his father to claim it was Simon who sold it to him.”

  “So Carrington was complicit in the theft.”

  “It would seem so. Stealing the amulet also allowed Carmichael to add it to his father’s collection, where he believed it belonged. Then he murdered both Sir Ronald and Simon Martin.”

  “The man is truly mad.”

  “A psychopath, a man without a conscience. But it needed someone with more drive and imagination than Carmichael to see this plan through.”

  “Who on earth is that?”

  “I believe the answer lies back at Monkton House.”

  Holmes made a move to leave this dusty chamber but then froze, and I heard him gasp. “Quick, Watson,” he cried, his voice sharp with suppressed emotion, “bring the candle over here.”

  I did as requested, the wavering light sending distressed shadows flying over the walls and ceiling.

  “Look,” hissed my friend, pointing to a dark shape on the floor. The thing was wound up almost like a mummy in a large cloth. It was a body. Holmes knelt down and pulled back the cover to reveal the face of a recently dead, hollow-cheeked corpse with open mouth and staring eyes. It was Captain Henry Carmichael.

  Holmes unwrapped the body from its dusty shroud and turned it on its back. “Shot! Three times at least. I was not expecting this. His accomplice is far more ruthless than I bargained for. I should have acted sooner.”

  Carmichael’s waxen features stared back at us in the flickering light. Holmes leaned forward and gently pressed his fingers down on the dead man’s eyelids, closing them for the last time.

  “Come, Watson. It is time we brought this tragic drama to a close.”

  * * *

  On our frantic cab journey, Holmes provided me with the details of how he had come to suspect that Carmichael was involved in the affair. “As I mentioned earlier, the first thing I noticed was the signet ring he wore on his left hand, with a scarab insignia. In itself, it was an innocent thing, but it did link Carmichael with Egypt in some way, which intrigued me. While I was at the Records Office, I also looked up the listings of the Grenadier Guards and discovered that there was no evidence of a Captain Henry Carmichael having served in the regiment in the last twenty years. There was, however, a Sergeant Amos Wilkins who was invalided out two years ago. You no doubt noticed that Carmichael had a slight limp when we first encountered him at the Cavalier Club. These were all small indications, nothing forceful or dramatic, to point an accusing finger at Carmichael, but a picture was evolving and there was no one else slipping into the frame.”

  “But you say that he was not acting alone.”

  “Yes. It was a fact I missed initially. I have been slow, dreadfully slow, but now it is up to me to see that justice is done.”

  * * *

  On reaching Monkton House, we were greeted by the constable on duty, who recognised us.

  “I assume Miss Martin is at home?” asked my friend.

  “Yes, sir. She is in her room with her fiancé, Mr. Sanderson.”

  “Excellent,” Holmes said, dashing ahead of me into the house.

  We made our way up to Miss Martin’s quarters. Sanderson answered the door and bade us enter.

  Miss Martin seemed pleased to see us. She rose from the chaise longue and stepped forward with a smile. “Oh, Mr. Holmes, you have news?” she asked eagerly.

  “Indeed, I have, Miss Martin. I have solved the case.”

  Her eyes widened in surprise. “Really? Why, that is wonderful. Isn’t it, Alan?”

  The young man moved to her side, placed an arm around her shoulder and nodded, his face a neutral mask.

  “However,” said Holmes, “I am afraid that what I am about to reveal will be quite distressing to you.”

  Miss Martin’s smile faltered. “Why is that, Mr. Holmes?”

  My friend ignored the question and turned to Alan Sanderson. “You are very keen to marry Miss Martin, aren’t you, sir? The comfortable income provided by her inheritance will certainly be most welcome to you. Literary success will seem so much less important then. Isn’t that correct?”

  Sanderson’s face darkened with anger and he pulled away from Miss Martin, taking a step towards Holmes, his hands curled into tight fists.

  “I do not like your tone and the insulting suggestions that you are making, Mr. Holmes. I am keen, as you put it, to marry Miss Martin, because I love her! That is the one and only reason.”

  Holmes smiled bitterly. “That, I am afraid, is your tragedy, Mr. Sanderson.”

  “What on earth are you talking about?”

  “Shall I tell him, Miss Martin?”

  “You are talking in riddles, Mr. Holmes,” cried the lady, “but I am dismayed at your attitude towards my fiancé. I had expected better of you than that.”

  “I know, I know. My behaviour is unforgiveable, but then, my dear lady, you know all about unforgiveable behaviour. Unforgiveable in the eyes of the law.”

  Sanderson took a step nearer to Holmes. “You go too far, sir,” he snapped angrily.

  “I am afraid, Mr. Sanderson, I will have to go further still. It is my sad duty to inform you that your fiancée is in fact complicit in the deaths of her uncle, his butler and Simon Martin. And moreover, she has murdered her lover, Henry Carmichael.”

  Sanderson’s features blanched and rippled with a series of conflicting emotions. Eventually, he gave a stifled laugh. “If this is your idea of a crazy joke…”

  Holmes shook his head. “I do not jest.”

  “He’s mad. It’s not true,” cried Celia Martin, clinging to Sanderson, her eyes moistening with
emotion.

  I was as shocked at Holmes’s declaration as they were, but I was well aware that my friend was not mad and would not have made such a claim without good reason.

  “For a long time, Miss Martin has been planning to take over Monkton House and the fortune that comes with it. She was determined to be mistress here.”

  “You lie!” cried the young woman, her features now suffused with anger.

  “Your first task was to discredit Simon, the main beneficiary in Sir Ronald’s will. Together with your lover, Hugo Carrington’s son, who called himself Henry Carmichael, you stole the amulet and thus caused the relationship between Simon and his father to deteriorate. Then you fell in love with this penniless author and this prompted you to speed up the process. No doubt you told Carmichael that the engagement to Alan Sanderson was a mere convenience and a distraction from your relationship with him. You probably assured Carmichael that when everything was settled, you would cast Sanderson aside.”

  “This is some kind of insane fairy tale. Don’t believe him, Alan.”

  “Of course not,” he said, but now there was a note of uncertainty in his voice.

  Holmes ignored this outburst and continued, addressing Miss Martin. “You were still somewhat apprehensive about the contents of Sir Ronald’s will. You knew that you were due to receive a handsome settlement, but despite Sir Ronald’s claim that he had disinherited his son, you were not fully convinced that he had done so, and so Simon Martin had to be eliminated. Once again, you persuaded your dupe Carmichael to carry out the deed. Now the path was almost clear. There was just one obstacle left in your way: Carmichael himself. This was the one murder that you had to commit yourself.”

  A change now came over Celia Martin. Her body stiffened and her expression hardened. “Where is your proof, supporting this fantasy of lies and suppositions?” she demanded in an icy tone.

  “I first suspected your alliance with Carmichael when I observed the handkerchief tucked in his sleeve – a soldier’s habit – but the handkerchief in question was rather feminine and an exact replica of the one I had seen in your possession when we first met. I knew you were acquainted with Carmichael. He had been a visitor at Monkton House on several occasions to see Sir Ronald’s son. No doubt that was when the romance started, and the handkerchief was a love token, as was the ring you took from Sir Ronald’s collection to give to him. The affection was genuine on Carmichael’s part, but for you it was merely a means to an end. You were using him to achieve your despicable ambition.”

  Celia Martin gave a scream of anguish and, reaching inside her reticule, she pulled out a pistol.

  “My God!” cried Sanderson. “Then it is all true. You… you are a murderess.”

  “I did it for us!” she cried, tears now streaming down her cheeks. “So we could be together… and wealthy.”

  Sanderson shook his head wildly. “You’re mad!”

  “It’s because I love you—”

  As this interchange was taking place, Holmes lunged forward and with a flick of his cane knocked the gun from Celia Martin’s hand. As the weapon slid across the floor, Sanderson reached out to restrain her, but by now all the fight had left her and she sank sobbing onto the chaise longue.

  “Time to contact Hopkins,” said Holmes wearily, picking up the gun. “The lady will not need this where she is going.”

  * * *

  Inspector Stanley Hopkins sat back in his chair and shook his head in disbelief. “Who would have thought it,” he said. “That innocent-seeming young woman, the instigator of all those brutal deaths. And a killer in her own right. How crafty she was!”

  “As Sir Walter Scott has it: ‘Oh, what a tangled web we weave when first we practise to deceive,’” observed Holmes as he puffed meditatively on his pipe.

  It was late that night in our Baker Street quarters. Celia Martin was locked away in a cell in Scotland Yard, awaiting transfer to one of Her Majesty’s prisons, and Hopkins had called round to discuss the case.

  “Am I right in thinking that the woman’s love for Sanderson was genuine?”

  “Yes, Hopkins. It was her passion for him, her twisted passion, that spurred her on in her machinations. She knew that she had to be the financial rock in their marriage. A poor novelist would hardly keep her in the manner to which she had become accustomed at Monkton House. She had to secure the Martin fortune for herself and so she made plans to acquire it. By pretending to fall in love with Carmichael, she ensnared him in her plot.”

  “No doubt as Hugo Carrington’s son he had his own reasons to cause disharmony in the Martin household and hand over the amulet to his father,” I said.

  “How did you know that there was a connection between the Martin woman and Carmichael?” asked the inspector.

  “A number of small things pointed in that direction. Mrs. Langton said she thought there might have been another man in Celia Martin’s life and that her affection for Sanderson was not genuine. In that regard, Mrs. Langton was, of course, mistaken, but there was another man. We learned that Celia and Carmichael knew each other. He visited Monkton House often as a guest. Then, when I observed that handkerchief, things became a little clearer.”

  “She must have wielded great power over Carmichael,” said Hopkins.

  “Of course, but he was an unstable fellow. He had been troublesome as a youth. That is why his father sent him into the army. The discipline was good for him. He prospered, moved up in rank. But once away from the rigours of regimental life, he weakened again. He was easy prey for Celia Martin. She persuaded him to murder her uncle. When he mistakenly killed the butler instead, she still made him carry out his original mission.”

  “What a heartless creature,” I murmured.

  “Certainly not typical of the gentler sex that you so readily admire, Watson.”

  “Where did Sanderson fit into the picture?” asked Hopkins.

  “Well, in essence, he was oblivious to the woman’s activities. Whether he genuinely loved her or simply saw her as a means to a comfortable life, I suspect we will never know. He certainly is not likely to admit his true feelings now.”

  Hopkins chuckled softly to himself. “Well, Sanderson may be a little scarred from the experience but he is a free man. I suspect that from now on he will have to rely on his writing abilities.”

  “Maybe, but it is not beyond the realm of possibility that a handsome fellow like he will latch himself onto another woman with prospects.”

  * * *

  “Well, Watson, this is a very dark case for your annals,” said Holmes when Hopkins had departed.

  “Very dark,” I agreed. “It is rare that one of your investigations ends up with a woman going to the gallows.”

  Holmes nodded sternly, reaching for his violin. “Indeed, sometimes I forget in the heat of the chase what tragedies and horrors form the basis of my work. There is much disorder and evil in the world and it seems my lot in a small way to try and counteract their effects.”

  “Amen to that, my dear Holmes,” said I.

  THE ADVENTURE OF THE KORESHAN UNITY

  AMY THOMAS

  I had seen my friend Sherlock Holmes but little, when I received his telephone call in December of 1908. I was more than pleased to be summoned to Holmes’s pleasant cottage upon the South Downs, though my dear wife was substantially less enthusiastic about the matter.

  “You’ll catch your death of cold, John,” she said, furiously packing my things with her usual precision.

  I rubbed a hand across the back of my neck. “If Holmes wishes to mark the New Year holidays in my company, as we once did, then I am determined not to deny him.”

  My feelings thus expressed could not fail to convince my kind wife. Little did I know that Sherlock Holmes had far more in his cunning mind than a weekend of hearkening back to our bachelor days on Baker Street.

  Thus it was that I found myself ensconced in a train compartment on the afternoon of December 29th, rolling through the hills of Sussex towards t
he Channel coast. I alighted at the small village close to which Holmes had made his home and hired a wagon. A bumpy ride on a gravel road took me to my friend’s solitary yet comfortable cottage. I descried his lanky figure from hundreds of yards away. In spite of the wind and a light spray of rain, he was at work on a fence surrounding his property. From afar, no eye would have detected that he was any older than the man in his twenties who had been introduced to me so long ago. He waved, then turned and walked back towards the cottage. His back was straight, his strides were almost fearsomely sure. I paid my driver handsomely for braving the elements.

  “I see you’ve not indulged overmuch during the Christmas festivities, Watson,” Holmes intoned as I reached his threshold. “You’ve not put on any weight since we last met.”

  “Nothing sticks on these bones any more, Holmes,” I said, taking in the characteristic hawk-like leanness of his features.

  “Indeed,” he rejoined. “Come inside. Martha will produce something for nourishment, and I will drink your health with pleasure.”

  I gave him a sharp look, for I recognised the peculiar lightness of his manner. I sighed, a trifle dramatically perhaps. “Holmes, did you summon me to mark the New Year in your company?”

  “Certainly,” he replied. “We will mark it on our way to the Koreshan Unity settlement in Florida, for which we will soon be bound.”

  * * *

  Two days and an exchange of telegrams with my wife later, I found myself in a smoking room with Holmes, aboard a ship bound for America. It was the last evening of the year, and we both had a tumbler of whiskey in front of us. Holmes looked placidly at me across a small table, before closing the notebook he had been perusing and temporarily divesting his mouth of his pipe.

  “You have not asked me to describe the case for you, Watson,” he said mildly. “I perceive that this uncharacteristic lack of overt curiosity results from your irritation with my methods for securing your company.”

  “Excellent deduction,” I said crossly. It was unlike me to be the more querulous of the two of us, but I was no longer a young man, and being dragged away from the prospect of a New Year’s holiday before a warm fire was more than I could bear with equanimity. I had indeed determined not to give him the satisfaction of enquiring about the case, however much the curiosity might be consuming me from the inside.