The Ectoplasmic Man

by Daniel Stashower

  As we passed through a set of French doors, I was immediately struck by the outlandish decor of the chamber in which I found myself. Clearly the countess had imported all her own furnishings, for they in no way reflected the stolid tastes of the Cleland. Neither was the effect at all European, but rather an uncomfortable blending of oriental and Egyptian fancies. Colourful paper lanterns depended from the ceiling, delicate vases, scrolls and fans filled every shelf and table surface, and at the centre of the room stood a four-fold painted silk screen which showed a large silvery spider luring a moth to its doom.

  “Have a seat, Dr Watson,” said Herr Osey, closing the doors behind us, “the countess will join us in a moment.”

  I stepped further into the room and was all but overwhelmed by the thick atmosphere of sweet incense which poured forth from at least three pots.

  “Good heavens!” I cried. “This smoke can’t be doing her condition any good! Let me open a window at once!”

  “Please do not do so, Doctor,” came a feminine voice from behind me. “I find the aroma so very soothing.”

  I turned about and found myself in the presence of one of the four most exotic women I have ever run across. The ivory miniature in Herr Osey’s pocket-watch was but a pale suggestion of the reality, for this was a face that would have thoroughly eviscerated a younger man. Her hair, though pulled back in a severe style, was dark and lustrous, like the brown eyes which were large enough to accommodate both fervour and ideation. A high forehead and strong facial lines gave her a mien of proud self-possession, which was only slightly marred by a perceptibly misdirected nose.

  “I am the Countess Valenka,” she said, stepping across the room, “and you, of course, are Dr Vatson. Vat a pleasure it is to meet you! Can you forgif me for keeping you vaiting?” Her accent was thick but pleasing, giving stress to odd syllables.

  “It is I who must beg to be forgiven,” said I, “for intruding upon you in your present condition.”

  “Oh, nonsense!” she cried, arching her slender neck. “I am vell enough. Nichlaus tends to exaggerate my little ailments beyond all reason.”

  “Even so,” I said, “I am a doctor, and if you are feeling unwell I may be able to provide some assistance.”

  “That’s very kind, Doctor. Please do not take it amiss if I refuse. It is not that I lack confidence in your medical skills, but simply I vould not care to discuss my condition vith a stranger.”

  Herr Osey stepped forward. “There, Dr Watson, the situation is just as I told you. The countess wishes to be left alone. Will you leave with me now?”

  “Vait, Nichlaus, I did not say that.” She gave the diplomat a reproving look. “I vould not think of sending the doctor away so abruptly. After all, it is not often I receive so distinguished a visitor. Imagine! The author of the Sherlock Holmes stories!” She looked back at me. “Ve read your stories in Germany, you know. You haf many, many readers in my country. No, I vouldn’t think of sending you avay, Dr Vatson. Please do sit down.”

  I took a seat near the window while the countess arranged herself on a low divan. She wore a close-fitting floral kimono and Japanese bedslippers, which echoed the Eastern flavour of the room, and as she propped herself up on a pile of silk cushions, I noticed a heavy chain of agate and jade about her neck.

  “And now ve are comfortable, Doctor, you must tell me everything about this beastly friend of yours, Mr Sherlock Holmes.”

  I scarcely knew what to make of this remark. “Beastly?” I asked.

  “Vell, yes. Of course. He is an ill-bred churl. I don’t see how a man such as yourself can possibly abide him.”

  “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Countess.”

  “Ah, but you do, Doctor, you do. My information comes directly from your writings. I am referring to Mr Holmes’s unforgifable behafiour towards vimen in your stories. Vat is it he vonce said? ’Vimen are not to be trusted, not even the best of them.’ Now tell me, Doctor, are these the vords of an honourable man? Tell me, am I not to be trusted?”

  The countess gave me an injured look which softened into a smile as my face reddened.

  “If my friend seems unenlightened in his treatment of the fair sex,” I ventured, “it is perhaps because he so rarely encounters a woman as enchanting as yourself.”

  The countess laughed gaily. “Tactfully done, Doctor,” she said, again displaying her radiant smile. “I see that you are as clefer in person as you are on the printed page. Vell” — she scooped up a snow-white Siamese kitten which had been playing near the foot of the divan — “let us forget Sherlock Holmes for the moment. Let us talk instead of you. Vy haf you come to see me, Dr Vatson? Can it be I am suspected in this little mystery up at Gairstowe?”

  Again I felt my face grow red. Although I had only just met this woman, she had a way of laying matters open, which I found unsettling. The countess must have read my expression, for she clasped her hands together in obvious glee.

  “I am!” she cried. “How delightful! Nichlaus, I am a suspect!” She leaned forward eagerly. “And tell me, Dr Vatson, am I to be arrested along vith this magician fellow?”

  “No, Countess,” I hastened to assure her, “it is nothing like that. I have merely come to ask some questions on behalf of Mr Holmes.”

  “Oh.” She looked vaguely chagrined. “Vell, all right then. Vat vould you like to ask me? No!” She held out her hand to forestall any reply I might have made. “No, I vill guess. Yes... let me see...” She resumed stroking the kitten, which was now amusing itself with a length of twine. “You vant to ask me about those bothersome letters, is that it? Of course it is.”

  I nodded in uncomfortable affirmation. Though I did not know the precise nature of these letters, I had the impression that this interview would soon strain the limits of decorum. Even so, the countess seemed far less reluctant to discuss the matter than I.

  “There is very little to tell, Doctor,” she began, fingering a piece of jade at her throat, “it vas a simple question of lepidoptera.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “Lepidoptera. Oh, Dr Vatson, are you not a collector? Vat a shame. There is nothing like it. The net, the chloroform bottle, the pin and plaster. I haf quite a marvellous collection. Do you efer get to München, Doctor? I’d lof for you to see my butterflies.”

  “I’m sure that would be very pleasant,” I said. “But what do your butterflies have to do with the prince?”

  “The prince has recently taken up butterflies himself. Yes, a most timely coincidence. I met him at von of those awful occasions of state and I vas absolutely at a loss for something to say. Then someone mentioned my collection to him and, vell, I’m afraid he rather monopolised me for the rest of the evening. The poor man vas having a miserable time classifying a perfectly basic laceving he’d spotted somevere in Scotland. He doesn’t capture them, you know, he just obserfs them through field glass. He’s only a dabbler, really, not very knowledgeable at all. That’s vhy he needed me.”

  “You exchanged information, then?”

  “Yes, ve wrote letters to each other, and ven the prince next came through Germany he stopped to see my collection. But soon ve began to talk of other things besides the butterflies, and the prince began coming to Germany more regularly, and I to England.”

  The countess smiled and seemed on the point of adding something, but then merely glanced down at her kitten.

  “You were about to say something, Countess?”

  “Yes, I vas, but... vell... I do not care to share all of the details of my life vith you, Doctor, charming though you may be. Let us just say the prince... the prince made certain promises... certain promises vich he has since failed to keep. His letters are a clear record of this. I am a proud voman, Dr Vatson, and I feel I haf been misused. And yet it is I who am now shunned by society. There are vispers and stares as if I vere some sort of... of...” She paused in a moment of dismay and her eyes grew moist. She looked rather like a helpless butterfly herself in her colourful silk robe, flu
ttering her arms in search of the proper word. “Vell, never mind all that now. I do not intend to make trouble. I did, after all, return the letters to him.”

  “For a price,” I reminded her.

  “For a just reparation, Doctor.” Her eyes now blazed before she turned away from me. “I am very tired. Please go now, Dr Vatson.”

  “But, Countess—”

  “I haf nothing further to say.”

  Herr Osey took my arm and led me from the room.

  I left the Cleland greatly discomfited and in a considerable state of confusion. Though the implication was clear, I refused to believe that His Royal Highness could have committed any such indiscretion.

  I walked distractedly along the back streets of Westminster, heading in the general direction of Baker Street, as I tried to puzzle out what had occurred. Why was the countess being kept out of sight, and at whose behest? Why had Herr Osey behaved so strangely, and why had he objected so strongly to my seeing the countess? What was the connection between the two of them, and how did it bear on the intrigue with the prince? These questions so occupied me that it was some time before I noticed a mysterious figure walking along the street nearly one hundred yards behind me. At first I dismissed it as a trick of my imagination, but as I wound through the markets in Oxford Circus, taking a series of arbitrary detours, I could not escape the conclusion that I was indeed being followed. He was a large man, wrapped in a heavy cloak and wearing a broad-brimmed hat pulled low over his face. I paused at a book stall and tried to get a better look at him, but he had a long red muffler wrapped about his face, hiding his features from view. Who he was or what he hoped to gain by following me I could only guess, but the fact remained that he was following me and I proposed to do something about it.

  Holmes would have easily shaken this pursuer in the back alleys and twisting paths that he knew so well, but I lacked his intimate knowledge of London’s byways. Still, I did my best to elude the man in the crowded marketplace, but each time I turned another corner or struck out in a new direction, a glance over my shoulder or a brief reflection in a shop window confirmed that he was still behind me.

  At length my circuitous path led me out of Oxford Street and into the less populated Cavendish Square. Here we were nearly alone on a long stretch of the avenue, and so it was that I decided to stop running and confront my pursuer. I whirled round and called out a challenge, but the figure reared up and headed down a side-street, evidently unwilling to risk a confrontation with me. I gave chase and very soon we were back on Oxford Street, where the figure now attempted to lose me by darting in and out of the thick crowds.

  By now my old war injury had begun to ache, but still I increased my speed, nearly upsetting a fruit cart as I dashed after him. Even so I could barely keep him in sight, and as I attempted to push myself still harder, my leg gave out completely and I tumbled forward onto the pavement.

  I was not seriously hurt, but it was clear that my pursuit was at an end, and as a half dozen or so of the passers-by helped me to my feet, I was just able to make out the broad brim of my quarry’s hat rounding a distant corner.

  Eleven

  HOLMES REAPPEARS

  I was still somewhat shaken when I returned to Baker Street. I am not accustomed to being followed about London by men with disguised features, and I found the experience most disquieting. Settling myself before the fire, I pondered the events of the past two days and attempted to distill some sort of logic from them. First there was the threat against Houdini and his fallacious imprisonment. Then we became aware of the Gairstowe theft and its diplomatic entanglements. And now, finally, there was my curious interview with the Countess Valenka and the subsequent adventure in Oxford Circus. Again and again I turned these events over in my mind, though I could see little where Holmes would no doubt see so much. But as my companion had not yet returned from his mysterious errand of that morning, I was left alone with my speculations and doubts.

  By midday I was quite exhausted with this fruitless theorising, and so I passed the remainder of the afternoon attempting to divert myself with a book of sea stories. As this distraction proved futile I stepped round to my club for a light supper, checking all the while to be certain I was no longer being shadowed. After dining I was invited to play a few rubbers of whist with my club-mates, who took advantage of my obvious preoccupation to bet heavily against me. Returning home in no very sweet humour I found Holmes still absent. I waited past midnight before retiring, and when at last I did fall asleep my dreams were troubled with the image of Houdini lashed to his chair in that most outlandish fashion, imploring aid which I could not give.

  I arose the next morning red-eyed and ill-tempered. I snapped unnecessarily at Mrs Hudson when she laid breakfast for two, and left instructions that I did not wish to be disturbed for the rest of the day. That morning and most of the afternoon were spent pacing about our rooms, smoking no fewer than seven cigars, and imagining at every turn that I heard Holmes’s tread upon the stair. My thoughts continued to dwell upon the case, though I had long since given up trying to make sense of it. Rather, my thoughts were those of one who, upon hearing a snatch of melody drift through an open window, cannot resist the attempt to construct an entire concerto in his head.

  By late afternoon I had fallen asleep in my chair, and was thus startled several hours later when Holmes burst into the room and shook me roughly by the shoulders.

  “What’s this, Watson? Asleep? Why have you not visited with Houdini? Why have you not interviewed the countess?” He busily set to relighting the fire which I had allowed to go out.

  “I’ve done all of that,” I replied sleepily. “That was yesterday. You have been away for more than a day, Holmes.”

  “I have?” he asked with an incredulous laugh. “So I have! Marvellous!”

  Coming awake, I examined Holmes closely. His eyes were rimmed with red above his unshaven cheeks, and his hair was even more wildly askew than was usual. He was wearing a soiled motoring outfit which I had never seen before, and his hands bore traces of some sort of black inunction.

  “Where have you been?” I asked, old fears rising within me. “What have you been doing?”

  “Ah, Watson,” he sighed, slumping heavily onto the sofa, “I have been in the clouds! Ascending the brightest heaven of invention... of cabbages and kings...” his voice trailed off.

  It was now plain to me that Holmes had been on one of his notorious cocaine binges, and I knew that soon the blackest fit of depression would be upon him. “Holmes! How could you behave so irresponsibly?” My voice quivered with emotion. “With all that is at stake! Houdini is wasting away in the gaol! The prince himself is relying on your discretion—”

  “It is on their behalf that I have acted,” Holmes said languidly. “You must not shy away from sensation, Watson. It keens the faculties.” He waved his fingertips in the air.

  How often had I warned him of the destructive effects of this drug? I could not bear to think of that splendid mind being eroded by countless indulgences. Grimly, I made to unbutton his shirt cuff that I might examine his arm for puncture marks.

  “What?” he murmured, pulling his arm free. “Oh no, Watson, it is not that. Your vigilance has not been betrayed. No, it is the thrill of the hunt which stimulates me now. Our quarry is of a most inventive stamp, Watson. His trail has pressed me to great heights. Great heights indeed. I find it very rewarding.”

  Though my suspicions were not entirely lulled, I found my concern returning to the case. “Who is the criminal, then?”

  “You musn’t expect miracles from me, Watson,” he replied, a trifle hurt. “Houdini is the magician, not I. The villain’s name is as yet unknown to me. But my net is drawing tight about him, and soon...” He curled his bony fingers and held them aloft. “But enough of that. Tell me what you have learned from the countess.”

  He listened eagerly as I gave a brief account of my visit to the Cleland and of the incident which followed.

  “Ah,
” said Holmes when I had finished, “our friend with the red muffler has attached himself to you, has he? You should be flattered, Watson!”

  “What? Do you mean you know him?”

  “Well, let us say I’ve seen him about. He followed us home from the Diogenes the other night, and he caught up with us again after our trip to Gairstowe House. When you and I separated I managed to shake him off by jumping out of a moving four-wheeler.”

  “But who is he? What does he want?”

  “What an inquisitive fellow you are, Watson! It’s a pity you weren’t quite so persistent with the countess or we might be a good deal closer to our solution.”

  “What do you mean, Holmes? I learned as much as could be hoped under the circumstances. I thought I did rather well.”

  “No, Watson, I’m afraid you are too easily intoxicated by feminine allure. It is perhaps your greatest failing. You are more concerned with the cut of a gown than with the poisoning of a husband. True, your narrative holds one or two points of interest, but on the whole you are too chivalrous to be of any real use.”

  “See here, Holmes, this was a situation which called for the greatest delicacy. Had I been any more direct in my questioning I would have been ejected even sooner. I’m certain you wouldn’t have fared any better.”

  “Perhaps not, but at any rate we’ll know soon enough, for I intend to pay a visit to the Cleland at the earliest opportunity. But as it is now rather late to go calling, I suggest we leave the countess until morning. For the present, I have a rather different social outing in mind.”

  “That suits me perfectly well,” I said. “I have been sitting about here for more than a day.”

  “And I’m afraid you shall have to stagnate here a while longer,” Holmes said. “Tonight’s expedition is another in which you will not be participating. It is a rather—”

  “Holmes, if I am not going along then you shall not go yourself.”