Now, more than a decade later, I keep my collection of Dickens on my bookshelves along with my other favorite authors. The books are not as neatly lined up or ordered as perhaps they should be, given that I am a medical man. But it matters not. They are my old friends, and I know where they all are resting. If one should, perchance, wander away, he cannot go far before being found again.
You may wonder why I bring Charles Dickens to your attention. I have no choice. He played a leading role in this case—a case filled with murder, greed, fraud, deception, foolishness and a cast of unusual characters—and had it not been for Mr. Dickens, the villains might have triumphed.
Sherlock Holmes and I, as my readers know, are in many ways no more alike than chalk and cheese. Although my books and papers are kept decently and in order, our rooms in Baker Street are strewn with Holmes’s chaotic piles of papers, files, reports, and oversize envelopes. On the floor beside his bedside table is a two-foot tower of police reports. On the mantel, immediately above the Persian slipper than holds his tobacco, are files of past cases. Beside his chair by the hearth is where The Times is filed, and London’s less reputable newspapers, of which there is a multitude, find their way to the floor of the WC, leading me to contemplate the obvious alternative use to which they should be put. Such was the detritus of Holmes’s reading habits, and I was quite certain that a respected novel had not crossed his path since his school days.
These cluttered surroundings are where we found ourselves on a cold, dark evening in late November of 1885. It was that time of year when the sun sets before four o’clock in the afternoon and by five the street lamps had been lit. We had finished our supper, and I was enjoying the last few pages of Oliver Twist whilst Holmes was reading a police file on the latest murder of yet another school teacher.
I laid Oliver down and sat in silence for several minutes before engaging my friend in conversation.
“A penny for your thoughts, Holmes.”
He glanced ever so slightly in my direction. “If you were Scotland Yard, the fee would be a pound. But as you are my friend, then a penny will have to do. Your glancing around the room, eyeing my collected references and sources with a clear mark of disapproval, reminds me that perhaps it is time I re-organized my files. I try to do so on average at least once a year.”
“We have been sharing rooms, Holmes, now for four years. To date, you have engaged in such a virtuous act precisely once. If you were to do so again, now, then the best average you could claim would be once every two years.”
Holmes shrugged and casually lit a cigarette. “Very well, since it is a lost cause, I shan’t bother until the mean reaches once every three years. So, my friend, kindly remind me again in two years’ time.”
He smiled back at me, and I shook my head in playful defeat.
“But do tell, Watson, since it is my turn to ask, what profitable thoughts were you having after yet another re-reading of your dear Oliver Twist?”
He looked as if he were sincerely asking the question, and so I offered my considered reply.
“I was wondering about what indications a man, or a woman for that matter but it usually a man, gives to another man that leads that man to believe that the fellow can or cannot be trusted.”
Holmes gave me a look of mild condescension.
“My dear, Watson, that is not a question that should arise from reading Dickens.”
“And why not?”
“Because the answers are all found in Dickens.”
I was befuddled. “You have me in a fog on that one.”
“Please, my friend, stop and think about all those characters in Dickens whom you knew, within a paragraph or two of encountering them, to be trustworthy men of good character. Think of Mr. Brownlow, Bob Cratchit, Sydney Carton, Nicholas Nickleby, the Cheeryble brothers, Mr. Micawber … there is a score of them who leap to mind. Every one of them is immediately described in such a way—their mannerisms, their speech, their attire, their offhand small actions, the way they treat drivers and the help, the furnishings of their homes, the way they look at another person, the way they conduct themselves in the presence of a woman … need I go on?—that the reader knows immediately whether or not they are to be trusted.
“Now, consider the villains. Bring to mind Fagin, Mr. Bumble, or Bill Sykes, of whom you have just been reading, or Mr. Gradgrind, Madame Defarge, Mr. Vholes the lawyer, Daniel Quilp, Mr. Smallweed and his lawyer Josiah Tulkinghorn. For that matter, almost any lawyer. Now bring to mind all the ways in which villains are described by Dickens. Their multitude of actions gives them away. You do not need to be told that they are not to be trusted. Dickens lets you know that.
“Wait a moment,” Holmes continued, and he walked over to my well-tended bookcase and pulled down David Copperfield. He thumbed through the pages quickly until he found his spot. “If I remember correctly … ah ha! Here it is. Listen to this: this has to be one of his best. The man our young hero has just met is …
“a red-haired person—a youth of fifteen, as I take it now, but looking much older—whose hair was cropped as close as the closest stubble; who had hardly any eyebrows, and no eyelashes, and eyes of a red-brown, so unsheltered and unshaded, that I remember wondering how he went to sleep. He was high-shouldered and bony; dressed in decent black, with a white wisp of a neck cloth; buttoned up to the throat; and had a long, lank, skeleton hand, which particularly attracted my attention, as he stood at the pony's head, rubbing his chin with it, and looking up at us in the chaise. He had a way of writhing when he wanted to express enthusiasm, which was very ugly.”
And down went David Copperfield unceremoniously upon the coffee table in front of me.
“Could anyone possibly trust Uriah Heep after such a description? Of course not. What Dickens does with his characters is precisely the same as I do every time I meet a man. I observe his smallest details, and they always give me the answer, immediately, as to whether or not a man can be trusted. And I freely confess my debt to Charles Dickens, from whom I learned so much.
“So, there, my friend, you see why the question you asked, having read Dickens, is nonsense. The answer to it is contained a hundred times in his pages.”
He gave me a forced, triumphal grin, lit another cigarette, and picked up the file he had been reading. But a moment later, he turned back to me, this time with an unfeigned smile.
“I fear I was inconsiderate in the way I responded to you, my dear doctor. Everything I said you already know, but you know it all implicitly from your reading and your extensive experience dealing with men in the forces and in your medical practice. The only difference is that I know these things explicitly and have consciously incorporated them into my science of deduction.
“And, my friend, within the half hour, both of us are going to be called upon to make use of what we have learned from Mr. Dickens and judge two men who will be coming to see me. I have met neither, although I some background knowledge of one of them. Your assessment of their character would be most welcome.”
My feelings, which had been smarting from the earlier rebuke, were somewhat mollified and I smiled back.
“Happy to assist in whatever way I can, if you truly believe that I am capable of it.”
I admit that I was fishing for a kind word and Holmes did not disappoint.
“Excellent, my good doctor. Your insights would be helpful, and I am depending on you.”
“Very well, Holmes. Then you should start by telling me what you know about them.”
Chapter Two
Enter the Royal Ghost
I POURED OUT a couple of brandies for us while Holmes lit yet another cigarette.
“Do you recall,” he began, “that two years ago I recounted to you one of my earliest cases? I took it on shortly after leaving my studies and whilst I was living over on Montague Street by the Museum. It was the case related to the Musgrave family in Sussex.”
“Ah yes,” I replied, “I remember your account of it. It was immediat
ely after you took your pistol to our wall, was it not? The case involved the solving of an ancient riddle. Some sort of ‘one if by land, two if by sea; what walk on four legs in the morning; and wait until the sun is over the yardarm.’ Something like that?”
Holmes smiled at my feeble attempt at wit and nodded. “Yes. Something like that, precisely. It appears that the chickens have come home to roost, for now the much wealthier side of that ancient family is facing difficulties and have been sent, on the recommendation of Reginald Musgrave, to seek my services. Do you know anything, Watson, about the family? And no need to be clever.”
“I know that they are reputed to have more money than the Almighty Himself; to have a vast estate in East Hastings and large interests in firms in Great Britain, America, Europe, and the colonies. Beyond that, not much. Oh yes, I read somewhere that their old ancestral home is haunted by the headless ghost of Charles the First.”
Holmes chuckled, “Right on all counts. They trace their lineage back to William the Conqueror. The family name back then was Monsgrieu which, over the years has been corrupted to its present form. One of their forefathers did well enough to build a castle at Herstmonsgrieu, as it was then. Now, of course, we know it as Herstmonceux. They were fiercely loyal royalists, supporting King Charles until his demise and paying heavily for their allegiance once Cromwell came to power. Several of them spent time in prison, but with the Restoration they were not only restored but rewarded and have not looked back. As to the ghost of the king, that story is the stuff of legend. You may recall from your school classes in history that in 1648 Charles was imprisoned in Hampton Court. He escaped and made a mad dash to Southampton, hoping to flee to Europe. That much is historical. The apocryphal part of the story claims that he took a very large portion of the Royal Treasury with him and stopped at Herstmonceux, where he believed he could trust whatever aristocrat was stationed there. Together they hid the gold and jewels and then the king went on to Southampton.
“Of course, the poor fellow never made it to Europe. His trusted friend in Southampton locked him up and then returned him to London and the rest, of course, we all know.”
“What then,” I asked, “happened to the treasure?”
“That is what no one knows. Legend says that it is still hidden somewhere on the property and that the ghost of the king may be seen riding around, sans his head, looking for his money. But since the family has more money than they will ever need, they treat the story as entertainment. However, it has come back, you might say, to haunt them. Did you read the account in the press about the recent death of William Musgrave?”
“I did. Very strange, it was. Said that he and his son were in the family graveyard when, according to the son, he suddenly died whilst the lad was searching a crypt. And the word going around was that the boy killed his father.”
“Exactly, Watson. And it is that boy who is on his way to meet me, seeking my help to exonerate him.”
“Is he coming alone?”
“No, his uncle, of whom I know nothing, will be with him. They should arrive any minute now and whilst I converse with them I hope that you might apply your insights from Mr. Dickens and take their measure.”
He picked up the file, sat in his chair beside our bay window, and resumed reading. I retrieved my recently abused copy of David Copperfield and searched for the passages that introduced Barkis, Murdstone, Steerforth, the Peggottys, Mr. Micawber and Uriah Heep.
A half hour passed before the bell from Baker Street sounded, and subsequently Mrs. Hudson entered the room.
“A Mr. Rochester Musgrave and a Mr. Shaw Musgrave to see you, Mr. Holmes. Shall I show them in?”
“Yes,” said Holmes, “kindly do so, Mrs. Hudson.”
The footsteps I heard climbing the stairs were quick and energetic. The first man to enter our sitting room was about my height and weight, but I would say perhaps a decade or more older, possibly in his early fifties. He was fashionably dressed and, upon entering, casually removed his hat and placed it along with his gloves on our side table beside the door. His face, now clearly visible was handsome, bearing a trim gray-flecked mustache and framed by a full head of silver-on-its-way-to-white hair. He took a quick look over the room and strode immediately to Holmes. Upon reaching him, he extended his hand and bowed his head slightly.
“Ah, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” he said, “so very kind of you to see us on short notice and such a miserable, winter evening. And you, sir,” he said turning to me, “must be Dr. John Watson. I have read several of your stories, and I must say, sir, you have a gift for entrapment of a reader’s imagination. Do keep them coming, doctor.”
He had turned and approached me, again giving something between a bow and a nod and extending his hand in greeting.
“Permit me to introduce, myself,” he continued. His baritone voice was quiet, but his enunciation of each and every syllable was clear and distinct. “I am Rochester Musgrave, and this is my nephew, Shaw Musgrave.”
My attention now turned to the young man who had stopped just inside our door. He was as tall as Holmes and as thin. My first instinct was to walk over, grab him by the hand and lead him to a chair for he looked dreadfully ill at ease. His young, flushed face was attractive, and he was required to shave it, I would guess, no more than once a week. He had neither hat nor gloves and had already shifted his hands from his pockets, to clasped in front of him, to behind him, and back to his pockets. He did not walk over to greet either Holmes or me but simply uttered, “Hello,” and walked over to the sofa and sat down. His eyes glanced quickly at Holmes and then at me, and then at another dozen objects in the room. I took it upon myself to try to help the poor fellow relax and walked over to him, extending my hand and smiling.
“Good evening, young man,” I said. “Welcome to our home. I can see that you are under a good deal of stress, and I can assure you that you have come to the right place to assuage it.”
He took my hand briefly, giving what in the armed forces we used to call a ‘dead fish handshake.’ He quickly withdrew his hand and did not look up at me.
I returned to my chair and Holmes, as was his habit, took charge of the conversation.
“Gentlemen, I know only what I have read in the press regarding your situation. So, I must ask you to fully introduce yourselves to my colleague and me and to state your case. If I can be of assistance, I will inform you. If not, then I will not waste your time. Pray proceed, and Mr. Rochester Musgrave, perhaps you could start since my data concerning you are nil. So, please sir. The floor is yours.”
He gestured to the older gentleman, who in return nodded graciously and cleared his throat.
“Yes, well, of course, I can do that, Mr. Holmes. Now then, where should I begin?”
“With who you are and your relationship to Mr. Shaw Musgrave. Are you his uncle? The brother of his father?”
“Yes, yes. Well, no. In point of fact, our connection is somewhat more distant. My grandfather and Master Shaw’s great-grandfather were brothers. So, I think that makes us third cousins, or is it fourth? It matters not. The family is not large or spread out. Each generation had only a few children, which was to be expected since we are of the Church of England and not Catholics. But we have remained close and since childhood, Master Shaw’s father, William, or Billy as he preferred to be called, and I were very close. Like brothers to each other, yes, I suppose you could say that, since neither of us had any other brother we became like brothers, yes. That is how I have come to see Master Shaw as my nephew and he to know me as Uncle Rochester, or Uncle Rock, as it has come to be.”
“And when,” asked Holmes, “did that come to be? Did you live in close proximity to him as he was growing up? Did you live on the estate?”
“Yes, yes. Well, no, actually. I confess that the life on a country estate was not to my taste, nor was too much school for that matter. So, whilst still a young man I decided to make my own way in the world and became the wayward black sheep of the family and joined the the
ater. That has been my calling for these past thirty-five years, but I kept coming back to Sussex and have always regarded it as my home. So, yes, I did live on the estate at times but, no, not all the time.”
“I see. Please continue.”
“I assume, Mr. Holmes, that you are aware of the difficulties the family went through with regards to Mrs. Melody Musgrave, my nephew’s mother. It is a rather delicate and painful subject, and I do not wish to dwell on it at any length. My nephew is already under more than sufficient stress and grief, and I do not wish to add to it by dragging out that unfortunate incident in his past.”
“You are referring,” said Holmes, “to Mrs. Musgrave’s flagrant and shameful affair with another man, the abandoning of her husband and family, and her subsequent divorce and re-marriage, I assume.”
Holmes at times was utterly tactless, and I cringed at his blunt comment. I saw a flash of anger as well cross the face of young Shaw Musgrave as Holmes spoke. Rochester Musgrave simply nodded placidly and responded.
“Yes, yes. That was it. And no, that is not entirely correct. Melody Musgrave did not abandon both of her children, only one, my nephew here, Shaw. She took his brother with her, and they have had no communication between them for nearly ten years. It has been a source of constant pain to the heart of my nephew. And, I must add, to his father, my cousin, William Musgrave. May his soul rest in peace, as I hope it will now that he no longer has to endure the memories of that humiliating and tragic event.”
“As he is now dead,” said Holmes, “that hope would appear to be achieved. Please continue and kindly tell me what you know about his death.”
Here the fellow stopped for several seconds and drew a deep breath and let it out slowly.
“Forgive me, Mr. Holmes. As a detective, you are faced with terrible tragedies all the time. My nephew and I are not. He has been dealing with overwhelming grief from the loss of his father, to whom he was very close, and added to that the horrible rumors, questions, and accusations that are being bandied about. He is doing his best to bear up, brave young man that he is. It has affected me in much the same way, but, as you can see, I am far from a callow young lad and the scars of years gone by have given me a bit tougher hide. I trust you can understand, sir.”
Sherlock Holmes Never Dies - Collection Five: New Sherlock Holmes Mysteries - Second Edition Page 17