Sherlock Holmes

by Dick Gillman

  “What is it, Mrs Hudson?” asked Holmes, clearly sensing that something was amiss.

  Mrs Hudson looked away, saying, “Why, it's nothing really, Mr Holmes. You will think me a silly old woman...”

  Holmes rose from his leather armchair and walked towards Mrs Hudson, gently taking her arm and guiding her to our settee, saying, “That is something I would never do. Please, sit for a moment.”

  Mrs Hudson gave the briefest of smiles and sat. Her hands, I saw, were constantly twisting at the material of her apron. “Well, sir, I am concerned about my niece, Charlotte. She obtained a position, as a maid, at an address in Portman Square a few months ago and has been very happy there.”

  “But circumstances have changed?” asked Holmes.

  Mrs Hudson nodded. “Yes, sir. I had occasion to have tea with my niece last Thursday as she had the afternoon off. She told me that the previous day a lady, Mrs Mayfield, who had been visiting her employer, had quite suddenly been taken ill and a doctor had been called. She said that the lady had been in a terrible state, sir, seeing things and the like.”

  Holmes was now sitting back in his chair with his forefinger to his lips. “Yes, I can see that that would be worrisome for your niece. Has anything like this happened before?”

  Mrs Hudson now looked concerned. “Well, that's the worry, Mr Holmes. Only two weeks previous, another lady caller mentioned that she had felt unwell after her visit.” Mrs Hudson moved a little further forwards on the settee, saying, “My niece wasn't eavesdropping, sir, she only heard it in passing whilst bringing in the tea, you understand. She is a sensitive child and I am most concerned.”

  Holmes nodded. “Yes, yes, quite. Have you the name and address of your niece's employer?” asked Holmes.

  I knew that Mrs Hudson must have been truly worried because, as we watched, she withdrew from her apron pocket a small scrap of paper and handed it to Holmes. “Here it is, sir. I took the liberty of writing it down, in case you might….”

  Holmes smiled and leant forwards, taking the paper and patting Mrs Hudson's hand, saying, “Of course. Leave it with me, Mrs Hudson.”

  Mrs Hudson smiled weakly, rose and, after loading her tray with the remnants of our meal, she nodded to us both before disappearing downstairs. I must confess that I was somewhat bemused by what had just occurred. It was unheard of for Mrs Hudson to involve Holmes in any family or indeed, any domestic matters. This affair must have been preying upon her mind a good deal for her to approach Holmes for assistance.

  “What do you make of that, Holmes?” I queried.

  Holmes was still holding the piece of paper from Mrs Hudson. He did not answer immediately but seemed to be looking towards some point in the distance whilst, at the same time, he began to fill his pipe. After lighting it and taking a couple of good pulls upon it, he turned to me, saying, “This greatly concerns me, Watson. Whilst it might be a misfortune for a visiting acquaintance to fall ill after a visit to a person's home, it would be very troubling if the same thing were to happen again, with more serious consequences, barely two weeks later."

  I thought for a moment before suggesting, "Food poisoning or... or perhaps even a sudden illness? There are several plausible explanations for these events, Holmes."

  Holmes rose from his chair and began to pace. "Yes, but there is also something about the name of the hostess that gnaws at me so, Watson... Madame Duval.”

  I thought for a moment, turning the name over in my head. “Hmm, the only person I can think of named Duval is that strange French fellow who is convinced that he can fly!” I laughed out loud at the very thought of it. However, hardly had I spoken these words when Holmes leapt from his chair and began rooting madly in our collection of newspaper clippings.

  I was most perturbed by this and called out, “Have a care, Holmes! It has taken me a good while to catalogue those,” but to no avail. Holmes had plunged headlong into the archive with but a single thought in his head.

  With a cry of triumph, Holmes held aloft a cardboard folder, crying, “Ha! Here we are! 'Claude Duval the intrepid French aeronaut who resides in London demonstrates the gliding abilities of his new craft at Bognor Regis'. There is even a photograph of the fellow standing beside his machine.”

  I walked over to Holmes and, upon looking over his shoulder, I could see that he was reading from a somewhat yellowed newspaper cutting. Upon it was the headline he had read aloud and beneath, a photograph of a smiling, moustached gentleman in a checked waistcoat and plus fours. Mr Duval was to be seen leaning against some large contraption that appeared to be made solely from string, bamboo garden canes and stretched fabric.

  I looked towards Holmes, his face had once again taken on a thoughtful expression. Replacing the newspaper cutting in the folder, he returned to his armchair and took up his pipe. He sat in silence for perhaps only a minute or so but my impatience was such that I could wait no longer.

  “Do you have a notion that the events in Portman Square are, in some way, linked to the exploits of Claude Duval?” I asked.

  Holmes frowned. “I have, as yet, no opinion, Watson. However, the information from Mrs Hudson's niece is worthy of further investigation. I think we must invite Miss Charlotte for tea on Thursday afternoon.” With that, he rang the bell for Mrs Hudson and asked her to extend the invitation to her niece.

  Chapter 2 – Afternoon tea with Charlotte

  Thursday morning arrived and, until then, little had been said regarding our rendezvous with Miss Charlotte. Holmes was seated in his armchair and I could not help but notice that he had been spending some considerable time reading the society pages of several newspapers.

  I must confess that I was somewhat intrigued by this occurrence as the society pages were something I knew Holmes disliked with a vengeance. Indeed, he had been known to rip these pages from his newspaper and hurl them across our sitting room in disgust. However, I suspected that his sudden interest had been to seek some intelligence as to Madame Duval’s activities and I was curious to know what he had determined.

  Holmes was already enjoying his second pipe of the day and I thought it an opportune moment to satisfy my curiosity. "Holmes, old fellow, are you any the wiser regarding Madame Duval?" I asked, in all innocence.

  Holmes looked towards me and I am sure that he could see the mischief in my face. "Yes, she appears to be a particularly gregarious lady and seems to have a very wide circle of acquaintances. Her tea parties are often detailed in the so called 'society pages'. Despite the liberal sprinkling of poseurs, there are mentions of the wives of some particularly interesting gentlemen. These, I note, include ambassadors, statesmen, leaders of industry and even some minor royals from the Continent."

  I nodded, seeing now the value of the time spent on this apparently abhorrent task.

  It was a little after 3 p.m. when there was a gentle knock at our sitting room door and Mrs Hudson appeared with a young lady at her side. Upon looking at our visitor, I noted that she appeared to be aged around 18 years and was dressed smartly, but plainly, in the clothes of a domestic servant. Holmes rose and shook the young lady’s hand, as did I, as we were both introduced to Miss Charlotte May Chalmers. Our guest sat and it was clear that she was a little nervous in our company but, after a little small talk and the arrival of the tea tray brought by her aunt, she visibly relaxed.

  Holmes sat back and sipped his tea, asking, "Tell me Charlotte, what happened last week when Mrs Duval's guest was taken ill?"

  Charlotte put down her teacup and began to recount the events. "Well sir, there were three other ladies who had been invited for tea. They were all seated in the salon and I had brought up the tea tray as Madame had rung for it."

  Holmes nodded. "Was there anything different about the room or the guests that you noticed?"

  Charlotte thought for a moment before replying, "No, sir. I saw nothing amiss, it was as always. I placed the tea tray on the sideboard next to Madame's diary and returned to the kitchen."

  I noticed that
Holmes had now moved slightly forward in his chair and had his forefinger slightly raised. "You did not serve the tea?"

  Charlotte shook her head. "No sir, it was as usual. I brings up the tea and Madame's pot of coffee and she pours the tea for her guests."

  Holmes again nodded, asking, "Was any food served?"

  Charlotte smiled, saying, "Just a few biscuits, sir. Cook had made them specially that morning. She made a couple extra and she and I had one with our tea. Oatmeal, they was."

  "Tell me, Charlotte. Does Madame always drink coffee? Does she not like tea?" asked Holmes, with a glint in his eye.

  Shaking her head, Charlotte replied, "Oh, no sir, she drinks tea but, when she has guests of an afternoon, she always drinks coffee... I think it's because she is a foreign lady."

  Holmes sat back and seemed to consider this before asking, "Who was present when the lady was taken ill?"

  Charlotte frowned as she thought back to the day in question and began counting off the guests with her fingers. "Well sir, there was Mrs Van Burren, she's a Dutch lady, Mrs Holcroft from Greenwich, Lady Stevens... and, of course, the one that was taken poorly, Mrs Mayfield, she's from Harrow. I know where they live sir because I have, on occasion, had to hail a cab for them."

  I had already taken out my small notebook from my waistcoat pocket and quickly noted down the names. Whilst Holmes’ memory was excellent, mine, I fear, was not.

  Holmes edged forward slightly, asking, "And what happened when Mrs Mayfield was taken ill?"

  Charlotte looked quite excited as she began her tale. "Well sir, the bell in the kitchen was ringing like it was going to fall off the wall! I rushed upstairs and found Madame trying to comfort Mrs Mayfield who was greatly distressed. Mrs Mayfield was trying to climb on a chair. She said that she could see tigers roaming around in the room. She was off her head, sir!"

  Holmes was keenly alert, his eyes bright as he asked, "What of the other ladies?"

  I looked to Charlotte. She now had a puzzled expression upon her face. "Now that's the funny thing, sir. They all looked quite calm, serene, you might say. They never turned a hair, even when Mrs Mayfield was in such a state that she had to be taken to another room to wait for the doctor."

  Holmes nodded and drained his tea, saying, "Well, thank you, Charlotte. It was a great pleasure to meet you."

  Charlotte stood and asked, "Would you like me to take the tea tray back downstairs to my aunt, sir? I know the way."

  Holmes nodded and smiled, saying, "That would be most kind. Dr Watson and I have some matters to discuss."

  Charlotte bobbed in a little curtsy and gathered the cups before disappearing with the tea tray.

  Holmes appeared troubled and had begun to pace, a clear sign of his concern. "What is it, Holmes? Do you suspect foul play?" I asked.

  He did not answer at first, his thin face showing furrowed brows. "It is a combination of factors that is leading me to believe so. I need some little time to consider all that we have heard this morning."

  With that, Holmes returned to his armchair, drew up his knees and entered that contemplative state where his only companions were to be his tobacco and briar pipe. I had some business at my practice so I left Holmes to his thoughts.

  Upon my return for dinner, I found Holmes draped in his old dressing gown in our sitting room engrossed in a book which, on further inspection, I found to be entitled “The Principles of Flight”. The book cover showed an illustration of Icarus soaring heavenward on his feathered wings towards an unforgiving Sun. I felt the need for a little gentle leg pulling so I remarked, “Ha, so the fantasy of a man flying has overtaken you too then, Holmes!”

  Holmes slowly lowered the book, saying in a chiding voice, “It is not fantasy, Watson. The science relating to heavier than air flight is clearly there. We are simply constrained by the materials to hand and the limits of our currently imperfect knowledge of the physics of flight. Powered, manned flight will come...and soon.”

  Holmes once more raised the book, the plume of blue smoke emanating from behind its cover showing evidence of Holmes’ continued concentration. In truth, I felt a little slighted. My intention had been to tease but I had ended up a little bruised and battered from my endeavours.

  I sat and sought some solace from reading the morning's edition of 'The Times'. I flicked idly through the dense print when suddenly a headline leapt out at me. “Good Lord, Holmes! Listen to this… 'French daredevil to take to the skies'. On Saturday, this week, at 11a.m., weather permitting, Mr Claude Duval of Portman Square is to attempt to fly his glider, 'The Damselfly', from Betsom's Hill Fort in Bromley. His previous attempt in August saw him glide for over eighty feet. The public is invited to attend, with admission for adults at sixpence, children under 12 years, twopence.”

  Holmes’ book slammed shut and I jumped at the sudden sound. Looking up, I saw Holmes’ beaming face. “Then we must not disappoint Mr Duval, Watson. We must have our shilling at the ready!” Taking out his notebook, I saw him dash off a telegram before ringing the bell vigorously for Mrs Hudson.

  Chapter 3 – A visit to Betsom’s Hill Fort

  Throughout Friday, Holmes was to be seen dipping into various books in our small library at Baker Street. I presumed that he was readying himself for the meeting with Mr Duval so I stayed well clear. During the mid-afternoon, there was a ring at our doorbell, followed a few moments later by Mrs Hudson entering our rooms with a large envelope addressed to Holmes. Upon opening it, Holmes was clearly delighted with the contents and immediately disappeared into his room. He was not to be seen during that evening, not even for dinner, and appeared only briefly at supper time before retiring once more to his room. This behaviour I thought quite strange.

  The following morning, Holmes and I readied ourselves for our trip to Bromley and the hill fort. The weather was indeed fine for late October. A watery sun and a gentle breeze met us as we hailed a Hansom in Baker Street. Bromley was some distance away and required either a long carriage ride of almost two hours or a much quicker journey by train. Holmes had already ascertained that the 9:30 a.m. train from Charing Cross to Bromley would give us sufficient time to hire a cab to Betsom's Hill Fort. Arriving at Charing Cross Station, we found our way to the waiting South Eastern Railway train and climbed aboard. I noticed that Holmes was carrying a small sketchbook and guessed that this might be something that he had prepared in order that he might gain an introduction to Duval.

  Once aboard, the guard's shrill whistle soon sounded and, with a jolt, the small local engine took up the slack in the couplings and puffed wearily out of the station.

  As we rolled along, Holmes turned his gaze away from the window and looked steadily at me. He looked calm but there was a steely glint in his eye as he began to outline his intentions when meeting Duval.

  “I am sorry if I have treated you badly, Watson, but over the last 24 hours I have had to complete certain tasks to the exclusion of almost everything else, even companionship. I fear that there is intrigue and the potential for great harm around us. How the actions of the man Duval are linked to the events at Portman Square, I am unsure. However, I feel that if we do not act quickly, there may be tragic consequences. My preparations have been designed for the sole purpose of gaining entry to Duval's house in Portman Square... and I have the ideal bait.”

  Holmes now opened the sketchbook that he had brought and there, within it, were notes and diagrams of a contraption that was, on the one hand, amazing but on the other, I thought, wildly fanciful.

  “Great heavens! What is it, Holmes?” I gasped.

  Holmes’ face bore a wry smile. “It is a steam powered flying machine...and it has been tried and tested.”

  I sat back in the carriage, stunned, and could only splutter, “What?”

  Holmes continued. “The telegram that I sent yesterday was to Sir Brian Martindale, the chairman of Maxims. In 1894, Maxims were experimenting secretly with a steam driven flying machine that flew, although tethered, along a rail. Desp
ite flying successfully, it was deemed, finally, to be a commercial failure... but the principle of powered flight was proven! It remains a project known only to a few trusted employees and certain figures within His Majesty's Government. Sir Brian, seeing himself still in my debt after the rescue of his son, has kindly sent me some drawings and notes which I have transcribed to my sketchbook.”

  Again I spluttered. “But...but revealing this information, especially to a foreigner, could be seen as treason!”

  Holmes held up his hand and smiled wickedly. “Not so, friend Watson, for I have taken the liberty of somewhat amending the drawings with a little artistic licence. I have also changed the dimensions and specifications. Whilst the figures are inaccurate, they are still believable... even by someone with some aeronautical knowledge.”

  I was now on the edge of my seat, “Duval!” I cried.

  Holmes smiled again, “Precisely. There will unquestionably have been rumours about Maxim's experiments but nobody will have seen these diagrams...for they are, of course, quite false and the flying machine itself has been destroyed.”

  Holmes then sighed and reached out a hand, laying it on my forearm. “For the deception to succeed, I must present myself as an employee who has been frustrated by the company's failure to continue with the machine. I am afraid, old friend, that there is no role for you in this... but perhaps you might accompany me as my physician friend.”

  I nodded, but, sitting back in the carriage, I felt a good measure of disappointment. I now needed some time to allow my spinning head to make sense of all that I had heard.

  As I watched, the train slowed and drew into a somewhat depressing Bromley Station. I was not at all impressed by the station itself, having become used to the fine railway architecture erected during the reign of our dear Queen Victoria. A plaque displaying a date of 1878 was attached to the end of the building, confirming its Victorian heritage. However, in truth it was little more than a large wooden shed with three oversized brick chimney stacks piercing the roof at equal distances along its length. Outside the station we were fortunate to be able to hire a dog cart and on giving the driver directions, we were soon conveyed up the hill to Betsom's Hill Fort'