Sherlock Holmes

by Dick Gillman

  Holmes sat back and blew out a thin stream of blue smoke, saying, "My conscience is perfectly clear, Mycroft. An important foreign agent has been removed from our soil, the government and many great men in high places have not been supremely embarrassed and a good man has not had his life ruined, through no fault of his own."

  Mycroft was silent for perhaps thirty seconds as he considered Holmes’ reply. "Hmm... quite so. Perhaps you are right; bringing this woman before the courts would have been an entirely unpleasant business. There would indeed have been a great deal of embarrassment in high places... but tell me, Sherlock, how did you know her to be a German spy?"

  Holmes chuckled. "Mulhouse, as you know, Mycroft, is at that very delicate border between France and Germany... but that is not what convinced me. I find the Germans to be so literal in their spying. It was the name that she had adopted that helped give away her allegiance."

  I sat for a moment before saying, "Surely, she took her husband's name of Duval?"

  At this, Holmes roared with laughter and slapped the arm of his leather armchair. "No, Watson! Her first name, Adelinda! It is an old ‘High German’ name meaning 'Sweet Serpent'!"

  We laughed and sitting back, smoked almost in silence until we had finished our pipes. Little more was said of the affair and as we said our goodbyes, I was pleased to see that Mycroft left in good heart. He had finally agreed that the needs of the state had been met and that honour had been satisfied through the actions of his brother.

  As to Claude Duval, we heard nothing of him until Holmes received a letter in the latter part of 1903. It seemed that he had emigrated to America and was now busily helping two brothers in Ohio to perfect their flying machine.

  ~~~***~~~

  The Emerald Spirit

  Chapter 1 – A letter from Lymington.

  It was in May 1902, as I sat enjoying breakfast in Baker Street and benefiting from the warmth of a fine, spring morning that I noticed a letter on our breakfast tray, written in a familiar hand. Holmes was engrossed in his copy of 'The Times' and so I took the opportunity to open the letter with some degree of privacy.

  Holmes, although mostly hidden from view by the broadsheet, shook his paper slightly, as if to straighten it, whilst saying, "It is from your aunt in Lymington, Watson... and it is something of a cry for help. She is clearly concerned and is in urgent need of your assistance."

  My head jolted up for I had not even taken the single sheet of notepaper from its envelope. Whilst the postmark on the envelope was clearly visible, I was unsure how he could have known the sender and its contents. "Are you sure, Holmes?" I asked, knowing full well that he would be correct.

  Holmes sighed, closed and folded his newspaper and placed it on the breakfast table. "Well, let us see. The letter is written in a woman's hand and addressed to 'John Watson ', no Dr or Mr. This implies that it is from someone very close to you who has memories of you as a small boy and before you became a man. The postmark is Lymington and we both know that your charming Aunt Rachel resides there."

  I nodded and waited for him to continue.

  Holmes smiled, saying, "The slightest hint of the odour of honey from the envelope confirmed it. The formation of the letters and the slight smudge to the ink at one side implies that the envelope was written in haste. Your aunt wanted to expedite this letter to you and, in her haste, she has placed the stamp slightly askew. Your aunt is a woman of exceeding neatness and this small lack of detail indicates her concern and that, at the time of writing, she was indeed distracted."

  Of course, once these things had been pointed out, it became self-evident. Removing the paper from the envelope I began to read and, as I did so, the seriousness of the affair began to unfold. Holmes, seeing my face change as I read, became immediately concerned.

  "What is it, Watson?" He queried, a sense of alarm sounding in his voice.

  I sat back in my chair seeming to be unable to comprehend the contents of the letter. After a few moments I stammered, "It... It relates to friends of my aunt who live in St John's Wood, an older couple whom I have met on a few occasions. It appears one of them has been struck down by some unearthly presence."

  Holmes reached forwards and took the letter from my limp grasp. His brows furrowed as he read the letter. "This is most serious, Watson. Your aunt is not a woman who worries unnecessarily. We must extend an invitation to her at once and ask her to allow us to take up the case."

  With that, Holmes produced his notebook from his jacket pocket and dashed off a telegram to my aunt.

  It was a measure of Holmes’ concern that he immediately sought to arrange accommodation with Mrs Hudson for my aunt. Hearing of her distress, it was agreed that she should stay in Mrs Hudson's spare room. Within a day we had had a reply and the following morning found us welcoming my aunt to our rooms. Looking towards my Aunt Rachel I could readily see that her face bore a complexion that plainly advertised the benefits of residing in the Devon countryside. I was also intrigued by the wicker basket upon her arm.

  Taking off her bonnet, Aunt Rachel beamed as she looked us both up and down. "You appear to be keeping well, John... and you too, Sherlock, but I have brought you a little something: a little piece of Devon sunshine."

  Proudly, my aunt untied and then removed the checked, linen cover from her basket. From within the basket she firstly removed a large, round metal tin and then two jars of gleaming, amber liquid.

  "Honey!" I cried and sprang forwards to grasp one of the jars and hold it to the light. My aunt keeps bees and it had been this delicious product of these tiny, industrious creatures that had saved her life the previous year. "Dare I ask, Aunt, what you have in your tin?"

  Aunt Rachel smiled for she knew me far too well. Taking off the lid, she tilted the tin towards me, asking, "Is it as you had hoped, John?"

  Within the cake tin I saw a superb, golden honey cake. This was an enduring memory from my childhood and my aunt baked them to perfection using her own recipe. I think I almost ran to ring for Mrs Hudson in my eagerness to request some tea so that we might all enjoy a slice of cake before matters became more serious.

  All this time, Holmes had remained silent. Apart from his initial greeting and his submission to the obligatory embrace from my aunt which, I must admit, he bore with great fortitude, he had said nothing. However, I knew that he had observed all.

  Chapter 2 – The death of Elsie Grainger

  It was as we sat, enjoying our tea and slices of delicious honey cake, that Holmes leant forwards and asked, "Tell me, Mrs Watson...um...Aunt, how long have you been wearing your crucifix?"

  As I watched, my aunt's hand went instinctively to her neck and she held it there. After a few moments, she removed her hand to reveal a fine gold chain and cross hanging around her neck. It was something I had not noticed and something that I had never seen her wear before.

  Aunt Rachel blushed slightly and lowered her head, saying, "I have had it since I was a girl... but I have only recently chosen to wear it."

  Holmes’ voice was now softer, asking, "Since this business with your friends in St. John's Wood?"

  Aunt Rachel nodded, adding, "Yes, since Elsie died. I thought, due to the circumstances... but you must think that I am a silly old woman and..."

  The sentence remained unfinished as Holmes bent forwards and gently patted my aunt's hand. It was a sign of compassion and affection, an emotion I had rarely seen surface in my friend. "Not at all, Aunt, but you must tell me all, leave nothing out, no matter how small."

  Aunt Rachel dabbed her eyes with a small lace-edged handkerchief and smiled at Holmes. "You are very kind, Sherlock. You and John have given me the strength to go on. It all began around Christmas time. My friends, Stephen and Elsie Grainger had moved from Lymington some years past to be nearer to their daughter and her husband. They had bought a nice terraced house in St. John's Wood and Elsie would pen a letter to me every quarter with their news and I would respond in kind."

  Holmes nodded and began to fill
his pipe as he waited for my aunt to continue.

  "It was her December letter that raised my concerns. Elsie had always been quite a strict Methodist but, in this letter, she said she had gone to some kind of séance at the request of her husband and it had been most disquieting."

  Holmes’ brows furrowed slightly as he lent forwards, asking, "Did she say in what way it was disturbing?"

  My aunt shook her head. "In this initial letter there was nothing specific, she just said she felt uncomfortable and that the spiritualist had asked for a contribution towards the meeting. My friends were not well off, Sherlock. Two guineas was a lot to them."

  I almost choked as I heard this. "Two guineas? For what, pray, a meeting with someone who can supposedly receive messages from beyond the grave? Outrageous!"

  Holmes frowned and raised his hand slightly, in a calming gesture. Although still ruffled, I settled back once more in my seat.

  "Did Mrs Grainger write more on this in her subsequent letter?" pressed Holmes.

  Aunt Rachel nodded. "I received the last letter from Elsie in late April. I had been expecting it for some weeks and I fear that I was becoming anxious. It was a dreadful letter, Sherlock. Stephen had forced his wife to attend further meetings and it seems that he had become a believer and had fallen under the spell or influence of the person who had led them, a Doctor Daniel Garton. She talked of seeing things at these meetings and of being frightened, being exposed to a strange smell and seeing a green mist when the spirit appeared to them. Over the previous month they had paid over ten guineas to attend these meetings."

  I was appalled and my dear aunt was again in tears after recounting this. I looked towards Holmes. His face was now grim and he was sitting back in his chair with his thin fingers steepled against his lips. I was becoming increasingly angered by what my aunt had said and could not restrain myself, crying out, "This is dreadful, Holmes! We must seek out this Doctor Garton at once and have it out with him!"

  Holmes wagged a reproachful finger in my direction, saying, "No, Watson. We will do nothing in haste. There are people amongst us who genuinely believe that they have been given a gift whereby they can communicate with departed souls. They share their gift freely and, I believe, they assist those whose mourning continues in this world. Whilst this is not my belief, they are, for the most part, harmless and they provide some solace to those seeking it."

  Holmes now sat forwards slightly, his expression changed as his jaw tightened and his eyes burned like red hot coals. "However, there are charlatans whose sole purpose is to exploit the vulnerable and take money from those desperately seeking to fill the void left by a departed loved one. This is, I believe, what we are dealing with here."

  Holmes’ paused and his face softened as he once more leant forwards towards my aunt, asking, "Tell me, Aunt. What do you know of the circumstances surrounding the death of Elsie?"

  My aunt again dabbed her eyes and I could see that she was becoming emotionally exhausted by this ordeal. I put out my hand towards her and she grasped it briefly and smiled. She looked towards Holmes and I could see that, whilst weary, she was indeed determined to finish her story.

  Clearing her throat briefly, she continued, "Well, I know very little other than what I have read in the newspapers. I was informed of her death on the 27th of May by Stephen. He wrote to me briefly from his hospital bed-"

  "Hospital bed?" interrupted Holmes.

  My aunt nodded. "Yes, Stephen recounted in his letter how they had both been struck down by what he called 'The Emerald Spirit' and that Elsie had perished because she was weak and did not fully believe."

  At this, she slumped in her chair, her hands went to her face and she sobbed. I moved quickly to her side whilst Holmes raced to ring the bell to summon Mrs Hudson. It took several minutes for Aunt Rachel to regain her composure but, having done so, she was able to walk unaided to her room, accompanied by Mrs Hudson.

  Alone now, we were able to reflect on what had been said. Holmes had taken up his favourite briar pipe and was sitting in his leather armchair, eyes closed and deep in thought. The only sign of any conscious activity being the odd plume of smoke which appeared from his thin lips. Opening his eyes slowly, he asked, "Tell me, Watson, do you have the newspaper report of the death of Elsie Grainger? I would have thought that a death attributed to 'The Emerald Spirit' would be most noteworthy and part of your collection."

  I thought for a moment but could not bring any such report to mind. Frowning, I rose and began to look in my scrapbooks for any mention of the death of Elsie Grainger in cuttings after the date my aunt had mentioned. "Bless my soul, Holmes. Here it is... On the 27th last, Mr and Mrs Stephen Grainger of fifteen, Boundary Road, St. John's Wood were admitted to Marylebone Hospital. Once there, Mrs Grainger was found to be dead from asphyxiation and her husband grievously suffering from the effects of monoxide poisoning. The alarm had been raised when Mr Henry Todd, a neighbour, who was emptying some ashes, saw what he describes as "a strange, green, ethereal glow that filled the whole of the Grainger's sitting room window." Fearing that it might be a fire, Mr Todd approached and looked through the window where he saw the bodies of his neighbours prostrate on the floor. At the subsequent inquest into Elsie Grainger's death, no explanation could be put forward for the observed green glow and no fault could be found in the chimney of number fifteen. A verdict of 'death by misadventure' was recorded."

  Holmes frowned, saying, "I think, Watson, that it would be beneficial if we were to speak to Mr Stephen Grainger as he is clearly in awe of this Emerald Spirit." With that, Holmes reached for his notebook and dashed off a telegram.

  Chapter 3 – Meeting Stephen Grainger

  It was a little after lunch that Holmes received a reply and a grim smile appeared as he read it to me. "Ah! It appears, Watson, that we are invited to call this afternoon, at half past three, in St John's Wood. In the meantime, I have a little reading to do of some notes I have exchanged for the past year with Mr Houdini. He, like myself, is extremely doubtful of the powers of these mediums."

  I must admit that I was shocked. I knew, of course, the fame of Harry Houdini as a stage magician and escape artist after his arrival and performances in England during the previous year. However, I was unaware of any contact that Holmes had had with him.

  Holmes settled back in his leather armchair and smoked steadily whilst he read his correspondence with Houdini. As there was nothing further to be said, I picked up the latest copy of 'The Lancet' and followed suit.

  At quarter to three, Holmes sprang from his chair saying, "Come along, Watson, we don't want to be late. I want to hear more of the Emerald Spirit!" With that, he raced towards the coat stand and was off down the stairs. I quickly followed, as best as I could, and arrived breathless at his side in Baker Street as he flagged down a cab.

  As we climbed aboard, Holmes called up to the driver, "Boundary Road, St. John's Wood, number fifteen... as quick as you like, Cabbie!"

  Hardly had I settled into the seat when we were jolted backwards as the cabbie flicked his whip onto the horse's rump. As we travelled along, I wondered what Holmes expected to glean from this meeting with Stephen Grainger. "Tell me, Holmes, as this poor man was laid low by monoxide, I fail to see how he might be of use?"

  Holmes smiled grimly and held up a cautionary finger as he replied, "Ah, but it is not only he that we are there to observe, it is the scene of the crime and the last known whereabouts of the Emerald Spirit."

  I was taken aback, asking, "Surely, you do not believe in a supernatural event, Holmes?"

  Holmes slowly shook his head. "No, Watson. I deal only in facts. Fantasy is the realm of the weak and gullible. However, I am curious as to the events as they have been portrayed and keen to see how this Emerald Spirit might be conjured."

  He sat back, eyes half closed and would say nothing more. The cab rattled over the cobbles of Boundary Road and soon stopped outside number fifteen. As we climbed down, the net curtain in the front window of the house
before us twitched slightly. Holmes turned to toss a shilling to the cabbie and, as he did so, said, "It would appear that Mr Grainger is also a curious fellow."

  The house before us was one in a terrace of red, London brick dwellings. Above each of the three sash windows was a stone lintel which had been painted a cream colour so that it resembled Portland stone. The front door was half-glazed with leaded glass and recessed in a small, arched porch way. Holmes rang the bell and we waited perhaps half a minute until the door was opened. Before us stood a well-built man, aged, I would say, in his late sixties. His iron grey hair grew in waves and his broad face was framed by rather expansive mutton chop whiskers. He held out his hand, asking, "Mr Holmes?"

  Holmes stepped forward, nodded and took the man's hand, saying, "Indeed, Mr Grainger, and this is my friend, Doctor Watson, whom you have met in earlier days." Stephen Grainger smiled and nodded in my direction. Grainger moved back further into the house whilst apologising for not opening the door more promptly and explaining that it was the maid’s day off. We followed him down a short hallway and were ushered into the front room that faced the street.

  Grainger smiled and asked us to sit. The room was plainly furnished with a sideboard and a settee upon which Holmes and I both sat. On either side of the cast iron and tiled fireplace were two other chairs with a gas light above each one. A dark wood picture rail circled the room and from this hung a print or two and a few family photographs. My eye was drawn to one larger photograph which had a large, black ribbon draped across one corner. This, I presumed, was a likeness of Elsie Grainger.