by Dick Gillman
Turning to my aunt, I asked “And what of your role, Aunt? It was a fine portrayal of a vengeful spirit!”
Aunt Rachel smiled, saying, “During our walk in Hyde Park, Sherlock recounted to me his discoveries and asked if I was willing to help trap the killer of my dear friend, Elsie. Of course, I agreed immediately. He told me that my role would involve some play acting and I informed him of my recent performance as Lady Macbeth in a production by the Lymington Players.”
“Hah! You talked of Shakespeare! I remember!” I cried. “But how was your appearance as the Crimson Spirit achieved?”
Holmes interrupted at this point, saying, “That was my doing. A little more basic chemistry was required. I located the device attached to the gas supply at Garton’s house and left a small amount of the powdered copper within it to give an initial green flame. However, I then added a fine layer of powdered iron to provide a little sparkle and then a layer of carbonate of Lithium to provide a crimson flame. As a consequence, the mixture had the desired effect.”
Holmes then smiled and addressed Aunt Rachel. “Your performance was admirable, Aunt. All those at the table were in awe and spellbound by it!” Turning to me, he continued, “It was simple enough for your aunt to persuade the maid to let her become the Spirit. A sovereign and an offer that you, Watson, would be a witness for her defence, if needed, was sufficient for the task.”
I smiled but was immediately concerned as I had not, indeed, envisaged there being any consequences for the actions of the maid. My elation was somewhat tempered as I saw that my aunt had become quite withdrawn. I believe that all that had occurred had taken its toll. I rose from my chair and knelt beside her, taking her hand in mine. She was trembling and I sought to comfort her, saying, “Your actions this evening have removed from society a murderer, a man who also sought to grievously deceive and exploit others. Nothing can bring Elsie back to this world but, by your actions, you may have saved Stephen.”
Aunt Rachel had tears in her eyes as she gently raised my hand to her face and kissed it, saying, “Thank you John… and you too, Sherlock. You are right, of course. A great weight has been lifted from me and tomorrow I will return to Lymington.” Rising from her chair, she wiped her eyes and moved towards the door of our sitting room. In the doorway she turned and smiled, saying, “Thank you both again for your kindness. I think I will invite Stephen to come and stay for a while to re-acquaint himself with the joys of Devon living.”
The following day there was an emotional goodbye from Mrs Hudson and me as Aunt Rachel left Baker Street. I even caught Holmes pursing his lips and saw some flicker of emotion cross his face as he waved to the figure in the cab which made its way from our door. Together, Holmes and I made our way back upstairs and soon the air was filled with that blue haze which had been absent for much of the time over the last few days. Without realising it, we had, for the most part restrained from smoking and it seemed now that we were making up for lost time.
Several weeks passed before we heard more of the case but during that time, I had received a very pleasant letter from my aunt. True to her word, she had invited Stephen Grainger to stay with her and they were enjoying each other’s company. Holmes had passed the mechanism to Lestrade and with it a note of his findings in the case.
It was one evening in late July that Holmes read to me a report of the trial. Lestrade had been The Crown’s main prosecution witness, providing the mechanism as the chief exhibit and having been present at Garton’s confession. Thankfully, no charges were brought against the maid. Inevitably, Garton was found guilty of the murder of Elsie Grainger, was sentenced and duly hanged a month later.
It was a final column inch in ‘The Times’ of that date, reporting Garton’s execution which prompted me to ask Holmes whether his views of spiritualism had changed.
Holmes was sitting back in his leather armchair, drawing steadily upon his Meerschaum which he often smoked with affection. He sat in silence, eyes closed, for perhaps a minute before blowing out a thin ribbon of smoke towards the ceiling of our rooms and saying, “My opinion remains as before, Watson. However, I will grant that there are occurrences which cannot, at present, be explained by our imperfect knowledge of the physical world.”
I have to say that I was somewhat cheered by this but Holmes then opened his eyes and took the pipe from his mouth. Wagging the stem in my direction, he added, “This does not, however, validate the premise of there being a ‘spirit world’ that seeks to make contact with the one in which we live.” Holmes then closed his eyes and would not be drawn to say more on the subject. For my part, I admit, my mind remains open.
~~~***~~~
The Star of Bithur
Chapter 1 - The Duke of Salcombe
It was a somewhat fresh morning at the beginning of April 1919, when Holmes and I first met his grace, the Duke of Salcombe. I had been away from Baker Street for several weeks due to the needs of my practice following the ravages of the Spanish “influence”, the influenza epidemic of 1918. This had gripped the capital but had declined over the months following Christmas. Now that the number of new cases I was seeing had dwindled, I found some respite by tending my garden. Over the years since my marriage, I had become a keen and knowledgeable gardener but, as well as the solitude of the garden, I needed some hospitable company and so I sought out my good friend, Sherlock Holmes.
As I climbed the stairs of 221b Baker Street to Holmes’ rooms, I could detect the faint odour of kippers coming from below stairs, a clear sign that Holmes was awake and ready to take breakfast. On entering the sitting room, I could see that Holmes had descended into one of his black moods. Apart from a cursory wave in my direction motioning me to sit, he otherwise ignored me and said nothing. Holmes was prone these deep depressions whenever there was nothing to challenge his formidable intellect. Looking around the room, I could plainly see that he had been this way for a number of days. Copies of ‘The Times’ were strewn around the floor, some were crumpled and torn and lay where they had been angrily cast aside.
Holmes was wrapped in his old dressing gown. He sat slumped back in his leather armchair and had drawn his knees up tightly to his chin. He remained thus for several minutes and then looked up, saying, “I’m sorry, old friend. I fear that I am not much company."
I picked up a copy of the previous day’s ‘Times’ from the carpet and scanned the front page. “Nothing of interest?” I asked. “What of the Fordingbridge murder?”
Holmes sprang from the chair and began to pace angrily. "Pah! Blindingly obvious, Watson. Even Lestrade couldn’t fail to obtain a conviction” and he threw himself back into the chair.
Observing Holmes, I was deeply concerned that he might already have turned to other, more menacing, ways of relieving his depression.
Breakfast arrived and although an excellent pair of kippers together with hot toast and marmalade had been provided, Holmes barely touched the food. He did manage to drink a cup of strong, black coffee which seemed to raise his spirits somewhat.
Baker Street was quiet that morning and the sound of an approaching four-wheeler could be heard distinctly.
“Hello, what’s this?” Holmes bounded from his chair and strode to the window, pulling the curtains to one side.
Below us in the street was a black, closed carriage of quality pulled by two greys. A coat of arms was discreetly painted on the carriage door and a footman, in full livery, sprang down to open the door. The footman bent down, pulling out the step for a tall, well dressed young man to alight. Holmes was at once animated and raced across the room for his copy of deBrett’s.
“Ah, from the coat of arms, it is the Duke of Mansingham’s carriage but I think, Watson, that our visitor is not he." Holmes threw off his dressing gown, ran his fingers through his hair and slipped on his favourite smoking jacket. He then began to fill his favourite Meerschaum from the old, Persian slipper that he used as a tobacco pouch. I was pleased to see that a spark of the old fire had returned to my friend now th
at something of interest may be afoot.
The bell rang loudly in the hall below. Holmes listened intently as Mrs Hudson welcomed our visitor and showed him up the stairs to our rooms. The door opened and in walked an elegant young man in his late 20’s. He was carrying the cane of a city gentleman but his clothes were, perhaps, rather more suited to the country than the city.
Holmes sprang forward offering his hand, saying, “Good morning, your grace. I am Sherlock Holmes. Please allow me introduce you to my friend and colleague, Doctor John Watson. Watson, this is his grace, the Duke of Salcombe."
I do not know who was more surprised, the Duke or myself. I stumbled a “Good morning, your grace” and proffered my hand. The young man, however, was seen to buckle at the knees and instead of shaking his hand, I had to quickly support him and guide him to a chair. Colour had drained from the young man’s face and only returned after a good measure of brandy had been administered.
After a few minutes he was able to speak. “Mr Holmes, I am sure that I have not met you before and you certainly have the advantage of me. How did you know my identity?”
Holmes sat and faced the Duke. “I apologise for startling you, your grace, but your identity was easily established. The carriage you arrived in was that of the Duke of Mansingham. You are too young to be he and certainly the Duke would only allow family members to use his private carriage. Looking in deBrett's, I can see that he has a son, the Earl of Narborough. However, I understand, from ‘The Times’, that he is currently overseas with his regiment. So who could our young visitor be? The only other male relative of your age is his nephew, you, your grace. George Henry Burley, the 6th Duke of Salcombe."
The Duke looked relieved. “So it was my uncle’s carriage that gave it away. My carriage is being repaired and my uncle was kind enough to lend me one of his."
Holmes’ face bore a wry smile. “Not just the carriage, your grace. The cane you carry is very handsome but well-worn with age. I was fortunate enough to be able to see that it carries a monogram consisting of three silver letters impressed into the wood. The letters are H. A. B. The monogram of Henry Arthur Burley, the 5th Duke of Salcombe, your late father. This confirmed your identity to me.”
The Duke looked saddened when the name of his late father was mentioned. “Mr Holmes, I am already amazed by your powers of observation and deduction. You are correct. I am George Burley, the 6th Duke of Salcombe and I come to you on the recommendation of my uncle. I understand that you helped him by locating and returning a certain necklace belonging to my aunt.”
Holmes looked pleased. “Ah, yes, I was helpful in some very small way. A delicate family matter upon which, I think, we will not dwell."
Sitting back, I took a moment to observe our visitor. The Duke was an intelligent and pleasant young man, six feet tall, handsome with a thin face, twinkling blue eyes and a mop of dark curls. Having now fully recovered, it was plain to see that he was enjoying Holmes’ company.
“Tell me, Mr Holmes, is there anything further you can deduce about me?”
Holmes looked again at the young man, his swift glance taking in every detail. “Very little, your grace, other than that before coming here this morning, you visited your tailor and you are wearing the new country suit that you collected from him. You share your father’s love of painting in oils and the injury that you sustained to your right leg in your youth still bothers you.”
Again the Duke was taken aback. “You could not possibly know these things!"
Holmes smiled again. “On the contrary, they are self-evident. Your suit is brand new and bears that unmistakable smell of fresh, Harris Tweed cloth. Your jacket has a small piece of tacking thread exposed on the left cuff. Had the suit been worn before, your valet would have certainly removed the thread.”
Holmes paused for a moment before continuing, “Beneath the nail of your right index finger is a tiny fleck of crimson lake paint. You are not a tradesman and the paint has not been removed by simple washing. Therefore, it must be oil based rather than watercolour in origin. I have prior knowledge of your late father as an artist. I conclude, then, that you share his passion for painting and in the last day or so had continued your hobby.”
I glanced across at the Duke and saw that his eyes were widening.
Holmes leant forward in his chair. “As to the injury in your youth, I noticed that, as you climbed the stairs, you slightly favoured your left leg, putting that down a little more heavily than the right. Also, the heel and instep of your right shoe is slightly more scuffed and worn than the corresponding left one showing that you must slightly drag your right leg as you walk. The injury is not a recent one as the style of your shoes is at least a year old. Finally, I was introduced to your father some years ago at the Royal Academy Open Exhibition and, as I recall, he showed no signs of any congenital lameness."
The Duke smiled. “So, seeing my cane confirmed your deductions?”
Holmes paused for a moment. His forefinger went to his lips and his voice softened. “No, now that is the curious thing. The cane is out of place. A gentleman coming up to town to collect a new suit of clothes for the country would have brought with him an appropriate walking stick. You, however, chose your father’s cane. You had a great attachment to your father and you sadly miss him. The cane is a memento, a reminder of him and is a mental as well as physical prop for you."
The Duke again looked pale and a great sadness filled his voice. “Once again you are correct, Mr Holmes. I loved my father dearly and I miss him greatly."
Holmes turned to me, asking, “Watson, be a good fellow and ring the bell? Ask Mrs Hudson to bring up a tray of tea for three." He smiled at the young Duke. “Now, your grace, how can I be of service?”
Chapter 2 - A family secret.
The Duke looked a little anxious as he said, “I really don’t know where to begin, Mr Holmes. I suppose it all started with the attempted burglary at the Grange when Grandfather’s painting of the Grange and its gardens was taken down."
Holmes moved forward in his chair and urged the Duke to tell his tale, saying, “Your grace, if you would tell me all, leave nothing out, I beg you." The Duke nodded and Holmes sat back in his chair with his hands arranged almost as if in prayer, finger tips together, listening with his eyes closed.
The Duke recounted how a burglary had been foiled when the night watchman at the Grange had, on his rounds, discovered intruders. He went on to describe how his father, the 5th Duke, had succumbed to a seizure brought on by the burglary and had died some days later.
Holmes nodded. “I was greatly saddened to read his obituary in ‘The Times’. Was anything removed from the Grange?”
The Duke shook his head. Strangely, no. It would appear that the intruders were only interested in the picture. In itself, it has no real value… but it does have a bearing on my visit to you today."
Holmes sat forward, his body stiff and inclined slightly towards the Duke like a pointer indicating the position of the quarry. “Ah, now we have it. Please, do go on."
The Duke continued. “My grandfather was a Brigadier in the Indian Army and was in India during the Mutiny of 1857. It was a grim time with atrocities on both sides but none more so than the slaughter of British women and children at Cawnpore. The leader of the mutineers was Nana Sahib, the Maharajah of Bithur, a rather small and dusty state not far from Cawnpore. Nana Sahib was the dispossessed heir to the throne of the Mahrattas. Because of his part in the massacre, he became the most hated and sought after man in all the Empire.”
I nodded saying “Yes, yes! I remember!”
The Duke continued. “When the British re-took Cawnpore, Nana Sahib had disappeared. It was rumoured that he had bribed his way over the border into a neighbouring state and then on to who knows where. It is said that to buy his passage he used a family heirloom, a large diamond named the ‘Star of Bithur’. There were whisperings within our family that grandfather had returned from India with a great prize. What it was and how he cam
e by it I do not know. He never spoke of it. I am sure, Mr Holmes, that there was no dishonour attached to my grandfather from its possession.”
The young Duke looked fatigued and it was a relief to him when the story telling was interrupted by a gentle knock at our door and the arrival of the tea served by Mrs Hudson.
Once refreshed, the Duke continued. “On the anniversary of grandfather’s death, in 1869, our family solicitor passed a sealed letter to my father. Grandfather had left instructions that it should not be opened until 50 years after his death. You will note that this year is 50 years from that date and, in January, my father opened the letter. I have brought it for you to read, Mr Holmes."
The Duke reached into the inside pocket of his Harris Tweed jacket and brought out a much yellowed envelope with a broken, red wax seal. Holmes lent over and took the envelope. Before opening it, he inspected all the seams minutely with his magnifying glass.
Satisfied, Holmes exclaimed, “It is clear that the envelope had been opened prior to your father breaking the seal." He put down the glass and held the envelope to his nose. Raising an eyebrow, Holmes exclaimed, “Ah! The distinctive smell of gum-arabic, a clear sign that someone has opened one of the seams and then used the gum to re-seal the letter." Being content that no more could be gleaned from the envelope, Holmes pulled out the single sheet of paper within. “Would you mind if I read the letter aloud to share with friend Watson?”
The Duke readily agreed. “Not at all. I understand that you served in India yourself, Doctor Watson." I nodded but said nothing, not wanting to delay Holmes from reading the letter.
Holmes opened the page and read the letter thus. “Salcombe Grange, 26th July 1867. To my heirs. You are reading this letter as 50 years have now passed since my death. Only now do I feel it is fit and proper to disclose to you the terrible secret that has burdened me since my return to England after my service in India. You will know that whilst there, I witnessed the aftermath of the appalling massacre of our troops and their families at Cawnpore by Sepoys lead by that foulest of all men, Nana Sahib. Even now, that name is like dust in my mouth. As a result of this shameful act, a great prize came into my possession. To understand my actions, you must believe that I only want to protect the family. I did not wish to benefit from that which I have brought back to these shores and has so much blood attached to it. It is my resolve, then, to put the prize in a place where it is not easily found. I trust that those who follow me have the wit and courage to discover its location and use the proceeds in an honourable way.”