The Secret Files of Sherlock Holmes

by June Thomson

  Outside in the street, we hailed a hansom and, as it drew up outside his door, Holmes said, ‘Keep the cab, Watson. I should prefer you not to come in with me. I am in no mood for company and besides there is some research I must undertake which will engage all my attention. But should you be free tomorrow afternoon at two o’clock, my dear fellow, I shall be delighted to see you.’

  As he climbed out of the cab, he added in a musing tone, half to himself, ‘I wonder if Mrs Hudson has such a thing as a garden spade?’

  Although I could understand his desire to be alone so soon after the death of his friend, I was nevertheless a little hurt by this dismissal and also intrigued by Holmes’ parting remark. What possible use could he have for a garden spade?

  It was a question which absorbed me on the homeward journey and one which I was convinced I had answered by applying Holmes’ own deductive processes when, at two o’clock the following afternoon, I again presented myself at 221B Baker Street where I was admitted by Mrs Hudson.

  ‘Were you able to supply Mr Holmes with a spade?’ I asked, eager to put my theory to the test.

  ‘Indeed I was, Dr Watson, although goodness knows what he wanted it for. He was out with a lantern turning over my flower-borders until gone midnight.’

  Although I thought I could guess what lay behind Holmes’ nocturnal activities, I was still not prepared for what he had to show me.

  ‘I hear you were out last night digging for bait,’ I remarked in a jocular fashion as I entered the sitting-room. ‘Were you successful?’

  ‘If by bait you mean the worm which was used to hook Persano,’ said he, ‘my efforts were rewarded. Come and look at this, Watson.’

  Lying on the table was a saucer and in the saucer, stretched out at full length, was the remarkable worm which I had last seen curled up in the matchbox on Persano’s desk, marked with the same line of fine black dots along its back and the chevron pattern on its head.

  ‘Where on earth did you get it from, Holmes?’ I asked, assuming that he had acquired it from Lestrade by some nefarious means.

  ‘Not on earth, Watson,’ he corrected me with a smile. ‘In earth. It was one of several that I dug up last night from Mrs Hudson’s back garden.’

  ‘Several? I don’t understand. Is there a sudden plague of these creatures? If so, should we not inform the police or someone in authority? They are venomous, are they not?’

  Holmes burst out laughing and, although I was a little annoyed to be the source of his amusement, I was nevertheless gratified that he had recovered his good spirits after his low state of mind the previous evening.

  ‘Take my word for it, my dear fellow, it is perfectly harmless!’

  ‘But the markings …’

  ‘Indian ink,’ Holmes explained and, taking me by the arm, led me over to the table where he conducted his scientific experiments and where I saw several more dishes laid out in a row, each containing a worm with similar markings although on all of these the lines of dots were not nearly so distinct.

  ‘My first attempts,’ Holmes continued. ‘I tried various substances as you can see from the bottles and jars: ordinary black ink, boot polish applied with the point of a pin – a singular failure, that particular one; the polish rubbed off too easily. Dye and paint were too liquid; so, too, was stove blacking. If you ever wish to draw a pattern on an earthworm, Watson, allow me to recommend Indian ink, applied with a fine-nibbed mapping-pen.’

  ‘So Persano wasn’t bitten by the worm?’

  ‘No; although that was what we were meant to believe,’ Holmes replied, his eyes once more assuming their sombre, brooding expression.

  ‘Then how was he sent mad if it wasn’t by some kind of poison?’

  ‘That is what I propose asking Señora Persano this afternoon. I also intend to discover what was in the glass which had been placed on Isadora Persano’s desk at some time yesterday evening.’

  ‘What glass, Holmes? I saw no glass.’

  ‘The object does not have to be present in order to convince one of its physical existence. It is not necessary for the bank manager to be confronted by the actual burglar for him to know his premises had been broken into. The blown safe is evidence enough. It was so in this case. Although the glass had been removed, it had left behind a ring which had marked the polished surface of the desk. As the stain was still damp, I deduced that the glass had been removed not long before our arrival and Isadora Persano’s death. As the cook had no reason to go up to the study and the servant-girl was positively ordered not to do so, the only persons who could have taken the glass upstairs and then removed it were either Juan Alberdi or Señora Persano. I propose to find out which of the two it was. Come, Watson. The Señora should have recovered sufficiently to offer some explanation, if not the whole truth.’

  Señora Persano had indeed recovered to the extent that she was no longer confined to bed but was lying on a sofa in the drawing-room, to which Polly Atkins, the little maid-of-all-work, conducted us.

  It was one of the strangest rooms I have ever entered. Although it was furnished with the conventional items that are usually supplied with a rented house in the way of armchairs, occasional tables and whatnots, every surface was covered with an extraordinary collection of South American objets d’art which Persano must have brought back with him from his travels. There were woven rugs, painted pottery, carved figurines, all brightly coloured, and, weirdest of all, a whole wall filled with masks of gods and goddesses, saints and demons, some grotesquely grinning, others grimacing in pain or terror.

  It was not a room in which one could feel at ease, especially as the blinds were drawn against the bright afternoon sunshine, and I was surprised that Señora Persano had chosen such a setting in which to convalesce although no doubt these bizarre objects were familiar to her.

  She lay in the semi-darkness, covered with a silk shawl which was embroidered with exotic birds and flowers, looking very pale and languid, her black hair loose about her shoulders.

  We approached the sofa and, drawing out two upright chairs, sat down at her side, I taking care to place my own seat so that it had its back to the masks.

  I still have my notes and from these, I have drawn up a summary of the conversation between Holmes and the Señora. It was conducted at times in Spanish, Holmes translating for my benefit, but largely in English, heavily fractured on the Señora’s part and frequently interrupted by tears, sighs and impassioned lamentations in her own language.

  However, little by little we were able to put together her story.

  She had met Isadora Persano in Argentina the previous year when he had been travelling through South and Central America gathering material for a book he proposed writing on the subcontinent as well as for a series of newspaper articles, commissioned by the Washington Gazette.

  They had fallen in love and, when he moved on to Chile, Brazil, Ecuador and finally to Mexico, she had accompanied him.

  There was no mention of a marriage ceremony and I noticed that Holmes was careful not to query this point.

  In Mexico, Persano had been engaged in collecting information about the Porfiriato under the dictator, General Díaz.*

  Later Holmes was to explain to me the meaning of the Porfiriato and its political implications. After General Díaz had seized power in 1876, the country had been developed economically but at the cost of great human suffering and loss of personal freedom, particularly among the Indian peasants whose communal fields had been confiscated to enlarge the private estates of the Spanish-speaking landowners, encouraged in their actions by the General’s policy of pan o palo, bread or the club.

  It was this aspect of the General’s dictatorship which particularly interested Persano, the Señora informed us. With his own Indian ancestry and his wide knowledge of the South American indigenous culture, he had sympathised strongly with the sufferings of the landless peasants.

  It was for this reason that he had taken Juan Alberdi into his employment, having found the boy s
tarving on the streets of Monterrey.

  In the course of his researches, Persano had made many enemies, chief among them Carlos Vicente Gasca, a rich and powerful landowner who was notorious for his ill-treatment of the Indian peasants who worked his estates.

  Persano had threatened to expose Gasca in his articles for the Washington newspaper. Gasca, in turn, had vowed to kill Persano.

  There had been several attempts on Persano’s life. He had been shot at twice while out riding. On another occasion, a man had broken into their hotel bedroom late one night and had attacked Persano with a knife. Persano had fought him off and the man had escaped.

  After each failed attempt, Persano had received a piece of paper on which was drawn a skull, accompanied by a warning in Spanish that the attacks would continue. Persano was convinced that these had been sent by Gasca.

  Realising that the next attempt might be successful, Persano had decided to return to England, bringing with him the Señora and Juan Alberdi. He thought that he would be safe in London, where he would have the time and leisure to write his book and his newspaper articles without being under the threat of imminent death.

  But Gasca must have followed him and found out where he was living because two weeks before, Persano had received through the post a sheet of paper bearing the skull and the warning.

  It was then that Persano had told the Señora that if anything happened to him, she was to contact his old friend, Mr Sherlock Holmes, and had given her Holmes’ address.

  ‘Why did he not come to me himself?’ Holmes exclaimed in some distress.

  ‘’E was too orgulloso; also tenaz,’ Señora Persano explained, which Holmes translated for my benefit as ‘proud’ and ‘stubborn’. ‘’E thought if ’e stay at ’ome and do ’is writing, there is no danger.’

  She could give no detailed description of Gasca. Persano had been careful not to involve her in his political activities and she had seen the man only once, at a distance.

  From her gestures, I gathered he was tall, ‘alto’, and broad-shouldered with dark hair, ‘muy ondulado’ – very wavy. He also spoke good English – ‘like a milord’.

  As Holmes was to point out to me later, it made the task of tracking down Gasca extremely difficult. With a little disguise, such as a wig to cover his dark, wavy hair, he could easily pass himself off as an Englishman.

  We then came to the events of the previous evening, painful both for Holmes and for Señora Persano, who frequently broke down in tears, but eventually, after much patient questioning on Holmes’ part, a coherent account emerged.

  Immediately after dinner, Persano had retired to his study, his habit on a Friday evening. During the week, his time was spent on his own book but Saturdays and Sundays were always set aside for writing the articles for the Gazette, which had to be posted on Monday.

  Señora Persano knew nothing about the arrival of the parcel until later. The servant-girl had accepted it from the messenger and Juan had taken it upstairs. She herself had remained in the drawing-room, reading.

  At about nine o’clock, she had heard Persano cry out and had gone upstairs to find him in the demented state she had described to us the previous day. When he had shouted out the name ‘Holmes!’, she had run out of the house and had immediately taken a cab to the address in Baker Street which Persano had given her.

  And that was all she could tell us.

  ‘I think not, Señora Persano,’ Holmes said quietly. ‘I believe you went upstairs to the study earlier in the evening to take Isadora a glass containing some kind of beverage in which you mixed a certain powder. I found the paper in which the powder had been wrapped in the grate. There was also a damp ring on the desk where a glass had stood. What was in that powder?’

  Her response was immediate. Flinging herself back against the sofa cushions and covering her face with her hands, she burst into a flood of tears.

  ‘Nothing!’ she wept. ‘I swear it!’

  Holmes rose to his feet, his expression stern and unforgiving.

  ‘In that case, Señora, you leave me no alternative. I shall be forced to place the facts before Inspector Lestrade.’ When she said nothing, he continued, his voice rising, ‘Do you not realise you risk being accused of causing Isadora’s death? I do not believe you were responsible. But unless you tell me the truth, there is nothing I can do to save you.’

  She sobbed helplessly for several minutes while Holmes and I sat by watching, he impassively, I deeply moved by her distress and also seriously concerned about the state of her health.

  At last, drawing a deep, shuddering breath, she spoke.

  ‘The powder is not ’armful. Is made from guarana seeds.* Is an old remedy, used by the Quaramis, to stop people from sleeping. Isadora buy in Brazil. ’E use it to keep ’im awake when ’e writes ’is stories for the newspaper. I give ’im in warm milk.’

  ‘When?’ Holmes demanded.

  ‘Every Friday evening. Then ’e work all night.’

  ‘And where do you keep the drug?’

  ‘In there.’

  She gestured towards a small bureau which stood against the far wall. Holmes stalked over to it and, jerking open the drawer, revealed a small pile of folded packets, made from the same coarse paper which he had retrieved from the study grate.

  Unwrapping one, he showed me its contents – a brownish powder, similar in colour and texture to that which had been adhering to the folds of the packet found upstairs.

  Behind us, Señora Persano was protesting, ‘The one I give ’im Friday is one of those; is the same.’

  His expression grim, Holmes refolded the paper square and put it away in his pocketbook, remarking to me in a low voice as he did so, ‘I doubt that very much. The drawer is unlocked. Anyone in the household could have opened it and replaced the top packet with another. I propose questioning Juan Alberdi now, Watson, with the Señora acting as interpreter.’

  It was at this point that I intervened, disastrously as it later transpired. Had I not done so, a life might have been spared.

  ‘I cannot allow that, Holmes. Señora Persano is on the verge of a breakdown. As a medical man, I consider it most unwise to press her further. Come back tomorrow, if you wish, to interview the manservant. For the moment, however, I must insist that she is allowed to rest.’

  Holmes acquiesced reluctantly and shortly afterwards we left, having made sure that Señora Persano was placed in the care of Mrs O’Hara.

  As soon as we returned to Baker Street, Holmes went immediately to the bookcase and, pulling out volume ‘D’ in his encyclopedia of reference, opened it at a certain page and handed it to me silently.

  I read:

  Drugs hallucinatory: derived from various plants and used worldwide in pagan religious ceremonies to alter consciousness and to induce mystical states of mind and strange sensations, e.g. the belief that the participant can fly. Viz. African tribes, Australian aborigines, Siberian shamans and many North and South American Indians. The Vikings may have used a species of mushroom to produce the ‘berserk’ state before going into battle. Many still widely used. Some smoked, some eaten or drunk, some absorbed into the bloodstream in the form of an ointment rubbed into the skin (see WITCHCRAFT).

  One of the strongest hallucinatory substances is the Psilocybe Mushroom (Agaric family), species of which can be found in many parts of the New World. Known in Central America by the Chichimeca tribe as teonanactl, the Flesh of the Gods. Other Indian tribes who used it in their religious ceremonies were the Nahoas of Mexico and the Otomis of Puebla.

  The mushroom produces coloured visions, alteration of time and space perceptions and a state of ecstasy bordering on frenzy, particularly in those unused to it.

  The drug takes one to one and a half hours to become effective after ingestion.

  It is prepared by drying the mushrooms, then reducing them to a powder which is added to a liquid before being drunk.

  Holmes meanwhile had flung himself down in his armchair where he sat, his chin
propped on his long fingers as he stared moodily into space.

  When I had finished reading the passage, he said abruptly, ‘You see the implications, Watson? Someone in the household was persuaded by Gasca to substitute for the packet of guarana seed powder which Persano took regularly every Friday evening as a stimulant another packet containing a hallucinatory drug made from the Psilocybe mushroom, which his system was unused to absorbing. All the symptoms were present in his apparent insanity – the ‘berserk’ state, the frenzied expression. Even his leap from the window can be attributed to the effects of the drug, which can induce in the person who takes it the belief that he can fly.’

  ‘And you think that the culprit was Juan Alberdi, the manservant?’

  ‘It is unlikely to be the other servants. How would they have access to such a drug? As for Señora Persano, she had nothing to gain and everything to lose by Persano’s death. She is now left alone in a strange country with no protector.’

  ‘But I do not see why Alberdi should have conspired with Gasca, Persano’s sworn enemy. After all, Holmes, Persano had saved the young man from starvation. Alberdi had every reason to be grateful to him.’

  ‘Not if the bribe Gasca offered were large enough. For some people, loyalty is like any other marketable commodity, to be bought and sold at the right price. Or Gasca may have threatened Alberdi in some way. It is also possible, of course, that Alberdi was persuaded that the drug he substituted was perfectly harmless. There is, however, no doubt in my mind that Alberdi was used as Gasca’s tool. You should have allowed me to question him this afternoon.’

  ‘Tomorrow will be soon enough, Holmes. In the meantime, Lestrade said he would call on you this evening. Why do you not speak to him and ask him to take Alberdi into custody for questioning? I am sure the Inspector could arrange to have a Spanish-speaking interpreter on hand when you interview the young man. That way, Señora Persano will not be placed under further stress.’

  ‘You are probably right, my dear fellow,’ Holmes agreed. ‘But such arrangements must be made as soon as possible. Gasca must be somewhere in London, no doubt staying at a hotel. I am eager to run him to earth before he has the chance to leave the country. For you may be sure that, once he hears of Persano’s death, he will not delay in making his escape.’