by David Marcum
Detective Inspector Lestrade, two young constables, and I were standing near the French doors, watching with great interest the drama Holmes was staging. The copied pages of young master Eric’s compositions were sitting upright on the music stand for everyone to see. Holmes’s violin case sat open on a nearby table, his Stradivarius shined under the bright, constant sunlight provided by the chandelier above.
Once Killkenny took his place near the others, Holmes began.
“Gentlemen. Early this morning I suffered an insulting attack in the sitting room of my flat in Baker Street. The assailant burst through my door, knocked me down, and stole young master Eric’s original compositions, the ones I took upon myself to decipher.”
Dyson, Archer and Oxtoby traded surprised glances. Then Dyson pointed at the music stand. “What are those?”
“Transcripts. What the assailant didn’t know was that I had spent most of the night copying the compositions down, perfectly, to the last musical signature, in case something of that nature happened.”
“Brilliant thinking, Holmes,” Archer said, his big gray sideburns waved slightly when he talked.
“A few hours later, I was contacted by Detective Inspector Lestrade and shown the corpse of the assailant, lying in a rain-drenched alley a few blocks from my flat. He was stabbed in the lower back and abdomen.”
“Ghastly, Holmes!” Oxtoby exclaimed. “Who was he?”
“Wyckoff, the previous butler employed here, before Killkenny.”
The only one who didn’t betray any emotion was Killkenny. I thought this very suspicious.
“But, why-” Dyson started, but Holmes cut him off.
“We’ll return to Wyckoff later,” Holmes said. “For now, let’s concentrate on young master Eric’s musical maps.”
“You’ve deciphered them, then?” Archer asked.
“I believe so. The trick was to think like a nine year-old violin savant desperate to communicate with someone, anyone, in the only way he knew how.”
The men stood there listening to Holmes, in the process they’d forgotten how to breathe.
Holmes reached down and picked up the Stradivarius and the bow. With the bow he pointed at the sheet music on the stand. “There are two compositions. The first is one page in length and contains a single sustained note to be played very loudly. The second composition is thirty-three pages in length and contains, for the most part, a confusing mish-mash of string pluckings, ending with three pages of double grand staffs where it looks as if two violinists are trading responses.”
“I’ve never heard of such a thing,” Dyson said, and the three of them moved closer to the music stand to see for themselves what Holmes spoke of.
“Nevertheless, it’s all there,” Holmes countered. “The boy was trying to tell us something. Or rather, he was trying to show us something. You see, above every measure is a single letter. The first composition has only one, an ‘N’, meaning north. Killkenny! Has this music stand been moved since the boy ran off?”
“Not an inch, sir.”
“Good, because the boy meant for the location of this music stand to be the starting point - the place where the two maps begin. From this very spot, Eric’s compositions should lead us to two separate, important locations.”
“But to where exactly? And why?” Archer asked.
“Let’s find out,” Holmes said and brought the Stradivarius up to his chin. “If you gentlemen will stand back and give me some room, I’ll demonstrate how clever young master Eric is.”
The men stepped back. My heart was jackhammering with the excitement.
“Now, the first composition tells me I should be facing north from this location when I play the sustained note. A high ‘A.’” Holmes turned, faced north, and he was staring straight at the giant fireplace with the seven wine glasses on the mantel. Holmes brought the bow down upon the violin string, took a slight breath then gave a long, slow upward stroke. The note filled the air of the room completely, it was like a long, slow blade cutting across a piece of glass. Holmes brought his arm forward, skillfully completing the downward stroke without interrupting the note, then forward again, the note singing, crying with deafening passion.
But there was something audible just underneath the crying, a distinct ringing an octave higher, and the harder, the louder Holmes played the ‘A’ note, the higher and louder the ringing became. All of us in the room heard it and our attention was brought to the fireplace, the place where the ringing seemed to be coming from.
Holmes played the last measure as hard as he could then stopped, lifted the bow from the string - yet the music played on! To our amazement, we listened as the seven wine glasses on top of the fireplace mantel rang in tandem. Stepping closer to the mantel, I could see how the edges of the wine glasses were blurred with vibration as they cried. After a few seconds, the ringing faded and a stunned silence fell over the room.
“Remarkable!” Exclaimed Holmes.
“Dyson!” Holmes called as he placed his Stradivarius back into the case. “Who put those wine glasses up there on the mantel?”
Dyson, still staring at the wine glasses in awe, replied. “Young master Eric did, Mr. Holmes. The night he disappeared. I didn’t think anything of it. I just thought it was something he fancied for the moment. His mind works that way sometimes... I didn’t think-”
“Lucky for us, no one did,” Holmes interrupted. “Or those glasses would have been taken down. The boy knew that a high ‘A’ played a certain way would create sound waves that would affect the audible frequency of those particular wine glasses, causing them to vibrate and sing. Using sound to create sound - just remarkable!”
“But what does it mean?” Oxtoby asked.
“I should think that would be obvious,” Holmes said, walking over to the fireplace. “The boy led us here for some reason.” He put his hands on the mantel and slid them across, feeling for something. Then he leaned forward and inspected the bricks that made up the sides of the fireplace. “Ah! Here we are!” He pulled at a corner brick, it opened out like a door on a hinge, there was a thick cable attached to it.
The floor rumbled, and something thumped in the wall behind the fireplace. Then the interior wall of the fireplace went up, revealing a dark, stone-walled hallway large enough for a person to walk through.
“A secret passage!” Oxtoby exclaimed.
“Gads, Holmes!” Lestrade ejaculated. “You never cease to amaze me!”
“Thank you, Inspector.”
“But where does it lead?” Dyson asked.
“The answers to all your questions are in there,” Holmes said. Then he grabbed an oil lamp from a nearby table and motioned towards the passageway. “Shall we?”
Lestrade and I took up lamps of our own and brought up the rear of the party, with the two constables following closely behind. After thirty feet, the passage turned ninety degrees to the west, continued on for another twenty feet then opened up into a large cavernous chamber, cobwebs dangling like dusty tree branches from the ceiling.
Mixed in with the scent of dirt and old, stale wood smoke was the unmistakable hint of death. I feared what our lamps would uncover in there.
“Oh, Lord!” Dyson suddenly screamed out and turned his face away, his long hands covering his bird face.
On the floor, lying next to each other, were two bodies, one male, the other female. Their skeletal forms, still covered with patches of desiccated flesh and hair in some places, were dressed in high class eveningwear. The female was missing one of her shoes. They were lying face up with their hands tied behind their backs, their horrible, skeleton mouths were open, as if screaming. The clothing over their lower abdomens was sliced open and stained with blood. Obvious knife wounds.
“Do you recognize them, Dyson?” Holmes asked, holding the lamp over the two corpses.
“Yes... Mr. and Mrs. Leighton! As I live and breathe! Oh, Lord!” Dyson cried.
“Get hold of yourself, man!” Holmes ordered. “I presume you knew nothing of this secret passageway?”
Dyson swallowed hard, never looking at the Leightons, then answered. “Of course not, Mr. Holmes. I’m as surprised about this as the rest of you are.”
“At least one of us here isn’t surprised,” Holmes said. “And look, they’re stabbed to death, just like Wyckoff, in the lower abdomen, telling me it was a short man that committed these murders.”
Everyone’s gaze fell upon Alger Archer. Dyson and Oxtoby stepped away from him.
Archer’s eyes glowed wide in the lamp light, like a demon hound. “You’re blaming me for these murders because I’m short, Mr. Holmes?” he stated. “Rubbish! You’ll need more than that to convict me!”
“And I have it, Archer,” Holmes countered. “Who else but you knew about this secret chamber? Who else but you would gain by Mr. and Mrs. Leighton’s deaths?”
“You can’t prove any of what you say! This is completely ridiculous, and I swear, sir, that I shall sue you dry before this month is out!”
“Save your threats for your cellmate, Archer! You knew the Leightons were secretly going behind your back to Oxtoby, trying to figure out a legal way to break your contract with the boy and sign with him.”
“How the blazes would I know that?”
“Because you had a spy here at Leighton Manor - Wyckoff, the butler!”
“Wyckoff? Why, I hardly knew the man!”
“You lie, sir!” Holmes reached into his inside breast pocket and handed an envelope with folded papers inside to Lestrade.
“What are those?” Archer asked, his face went from angry and demonic to pure white with fear.
“A transcript of the contract you signed with the Leightons five years ago. I went to the Public Records Office yesterday in London to procure it. Everything Scotland Yard needs to convict you is inside those papers.”
“They’ll prove nothing!” Archer spat, but I could tell it was all bluster.
“They’ll prove the fact that it was you who was contracted to find the Leightons a palatable place to live, this old seventeenth century estate, of which you were very familiar because you grew up here - the old Archer Estate. They’ll prove the fact that it was you who was contracted to find them a butler. You chose a man who used to work for you as a prop man at the Garrick, a man you found trustworthy, and would tell you everything that was said in this house - Wyckoff. But after you murdered the Leightons, Wyckoff’s feet grew cold. Fearing he would be blamed for their deaths, he quit and hid himself someplace he was familiar with, the Garrick Theatre. But you found him and sweet-talked him into serving you one last time, by stealing the boy’s compositions from me. You see, young master Eric was there in the parlour just beyond the fireplace when you murdered his parents. He saw you drag them into this passage that terrible night a month ago, and he heard their screams when you committed your dastardly deed. You counted on the boy not being able to speak or function like a normal human being, in order to get away with your crime. But he ruined your plans by hiding the location of his murdered parents in a musical composition. That’s why the boy ran - he knows how valuable he is, and he knew the investigation of his disappearance was the only way to bring intense scrutiny to those compositions.”
“Clever boy,” Lestrade said.
“Quite, Inspector,” Homes agreed, then continued, focusing his attention upon Archer, whom was trembling now. “So, taking a calculated risk, I purposely let it be known last night that the boy’s compositions were actually maps. You panicked, took the bait, and ran, Archer. And when that task was done and the original compositions were in your possession, you tied up that one final loose end in your plot by killing Wyckoff in the alley, the same way you killed the Leightons - a knife in the belly. But to make sure he was dead, you stabbed him again in the back.”
“What about the note the boy’s mother allegedly wrote, the one giving Dyson guardianship over the boy?” Oxtoby asked.
“Archer forced her to write it just before he murdered her. He knew the authorities would confirm it as her handwriting and that there would never be a way in which to confirm its story, so it would be treated as a temporary writ of guardianship. Perfectly legal and binding. It stopped any investigation of foul play in its tracks.”
“You’re the devil himself!” Dyson shouted and rushed at Archer, but one of the constables grabbed him. “The poor boy!” Dyson cried, struggling to get free. “The poor boy!”
Lestrade glanced at the other constable. “Secure Archer and take down him to the Yard. I’ll be along shortly. And get a wagon up here to collect the bodies.”
As the constable put the chains on Archer’s wrists, Archer’s face was red, his sideburns flattened with perspiration. “I’ll be set free, Holmes,” he muttered, staring up at my compatriot with a hatred I’ve never witnessed before. “You’ll see.”
“Yes, we’ll see, Archer,” Holmes said, grinning. “When your neck is stretching on the gallows.”
Back in front of the music stand a few minutes later, Holmes picked up his Stradivarius again. “Now, time to find the boy,” he said.
Lestrade, Dyson, Oxtoby, Killkenny, and I watched Holmes read over the scribbles on the sheet music.
“Have you figured out what all those Pizzicatos are about, Watson?” Holmes asked without remove his gaze from the pages.
“I’m afraid not, Holmes,” I said meekly.
“They represent footsteps. Apparently we are to go on a night time walk through the fields. Has everyone brought their walking shoes?”
We laughed, but knew the underlying seriousness in which Holmes took to the task.
“I’ll need someone with an oil lamp to hold the pages as we go.”
Dyson, properly in control of himself now, went over with an oil lamp in one hand and took the pages up in his other hand, making sure Holmes could see them. Holmes then faced west, the first direction prompt the composition required.
“Watson?” Holmes said. “Be a trooper and open the French doors, will you?”
I hurried and did as he asked. The night air smelled of flowery fragrance and grass, a cool breeze wafted into the room.
Pluck! Went the first Pizzicato note. Pluck! Pluck! Pluck!
We followed Holmes out into the darkness of the Leighton Estate. When the composition said to go north, he turned north; when east, he went east. We went through well-landscaped vales of grass, up over a series of small hills, came to a thin wood, followed a path that wound through it, and came out on the other side at the gates of a cemetery. Holmes didn’t seem to notice. He plucked and stepped, plucked and stepped along the white gravel path until we came to a crossroads. There, the Pizzicatos in the composition stopped and the violin conversation was to begin. We were surrounded by ancient, weathered gravestones and high, glossy, marble statues. A large mausoleum stood about twenty yards away, its iron doors rusty. The name Diebold was carved over the entrance.
“Everyone must remain absolutely quiet now,” Holmes instructed, his voice nearly a whisper. Then he stared a moment at the sheet music Dyson held up in the lamp light, and with a slight flourish, played the first four bars of the composition. When he finished, we listened.
Nothing.
We waited for a solid minute, holding our collective breath, before Lestrade finally told Holmes to play it again. Holmes did, it sounded exactly the same as the first go round. This time, after he stopped, the answer came out of the night wind like a woman singing a lullaby from a very far off distance. Her voice rose up and was carried on the breeze, gently, caringly, towards us. When her singing stopped, Holmes played the next four bars. She replied a moment later, her voice louder, closer. Dyson, staring in the direction the other violi
n’s song emanated from, was shaking with relief, his face glistening with tears.
Back and forth the violins sang, one high, the other low, one laughed, the other cried, but as their conversation wore on, their voices grew louder and louder until they crescendoed at the very high end of the scale, becoming a single voice. Then the singing stopped and we waited.
The silence lasted for an interminable amount of time before we finally heard the creak of a rusty door split the air. Out from the depths of that huge mausoleum stepped the boy, his thick, curly black hair a tangled mess, his face pale, violin and bow in his hands.
I took the lamp and the sheet music from Dyson and told him to go to the boy. As Dyson and the boy embraced in the darkness between gravestones, I heard Holmes breathing heavily in the shadows next to me, exhausted, drained and spent of all his energy.
As it turned out, the mausoleum in which the boy hid himself, the one named Diebold, was one that he had visited often with his mother. It was her side of the family laid at rest there, so he knew it well and felt safe there. And Dyson, as the boy’s permanent guardian, swiftly signed on with Oxtoby at the New Britain Performing Arts Theatre. No doubt the boy would be well taken care of now.
Sitting in my chair by the fire, finishing the last of my evening cheroot, I watched as Holmes completed his amazing display of musicianship with the dramatic cut of a down bow, then Coda. He placed the Stradivarius and bow in its case then glanced at me sideways.
“Tolerable?” he asked, grinning.
“Tolerable?” I repeated in disbelief. “Why, Holmes, I’ve never heard you play better.”
“You think young master Eric will agree?”
Knocks rattled from the door behind me. It was young master Eric, with Conrad Dyson, arriving for the boy’s monthly private violin session with Holmes.
“Why don’t we let him in and find out,” I suggested.
The Story Behind the Story
I was supremely honored one day in early April 2015, when I received a message through Facebook from David Marcum, editor of this fantastic anthology, asking if I would be interested in being a part of it. Flattered, I told him I would, and promised to send him a story by June of 2015.