The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories Part III

by David Marcum

  The police initially considered the possibility that Bedrock had been able to hide in the forest barn thanks to the assistance of Mr. Marchmont, or someone in his household, but upon further investigation, these suspicions were abandoned, and it seemed that when Marchmont presented his trepidation concerning Inchwood Cottage and the adjoining woods, he truly believed the matter to be a supernatural one. Since Bedrock’s escape the year before, he had hidden from the world in the woods, but being unable to curb his unnatural urges, he kidnapped the two girls, keeping them from running away by tying them to a rope that was fastened to a tree by the barn, and then tying up their hands so that they would not be able to loosen the ropes when Bedrock looked away.

  Just as Holmes had implied, the state of the girls’ hands provided the key. The ropes allowed them to wander freely around the copse, but they were just short enough to prevent them from venturing outside its borders. In some moments, however, they were visible to passers-by from outside. Fortunately for Bedrock, there was an old legend tied to the place that made people interpret what they had seen in ways that prevented a full investigation. I cannot deny that I myself was also taken in by this collective misapprehension, and not until it was brought to the attention of Sherlock Holmes could it be brought to a satisfying conclusion.

  I naturally conveyed the news about the raid to Dr. Purkiss, who received it with considerable delight and relief. It was as if a stone had been lifted from his chest, and he said to me that the shackles that had tied him to this place in the shape of a mental obsession had been loosened, thanks to me. Our meeting through this case became the beginning of a continuing friendship, and I still regard him as one of my more insightful and humble acquaintances, his modesty perhaps improved by the experiences he had in connection to this mystery.

  Holmes’s attitude to his handling of the matter remains more reserved, as the resort to supernatural considerations that Purkiss was guilty of is his constant enemy. To me, it is only a too-endearing proof that he is human, something that I realised the depths of when I came to the Dark Tower of Inchwood Copse. Nevertheless, I have taken to heart the words that Holmes wrote to me in a telegram shortly after the events, upon learning the gratifying conclusion of the case:

  I have always been suspicious of scholars, Watson. They are so certain of themselves that when their worldviews are undermined, they turn into the only other workgroup that is as presumptuous - priests.

  The Adventure of the Reluctant Corpse

  by Matthew J. Elliott

  It would not be entirely fair to say that with my second marriage, my partnership with Sherlock Holmes came to a conclusion. I trust, however, that I am not telling tales out of school when I say that my wife’s feelings regarding my old friend certainly made the continuation of our working relationship rather more difficult. I was never entirely certain of the reasons for her enmity towards the man with whom I had stood shoulder-to-shoulder throughout numerous adventures, but a married man’s obligations must, first and foremost, be to his bride. That is why the evening of the 24th of December 1902 did not find me at Baker Street, sharing a pipe with an old friend, but at the Kensington home of Sir Boris Wyngarde, that well-known figure in fashionable society. I must confess, we owed our presence there at least in part to Holmes; as a result of my published accounts of his investigations, I was at that time enjoying a certain celebrity, which resulted in our invitation to that festive occasion.

  Sir Boris, whose reputation was enhanced by a suggestion of improprieties in his distant past, was at our side within moments of our arrival. I had earlier informed Kate of our host’s peculiar disability, and she did not so much as blink when the heavy, elderly gentleman took her hand, voicing his regret that we had been unable to join him at his home in the country for the pheasant shooting a week earlier.

  “We hoped very much to attend, Sir Boris,” I replied, “But I’m afraid medical duties required my presence in London.”

  “And Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” Kate added, pointedly. Clearly, my absence when serving as a witness to the confession of the Fitzrovia Strangler still rankled with her.

  “Ah, the illustrious Mr. Holmes! I understand he couldn’t be persuaded to join us this evening.”

  I explained that my colleague was not of a particularly social disposition, a fact anyone who had actually read my narratives would have realised.

  “I hear talk that he is to be immortalized in wax,” said Sir Boris.

  I tried to avoid my wife’s glance as I replied that, yes, Holmes had indeed been approached by Madame Tussaud’s, but that that he had declined the honour. And perhaps unsurprisingly, the possibility of a wax effigy of myself without Holmes was deemed quite out of the question. This was a matter of small concern to me, but once she had me to herself again, I could tell that she was quite incandescent with displeasure.

  “Why didn’t you tell me any of this?” she demanded. “My own husband, in Madame Tussaud’s?”

  “There was never any real chance of that,” I explained. “And I didn’t want you to get your hopes up, dear.”

  Thankfully, Sir Boris came to my rescue at that moment, returning in the company of another guest. It did not take a Sherlock Holmes to deduce that this fellow was a military man like myself; his uniform and smartly-trimmed dundrearies told me that. He was introduced to me as Captain Enoch Courtney of Her Majesty’s Cavalry, but I could not for the life of me shake the sensation that I had encountered him elsewhere, and that when I had, he had not been going by that name.

  “I thought the two of you might have a good deal in common,” our host explained, “both of you being former soldiers.”

  “You’ll forgive me, Captain,” said Kate, “but you seem a little young to be retired.”

  Courtney lowered his head and smirked in what I thought a most ungentlemanly fashion. “Sadly, Mrs. Watson, an old bullet wound means I am no longer able to sit astride a horse. Are you a cavalry veteran, also, Doctor?”

  “A humble army surgeon,” I replied. “Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. I have the strangest feeling, Captain, that we may already have met, Captain?

  “I don’t believe so,” he replied. “Of course, I saw a number of doctors after I was shot.”

  “No, that’s not it. But I’m quite certain I’ve seen you before.”

  “Certainly not in your other capacity, dear,” Kate suggested.

  The casual observer might have failed to notice any change in the Captain’s countenance, but thanks to my years spent at Holmes’s side, I flatter myself that I am no casual observer. A sudden flurry of blinking told me that something had unnerved the fellow.

  “Are you by any chance the same Dr. Watson who assists the famous Mr. Sherlock Holmes?” he asked.

  Kate began to explain that, in her opinion, I was more than a mere assistant, and could surely have solved many, if not all, of the cases I had chronicled unaided. Thankfully, before my embarrassment could become too acute, the chime of the doorbell and Sir Boris’ consequent excitation captured everyone’s attention. Prevented by his missing thumbs from opening the door himself, I stepped forward to perform the task while Kate took the lull in conversation as an opportunity to refresh her glass.

  Our host’s glee at discovering a group of carollers waiting on his doorstep was a joy in itself to behold, and he clapped his thumbless hands together with a delight I had previously only observed in children or the simple-minded.

  “Splendid, my friends, splendid!” he cried.

  It may be that I am at fault in recalling that the singers had chosen In the Bleak Midwinter with which to regale us; very likely, I am confusing this moment with the incident, far later in the evening, when Holmes and I found ourselves desecrating a grave, like a modern-day Burke and Hare. But I am getting ahead of myself.

  All those present registered their approval with enthusiastic applause; so enthu
siastic, in fact, that it was a full minute before I noticed Captain Courtney’s distress. He clutched his throat with one hand while waving the other frantically to attract attention. The guests ceased their gestures of approval and began to panic; the carollers, however, continued their melodious celebration, entirely unaware of the drama that was occurring inside the house.

  Stepping forward, I was in time to catch Courtney as he collapsed, but the weight of his form was almost too great, and I struggled to rest him gently on the floor. By now, a circle of guests had formed around us, shocked and fascinated by this incident. Sir Boris urged them to allow me enough room to examine the fellow, before kneeling at my side, as eager as his friends to sample this fresh sensation.

  “What’s the matter with him, Watson? Too much wine, do you think?”

  It was the matter of a moment to confirm that the Captain’s condition was far more serious - I could detect no pulse; he was most certainly dead.

  Sir Boris tugged at his remaining strands of hair with distress. “This is infamous! Nothing like this has ever happened before!”

  “The authorities will have to be sent for,” I informed him.

  “Yes, of course, of course. I say, I suppose I can rely on your for a death certificate, old man?”

  I assured him that I would take care of all the formalities, requesting that the servants carry the body into the kitchen, where I might conduct a full examination in private. I confess that I was not being entirely forthcoming with my host; I hoped that the removal of the corpse might give me enough time to speak to Kate without being overheard. She was not entirely overjoyed by my request that she take a cab to Baker Street at once.

  “I need you to fetch Mr. Holmes,” I explained. “You are the only one here I can trust. There is something very strange going on, something I am unable to account for.”

  “And you imagine that Mr. Holmes can?” she asked.

  “I sincerely hope so. Tell him that Scotland Yard must be notified also.”

  It would certainly have been of use to my friend had I scribbled even the briefest of notes of explanation, but at that moment, when I could scarcely accept the evidence of my own eyes, I feared it might do more harm than good. At the moment of his death, I had at last remembered where I had last seen Captain Courtney. And on that occasion, as now, he was quite dead. How could I expect anyone, even Sherlock Holmes, to believe my claim without the opportunity to see the man for himself. Surely, then, there could be no doubt in his mind.

  I was somewhat irritated when Sir Boris insisted on following me into the kitchen where the dead man presently lay on a table, looking for all the world like a reveller who has imbibed too freely and found the first place to lay his head. But as I began to loosen Courtney’s clothing, prior to beginning my examination, my host blanched, before excusing himself, explaining that he had rather a lot of guests who required calming down, and only a limited amount of champagne with which to accomplish that task. It was a relief to be able to carry on my work without interruption, I thought, though this was certainly the strangest Christmas Eve I had ever experienced!

  “And now, ‘Captain’...” I said as much to myself as to the corpse, “let’s see if I can ascertain precisely how you died.” I began to roll up his shirt sleeves when something caught my attention. I peered at the man’s left hand. Had I not been thus distracted, I might have heard someone creeping up on me, but the first I was aware of another presence in the kitchen was when I felt the cold sting of metal brush against my cheek. I did not need to see it to know that it was the barrel of a revolver.

  “There’s nothing here that need concern you, Doctor,” said the man behind me. I recognized his accent as Canadian, or perhaps American.

  “Who the devil are you, and how long have you been hiding here?” I demanded.

  “You worry too much,” replied the stranger, calmly. “It’s not healthy. If you continue to fret like this, you could end up with a bullet in your chest. And, yes, that is my way of telling you that if you even think of calling for help, I’ll shoot you.”

  I was in no position to do anything other than comply with the stranger’s wishes. “Just what do you want of me?” I asked.

  “Simply some heavy lifting - a task far below your station in life, I’m afraid. I’d like you to drag your patient outside, where I have a vehicle waiting.”

  It seemed to me strange that he should refer to the Captain as my “patient,” since, it seemed to me he was very far from recovery.

  “You might want to grip him under the arms - I should hate for you to get a bad back.”

  Despite the tendency of my knee to give way beneath me in the cold weather, I was nonetheless able to drag the body out of the house via the servants’ entrance and into a nearby cab. I felt quite winded by the time I was done, but that was by far the least of my concerns, since it seemed entirely likely that this foreigner, whose face I had still not seen, would kill me as soon as I had completed my task.

  “Are you happy now?” I asked, leaning against the vehicle, exhausted.

  “Don’t I look happy?” he asked, stepping closer. In truth, I was unable to answer his question, for though he was at that moment standing beneath a street-lamp, a scarf concealed the lower portion of his features. As odd as it may sound, I took heart in this, for I knew - or perhaps I should say, I hoped - that as long as he continued to conceal his identity, he had no reason to do away with me. That was not to say, however, that he would not hurt me considerably, if he so chose, and as he swung the revolver at my head, I recalled thinking that he had evidently come to a decision.

  “‘Physician, heal thyself...’”

  “Shakespeare,” I murmured, “Macbeth, I think.” My eyelids seemed absurdly heavy. Opening them would require all my strength.

  “Luke, Chapter Four, actually. My knowledge of the New Testament is more reliable than that of the Old.”

  Finally, my weary old body obeyed its master’s instructions, and with a struggle, I found myself staring up into the face of Mr. Sherlock Holmes. It was evident even to my addled senses that he had discovered my prostrate form in the snow, and brought me back into the house.

  “This is really most inconvenient, you know, old fellow. Mrs. Hudson promised me a goose.”

  “And you have my profound apologies, Holmes,” I replied, slowly raising myself up and realising that I had lain upon the kitchen table that had earlier served as a temporary resting place for the body I had been forced at gunpoint to remove.

  “I deduce from the marks in the frost,” said Holmes, “that you were the one who transported the deceased to a waiting vehicle. Under duress, one hopes.”

  “At gunpoint, in fact,” I explained. “Where’s Kate, Holmes?”

  “Attempting to calm your excitable host. She was most concerned for your well-being. I explained to her that her presence at your side was entirely unnecessary, and that you have sustained far worse injuries in my company - for some reason, that seemed only to annoy her.”

  Glad to be on my feet after occupying the bed of a dead man, I was prepared to ignore the throbbing pain at my temple, the result of being struck with a revolver earlier in the evening. In any event, Holmes’s arrival meant that I could at last divest myself of the suspicion I had held since first encountering the so-called Captain Enoch Courtney.

  “Holmes, I know you’ll find this hard to believe, but I’ll swear the dead man was Erasmus Crow - the man behind the British Railway Owner’s Society fraud, among other criminal coups.”

  Sherlock Holmes did not so much as blink, even though he knew as well as did I that Crow had been dead for some three months. “Why should I find that hard to believe, Watson? This may be the time of year for miracles, but I suspect there is, in this instance, a logical explanation. Please don’t imagine for a moment that I don’t believe you, old friend. If you a
re confident that you saw Erasmus Crow alive, then I am quite satisfied that is what you saw.”

  I must own, I was relieved and gladdened to hear that Holmes was prepared to take me at my word, when any other man might call me deranged; not only that, I realised, but he had followed my instructions to the letter, and summoned the police, which now seemed an eminently sensible course of action, given that the corpse of Erasmus Crow, or whoever it happened to be, had been forcibly removed from the premises. The rodent-like face of Inspector Lestrade peeked in through the kitchen door.

  “Did I hear someone mention Erasmus Crow, the one that got away?” he asked. I bade the policeman a good evening. “Of course, the only reason he got away was because he dropped dead before we could charge him.”

  “Nothing less than the grave would deter an officer as tenacious as yourself, Lestrade.”

  We all three recalled the incident of Crow’s demise, but I had particular cause to do so - he had complained of chest pains for several weeks prior to his eventual demise, and his personal physician had no hesitation in identifying a heart attack as the cause of death. There was surely no question that the doctor was a willing participant in any deception, however; Marcus Foxborough and I both belonged to the Hippocratic Club, and I was actually present when he arrived with a guest, that very same Erasmus Crow who collapsed and died before my eyes - but seemingly not for the final time. I confirmed Foxborough’s state myself, and I was satisfied that the man was most sincerely dead. And yet, how could I account for his appearance at Sir Boris’ festivities?

  “Crow is definitely dead this time, I suppose?” asked Lestrade, with some amusement.

  “He had no pulse, Inspector - that is a very common indication, one of the first they teach in medical school, in point of fact.”