Murder, My Dear Watson

by John Lellenberg

  “It is a broad subject. No one man can claim to know it in its entirety. The Chinese were among the first to discover the African continent and to study its flora and fauna. They were privileged to incorporate African motifs into their art. However, for all its advances, even that estimable society could not, in the third century A.D., posit a monkey hanging by its tail twelve hundred years before the discovery of the one continent whose simian population was thus capable. The bowl is a forgery. There is the answer to your riddle.”

  “Great heavens!” I exclaimed, at the moment unaware that I had echoed Rohmer’s words.

  Holmes’s guest presented a study in conflicting emotions: relief, wonder, and disappointment paraded across his face in a variety nearly as rich as that provided by the thirteen golden monkeys. “When did you suspect?” he asked.

  “At the moment the bowl appeared in your narrative. It did not seem likely that Mr. King would threaten you in one breath and in the next offer you an item so tantalising without some promise of benefit to himself. The same rules that govern legitimate commerce also apply to the demimonde.

  “The crucial factor was the character of the enemy,” Holmes continued. “It was not enough to this fellow that you should fear for your life; should you manage to uncover the secret, the solution itself must rob your triumph of its savour. Remember that Mr. King represents a culture that has had two thousand years to refine the punishment of torture. Armed with that intelligence, I proceeded on the assumption that the bowl was counterfeit. Any reputable dealer in antiquities could have done the rest.”

  “Then the thing is worthless.” Rchner gazed disconsolately at the object in his hands.

  “Not quite,” said Holmes. “Although I should be much surprised if at the point of a pen you should not discover base lead beneath the gold plate. The workmanship is still a thing of beauty. A London pawnbroker might be persuaded to part with ten pounds in order to display it in his shop window.”

  “Still, I have been cheated. That fraudulent old devil led me to believe I would own something of real value.”

  “Oh, but you do. He has given you the gift of your life.”

  Somewhere in the villa a clock chimed the hour. Holmes stirred. “There is a telephone in the hall, which you may use to order an auto to return you to the station. You should have substantial time to place an advertisement announcing the riddle’s solution in tomorrow’s Times.”

  Sax Rohmer regarded Sherlock Holmes with an expression I had seen many times upon many faces. “You are still the best detective in England.”

  “Thank you.” Holmes closed his eyes, displaying for the first time the weariness which his feat of brilliance had created; he was, when all was said and done, a man in the sixtieth year of an adventurous life sufficient for ten of his contemporaries. “One never tires of hearing it.”

  THE ADVENTURE

  OF THE CURIOUS CANARY

  Barry Day

  “TELL ME, HOLMES, do you believe there is any such thing as the perfect crime?”

  We were sitting in our rooms in 221 B at a very loose end indeed. As an indication of the depth of his boredom, the world’s most famous consulting detective was reduced to turning the detritus of the morning’s newspapers into paper darts and launching them into the fire Mrs. Hudson had lit earlier in that morning to ward off autumn’s first chill. More than once I had had reason to fear my friend’s somewhat uncertain aim would end in a conflagration which would be recorded in the next day’s equivalents—“HOLMES AND FRIEND PERISH IN MYSTERY BLAZE—ARSON SUSPECTED.”

  When I had almost forgotten the question—which had been asked more for something to fill the silence than anything else—Holmes finally answered.

  “I am inclined to believe, Watson, that the only crimes that remain unsolved are the ones that have not been called to my attention.”

  As I glanced in his direction, I saw the small twitch of irony catch the corner of his mouth. It was an expression one had to be quick to spot and interpret. The next moment the face had regained its classically sculpted lines, something poised between Roman senator and an American Indian.

  “I presume you are thinking of the icicle used as a dagger that subsequently melts?” he continued.

  “Yes, or what about the case of the Barchester beekeeper who appeared to have been stung to death, until you proved that his wife had administered a fatal injection before dragging his body next to the hive and inciting the bees to attack. I should say that was a close run thing. If you hadn’t been able to prove that the fellow was dead before the bees stung him, she’d have got away with it.”

  “A simple enough deduction for one versed in the kiss of the needle,” Holmes replied, casting me a covert glance in expectation of a reaction. But I am too old a soldier to rise to such an obvious lure. Seeing that his ploy had failed, he continued. “And an insult to such a sophisticated species. One of these days I fully intend to . . .” But then another thought seemed to strike him.

  “But, my dear chap, I confess I’m surprised you have failed to mention the infamous Anitnegra Affair—a story for which, like the Giant Rat of Sumatra, I suspect the world is not yet prepared.”

  “The Anitnegra Affair?” I exclaimed, “But I don’t believe you have ever . . .”

  “Oh, my dear fellow, how remiss of me. Do forgive me. It must have occurred during one of your many marital sabbaticals. I do declare, now that I think about it, that it comes very close to your definition of the perfect crime.”

  “Pray tell me the details,” I said, reaching for the pad that was never far from my hand, ready for just such a recollection in tranquility.

  “It was the rather sordid story of a purveyor of imported meats who became jealous of his partner. One evening in the warehouse there was a passionate altercation and the wretched fellow struck and killed his partner with a frozen steak, which he then proceeded to cook and eat—thus effectively destroying the evidence.”

  “But, Holmes, how was he brought to justice?”

  “Oh, that was simple enough,” my friend replied. “The man literally signed his crime. There was a livid mark on the corpse’s head which read ‘ANITNEGRA.’”

  “ANITNEGRA? You mean that was the murderer’s name?”

  “Oh, no. ANITNEGRA is simply ARGENTINA spelt backwards. The meat had been stamped in its country of origin and had, so to speak, left its mark.”

  “And that was enough to convict him?”

  “There was no need to convict him. The meat happened to be spoiled and the murderer died of food poisoning—along with twenty-three other innocent people. It was one of my least distinguished cases and caused me to give up red meat for at least a week.. . . Oh, my dear fellow, I do wish you could see your face!”

  And the wretched man sank back into his chair and gave way to a paroxysm of that silent laughter that has often brought me close to throwing something at him.

  It was at that very moment that the doorbell clanged that insistent call to arms that had heralded so many of our adventures. Only some time later did it occur to me that it was impossible for the imprint to have read ANITNEGRA anyway, since the letters E, G and R would have been reversed—but by that time it was too late to go over the whole wretched story again. Holmes was a leading actor with his timing, whereas I was merely a spear carrier.

  Nonetheless, I was in the process of planning the form of my retribution when Mrs. Hudson knocked on the door and ushered in a slim, neatly dressed woman somewhere in her mid-thirties. Handsome rather than classically beautiful to my eye, and as Holmes often asserts, “The fair sex is your department, Watson,” I consider myself a fair judge.

  She was clearly nervous, as many of our first time visitors are, but Holmes is adept at putting women at their ease when he chooses to, solicitous and soft of voice, and it was not long before he had her sitting comfortably in the visitors’ chair opposite. I took up my accustomed place in a chair slightly to one side and behind Holmes, my pad ready on my knee.
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br />   “Pray do not concern yourself on at least one score, dear lady. You have plenty of time before your return to Lewes.”

  “But how. . . ?”

  “A simple enough deduction, in all conscience. You are clutching tightly a rolled up newspaper of which the letters EWE are visible in the banner. The typography is that used by The Lewes Examiner and, while that publication enjoys a wide circulation in its part of Sussex, it is only available in the town itself at the time of day you must have caught the train that brought you here so early. Thus you have come here from Lewes.

  “If one needed further corroboration, it is to be found in the numbers you have scribbled on the paper as an aide-memoire. To be sure 1415 could refer to the Battle of Agincourt but I suspect the terse prose of Mr. Bradshaw . . . Watson, would you be so kind?”

  I reached to the shelf behind me and passed Holmes that well-thumbed red volume, which he proceeded to flick through with practised fingers.

  “Ah, yes—here we are. Fourteen-fifteen London to Brighton, stopping at all stations, including Lewes. It was the first local train you felt you could be sure of catching after you had completed your business here. And by the way, Watson, I see those idle fellows are still engaged in their road works outside Victoria. The young lady has some of their sand on the instep of her shoe.”

  “Mr. Holmes, everything they say about you is true—you are a wizard.” Then, as she reached down somewhat self-consciously to brush the offending sand away, she looked up at him with an expression both fascinated and a little frightened. It was one I was well used to.

  “What else do you know about me?”

  “Other than that you shop frugally at Gorringe’s, are an excellent seamstress, are slightly astigmatic, have a Persian kitten of which you are very fond—and have been crying lately, I know practically nothing. Oh, except that you are a widow and expect to remarry in the near future. . . .”

  The young lady’s mouth literally dropped open. At which Holmes added—“Oh, and you appear to have no need for the service of a dental surgeon.” This last made her laugh aloud and, as Holmes and I joined in, the social ice was effectively broken.

  Holmes leaned forward in his chair and I have no doubt there was a distinct twinkle in those deep-set eyes. My department, indeed!

  “My little parlour tricks are obvious enough, once explained, Miss—?”

  “Lucas—Mary Lucas.”

  “As Watson knows, they are based on the observation of trifles where one may learn more from a lady’s glove or the crease in a man’s trouser than from a volume of an encyclopaedia. Take your own. They are obviously new, so much so that in your hurry to get here this morning you did not stay at the shop long enough for the sales assistant to take off the label properly. Only half has been removed, leaving the telltale GOR—. While clearly new, the gloves do not appear expensive and, in fact, were almost certainly a featured item in the shop’s annual sale. Indeed, I seem to remember that rather distinctive design in an advertisement in today’s Chronicle. The same can be said for your shoes.”

  Miss Lucas looked down at her feet, as though they had just betrayed her, while Holmes continued.

  “I deduce that you are a seamstress of some accomplishment from the fact that, although your dress is of the latest style, the slight unevenness of the stitching in places tells me that it is not the work of the original designer. Therefore, you probably made it yourself— also from a Gorringe’s pattern, I suspect. Your astigmatism is obvious enough from the two small indentations on either side of your nose, which indicate the use of reading glasses. Once again, they would not be deemed suitable for a visit where you wished to impress on first acquaintance. The Persian kitten? When a lady embraces one of that particular breed—particularly on a regular basis—any item of her clothing will bear some evidence that even regular brushing will never quite eliminate. The colour of the hairs is quite distinctive and since the length is unusually short, it argues for either a very small specimen or—more probably—a kitten.”

  My friend’s last remark produced a rather disconcerting reaction from our visitor. “Oh, Mr. Holmes, what I’d have done without Princess these last few days I cannot imagine . . .”

  And Miss Mary Lucas burst into a flood of tears, which caused her to pull a rather crumpled lace handkerchief from the sleeve of her gown and press it to her eyes. As I moved over to give her what comfort I could, Holmes’s eyes met mine in an expression that said “Q.E.D.”

  Then a sudden thought struck her.

  “But how did you know about my being a widow and . . . ?”

  “The ring finger of your left hand bears the unmistakable mark of a wedding band having been there for some considerable time. You now wear it on your right hand and involuntarily turn it around from time to time. It seems a reasonable assumption, then, that you are no longer married to your first husband but that the idea of marriage is by no means repugnant to you and is presently very much on your mind.

  “Now, Miss Lucas, the sooner you tell us of the problem that has brought you here, the sooner we may be able to assist you. You may speak before my friend and associate, Dr. Watson, here with the utmost frankness. Few of my cases would be solved without his invaluable assistance”—and he made a grave nod in my direction, which pleased me greatly—“and none of them would be adequately recorded, were it not for his Boswellian qualities of rapportage.

  “Tell us your story in your own words and, I pray you, omit no detail, no matter how insignificant it may appear. It is those details that invariably point the finger of truth.” And he settled back in his chair, his lean fingers steepled before his face and his gaze fixed at some indeterminate point on the ceiling.

  “Well, Mr. Holmes—Dr. Watson—there really was little to tell until a few weeks ago. I live—as you divined—not far from Lewes where I am housekeeper to Sir Giles Halliford at Halliford Hall. My dear husband died a few years ago quite unexpectedly, leaving me in very straitened financial circumstances. Some family friends were kind enough to recommend me to Sir Giles whose old housekeeper was about to retire after many years of service. I was offered the post and the arrangement has worked out to our mutual satisfaction. He is what one might call a confirmed old bachelor. . . .”

  “Sensible fellow,” Holmes interrupted, then, not wishing to interrupt her flow, apologetically motioned her to continue.

  “. . . but underneath a gruff exterior which he puts up to keep the world at bay, he is the kindest and gentlest of men. Over the years we have discovered we have many interests in common and have grown comfortable in each other’s company. To cut a long story short, Mr. Holmes, Sir Giles has asked me to become his wife . . . and I have accepted.”

  “But the problem does not lie there, I fancy?”

  “Oh, indeed no. I should add, gentlemen, that this is of very recent occurrence and Sir Giles does not wish to announce our engagement until he has made certain family arrangements.”

  “But I thought you said Sir Giles was a bachelor?” I could not help interjecting.

  “There is no immediate family as such,” Miss Lucas continued. “He has a ward, a young lady called Emily Sommersby, not much younger than myself, who lives with him. She is the daughter of some old friends of his from his days in India. When they were killed in a climbing accident there some two years ago, he felt it was his duty to bring the girl back to England and give her a home.”

  “And how do the two of you get on?”

  “To begin with everything was fine,” Miss Lucas replied and her hand began to turn the ring around her finger, “but lately I seem to have sensed a change in her. Her manner has been more distant and if I may invoke a woman’s intuition . . .”

  “Indeed, I wish you would. How often have I not told Watson that a woman’s impressions are frequently more valuable than the conclusion of an analytical reasoner.”

  “Well, then my sense of it is that she felt something in her guardian’s behaviour that led her to suspect what he had
in mind. . . .”

  Looking at her I could not help but think that one woman might just as easily have detected that very same truth from the subtle but telltale conduct and tone of voice of another, but I kept that thought to myself.

  Mary Lucas continued. “I am not even certain that she did not overhear the conversation between Sir Giles and myself the other evening, for she entered the room almost immediately afterwards. However, if that were all, I should not be here today taking your time. No, the real trouble began a few weeks ago when a young man arrived out of the blue claiming to be his nephew, Robert. . .”

  “When you say ‘claiming’?” Holmes interjected.

  “Sir Giles had a younger brother who—he told me—had left home under something of a cloud. They had completely lost touch and he had no idea whether his brother had issue or not. It would take a long and costly legal search to ascertain the truth of his ‘nephew’s’ claim— a search, incidentally, which he is about to put in hand.”

  “I take it that he did not warm to the young man?”

  “Quite the opposite. His reaction was almost chemical. There was something about ‘Robert Halliford’—for that is the only way I can think of him—that he distrusted on sight. Despite that, he felt obliged to give him board and lodging until the situation could be clarified. As for Robert, he acted as though he expected to have the fatted calf killed daily on his behalf, which only made matters worse, of course.”

  “Presumably the young ‘Mr. Halliford’ was able to provide some sort of credentials?”

  “Not entirely. He claimed his effects had yet to arrive—they had been delayed at sea, he claimed—but he certainly knew a great deal about the family and Sir Giles in particular.”

  “And what had he to say about himself?”

  “Not a great deal, now you come to mention it. He seemed to have worked in various parts of the Far East and most recently in India, which is where he learned of Sir Giles’s whereabouts. I once asked him about his profession and he answered something about having knocked about doing a bit of this and a bit of that. I didn’t like to press the point.”