The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories Part II

by David Marcum

  “Your detective friend...”

  “Holmes?” I asked, genuinely puzzled.

  “Yes. I need him. I don’t think I can stand another night in this house. I don’t know whether I’m going mad or whether Alfred really is speaking to me.”

  I scratched my uncombed hair, absently.

  “Olivia, please try to relax...”

  “John, do me the favor... the tremendous favor of bringing your friend round right after lunch or sooner still. I must know what is happening. I must know the truth. I cannot bear the thought of another night of Alfred coming to me and telling me those ghastly things he’s done.”

  Her voice trailed away in uncontrolled sobs.

  “Keep your spirits up, Olivia. We will get to the bottom of this, I promise you.”

  I returned the receiver to its cradle and sank back in the bed.

  “What was that all about?” Mary rolled over and asked, groggily.

  “Poor old Alfred is still appearing to Olivia and confessing his misdeeds. She wants me to retain Holmes’s services to set things to right.”

  “Well isn’t that a good thing?” Mary asked.

  “I don’t relish the thought of convincing Holmes to make the trip a second time. You know how he is about having his time wasted. Add to the fact that Olivia treated him as if he were a leper and you can imagine why I am dreading speaking to him.”

  Mary clicked her tongue at me as she rolled back over in bed, “I don’t know why you insist on sticking your nose in other people’s affairs, darling.”

  I sat there a moment, dumbstruck, before replying, “It is what a doctor is paid to do, dearest.”

  “I am not paid to be insulted, Watson.”

  To say that Holmes was obstinate this morning was a considerable understatement.

  “If you have nothing further to say to me,” he said burying his eyes in the newspaper, “then I suggest you return home and leave me to my own work.”

  I sat there a moment, considering the best course of action before settling on righteous indignation.

  “What work, Holmes? You haven’t taken a case in weeks. You told me so yourself!”

  Holmes slapped the newspaper down on his table in irritation.

  “You bring up an excellent point, Watson.”

  “Thank you,” I nodded my head, hopefully. “Olivia Habersham personally requested that I ask for your help. I’m sure that you won’t be insulted in any way now that...”

  “... now that she knows she needs me,” Holmes finished my sentence, ruefully.

  “We could still make lunch if we hurry,” I said quietly.

  Holmes stared at the newspaper again before sweeping it off the table with a hurried gesture, “Oh, botheration! I’ll never enjoy a moment’s peace until I agree.”

  He wiped his mouth clean of the crumbs from his morning toast as I clapped my hands together jubilantly.

  The Olivia Habersham who quickly ushered us into her apartment that afternoon was a very different woman from the one we had last seen. Her hair was in complete disarray, and the dark circles under her eyes betrayed the fact that she had slept very little. She had a haunted look about her, and her lower jaw trembled a bit as she spoke.

  “Thank you so much for coming, Doctor Watson... Mr. Holmes. I feel as if I’m coming apart at the seams.”

  “Why don’t you start at the beginning, Olivia?” I asked as we sat down at her kitchen table.

  “Well... the beginning of it all or...”

  “The beginning of when your husband’s ghost first appeared to you, Mrs. Habersham,” Holmes said, bluntly.

  I blanched as I watched Olivia visibly wince at his words.

  “I am not a hysterical woman, Mr. Holmes nor am I given to flights of fancy involving ghosts. If I appear rattled today it is because I have good reason to be.”

  “Quite. Now kindly explain what occurred the first night.”

  Olivia gave vent to a deep sigh and shut her eyes, composing herself before speaking.

  “It isn’t so simple, Mr. Holmes. It started with voices... or maybe they were just thoughts... or dreams while I was still awake. I would hear Alfred speaking to me as if he were in the room chatting as we are now. He would speak of a specific incident, a memory we both shared only... it would go all wrong.”

  “All wrong... in what way?”

  She placed her hands before her on the table and played with her wedding ring in nervous agitation.

  “He would say to me, ‘Remember the time we did such-and-such?’ A picnic or a holiday or something... and then he would tell me how he went off with the maid or... or with some other woman he met in passing. It was... it was awful.”

  She was fighting tears, but Holmes stayed focused.

  “These were dreams you say where you were not quite asleep?”

  “Yes, it was as if he were whispering in my ear. No, that’s wrong. Not as intimate as that. It was more as if he were in the room with me... speaking softly.”

  “Did he apologize to you for what he had done?”

  She paused for a moment and appeared lost in thought before answering.

  “No, no, he didn’t. He was rather matter-of-fact and detached about it all. It was as if it were some horrible joke he was choosing to share with me now that he is... gone.”

  “Was your husband given to such ill humor?”

  “No, Mr. Holmes. Most assuredly he was not.”

  “Have you considered the possibility, Olivia, that this is simply your grief manifesting itself in this queer fashion?”

  She looked at me sharply and I felt compelled to explain myself better.

  “You and Alfred had a good life together. It would not be uncommon in your sadness to experience... doubts... about his integrity. Fears perhaps that you have harbored over the years and kept silent and unspoken that may now be coming to the fore.”

  “You should give up medicine to follow Doctor Freud, Watson,” Holmes chuckled.

  “There were no doubts, John,” was Olivia’s stern response. “I understand why you might suggest that and I would be half-inclined to agree with you, if only to offer some form of rational explanation, but I assure you it is a theory without basis in fact. These... experiences continued on this way for some time... not every night, but most of them. Then... I started seeing him.”

  Her voice trailed off. I couldn’t tell if she was fearful of the memory or doubting her own sanity. Perhaps it was a bit of both.

  “I heard him calling my name. I lay there for a few moments, hoping it would stop, but it didn’t, so I got out of bed and went out into the corridor. He was at the opposite end, by the stairwell. He stood there looking at me and said, ‘Olivia, I have been a sinful man. I have ruined others for my financial gain’. And then he would proceed to tell me the most... heartless stories imaginable.”

  “What did you do?”

  “What could I do, Mr. Holmes? I cried. I told him to stop. I asked him why.”

  “Did he approach you? Did he take you in his arms and reassure you?”

  Her jaw quivered terribly and I marveled at her endurance.

  “No, Mr. Holmes. He simply backed up a step and vanished into thin air.”

  “How many times has this happened?”

  “I don’t know. I lost count. Seven, maybe eight times if we count the dreams where he only spoke to me... four times now that I have seen him... last night was the worst by far.”

  “What was different about last night?”

  “He stood over my bed, leaning near me. He was young again. Younger than I had seen him in years... and he said, ‘Olivia, I killed a man. He threatened to ruin me so I bludgeoned him to death in his stable and doused him with kerosene and threw a lit match upon his body and let him bur
n. I am not sorry, Olivia. I am glad I did it.’ Oh, God, Alfred, how could you do such an unconscionable thing?”

  She put her head down on the table and sobbed. It was clear she had been fighting for too long to keep her emotions bottled up, and now she gave vent to tremendous pain. Her sobbing was so great that she took in great gulps of air in order to breathe and appeared to rock back and forth as she did so, like a child in its cradle. For half a minute, I worried she might require medical attention, but presently she regained her composure and sat upright in her chair.

  “There you have it, gentlemen,” she laughed humorlessly. “Now tell me, what am I supposed to do?”

  “Wait until nightfall and let us see your ghost for ourselves.”

  “You mean to stay here all day?”

  “I suggest no impropriety, Mrs. Habersham, nor have I any intent of causing a scandal. Watson and I will depart for now and we shall return later... discreetly, I might add. Certainly there is a servants’ entrance in the rear.”

  Olivia’s face flushed with relief.

  “Thank you, Mr. Holmes, most sincerely.”

  “Oh, one more thing before we go, ma’am.”

  “Yes?”

  Holmes smiled for a moment as he considered his words carefully.

  “Have you any photographs of your husband that I might see.”

  Olivia paused, clearly disturbed by the request.

  “Yes, of course. I’ll get them. I won’t be a moment.”

  When she returned, she set a large dust-covered picture book before us. Holmes turned the heavy pages and studied the photographs closely. Seated across the table from him, I glanced at the faded sepia prints wrong side up. I always found picture books rather unsettling. It is a bit like looking through other people’s stolen memories. Holmes was engrossed in the images and appeared to be studying them with great care.

  “You certainly enjoyed quite a few holidays together.”

  “Yes, we were very fortunate in that respect. Alfred was very frugal, but we shared a passion for travel.”

  “Yes,” I added, “Mary was always quite envious.”

  “And now it is I who envies her,” Olivia added forlornly.

  I exchanged a glance with Holmes. He nodded almost imperceptibly.

  “Well, I think we will be going now, Olivia. Brave heart... we will return soon.”

  As we stepped outside, Holmes took me by the arm and steered me in the direction of the nearest cab. Climbing into the back seat, he barked an unfamiliar London address to the driver.

  “Do you have business in the City, Holmes?” I asked.

  “I have business with a solicitor, one Basil Carruthers. I need to see his files on the late Mr. Habersham, specifically his last will and testament.”

  “That is a most irregular request, Holmes.”

  “Isn’t it? It is also crucial that Mr. Carruthers comply with the request immediately. We haven’t the time to spare.”

  It was extremely rare for Holmes to use his brother’s name and position within the government for influence, but in this instance he felt justified in doing so. His request was quickly granted, and a private office afforded us in which to pour through Alfred’s files. Several hours later, he closed the last of the large stack of folders and rose from the table with a sigh.

  “It is ten minutes to five o’clock, Watson. We must make haste.”

  “Is there an appointment I have forgotten?”

  “The Habersham residence, of course!”

  “So soon?”

  “We should have left already!”

  “But what about the files?”

  “I have finished with them.”

  “You haven’t told me what you were looking for.”

  “Correct, Watson, I haven’t. Now come along or I shall be forced to leave you behind.”

  Holmes would not be drawn into conversation for the duration of our cab ride back to Praed Street. The rain fell in a light drizzle that left smearing wet circles on the windows of our cab. I stared through these blurred portals to the world outside while the horses’ hooves clattered against the crumbling road beneath their feet. When we arrived at our destination, Holmes had the driver pull round to the back so that we could enter through the rear entrance, as he had promised Olivia we would do just a few hours earlier.

  I felt a sense of disquiet, as if the old house were staring at us in resentment as we made our way inside through the servants’ entrance. Holmes’s eyes darted furtively round the darkened corridor as we entered by the backstairs. Not a sound disturbed the silence to give any indication that our entrance had been noted. Holmes placed a finger to his lips to indicate we should do our utmost to maintain our silence.

  Presently, he stepped with great caution to the rear of the staircase. A small cubbyhole was visible beneath the stairs. He indicated that I should crouch and enter the cramped space. As I stepped inside, cobwebs pulled against my face. A sense of revulsion washed over me as I watched a thick brown spider with crimson stripes on its back scurry up its web to escape through the opening between the steps above my head.

  Holmes ducked into the cubbyhole to join me and smiled sympathetically in recognition that our lodging for the night was to be an unpleasant one. Soon my eyes adjusted to the gloom. We stood there crouched down and silent for what seemed like several hours until we heard it. The door to the servants’ entrance had opened.

  My heart raced, but I quickly regained my composure. There was no reason to fear this unknown arrival. Admittedly, it was likely far too late to be a cleaning woman. I reached for my pocket watch to check the hour when Holmes’s hand shot out and touched my wrist. He shook his head slowly to insure that I did nothing to give away our position.

  Presently, the new arrival began to quietly climb the stairs unsteadily, one step at a time. At first I feared my movement had been overheard, but I resolved it was likely only an elderly person struggling to ascend the staircase. I looked up as each step creaked beneath the weight of their shuffling step. I could make out shoes and dark pant legs in the dim light that shone between the cracks in the stairs, but nothing else. Holmes’s face strained as he listened intently, but what he was expecting to hear I could not imagine.

  The footfalls quietly moved down the second floor hallway above us. A door creaked open somewhere in the distance. I had no sense where Olivia’s flat was located from the back of the building, but Holmes suddenly appeared electrified as if he’d received an unexpected jolt. He pushed his way out of the cubby hole and, before I could react, he was bounding up the stairs two steps at a time.

  Excitement gripped me and I hurried to race after him. When at last I reached the top of the stairs, I found myself frozen to the spot. The disturbing sound of someone snoring unnaturally loud filled the air. I had heard it before, but I could not recall where at the moment. It frightened me for some reason. My subconscious seemed to associate the sound with terror, though I was unable to recollect the particulars of the memory.

  All thought flooded from my mind as a mighty crash sounded and a man came hurtling through a doorway on the right hand side of the corridor. He smashed into the wall and slid to the floor. Holmes was upon him before he could pick himself up. My friend was not, by nature, a violent man, which made the scene before my eyes difficult to reconcile. Holmes grasped the man by the lapels with both hands and threw him forward several feet where he landed hard upon his back. Along the corridor, several doors were opening and faces of tenants were peeking out at us in concern.

  “In the name of God, Holmes, what are you doing?”

  “She’s dead, Watson.”

  His chest was rising and falling from the exertion.

  “Who is dead? Make sense, man!”

  “Olivia Habersham is dead. He killed her.”

  He
gestured toward the cowering figure on the floor before him.

  “Olivia is dead? How did this happen?”

  “He frightened her to death. Meet the unrepentant Alfred Habersham.”

  My mind reeled from this revelation. It could not be, but as I stared down at the face in the dark of the hallway, I recognized my old friend’s features.

  “Good Lord, Alfred, how could you?”

  It was only then that I had moved close enough to my old friend to be startled by what I saw. The man before me was indeed Alfred Habersham, but as he must have looked thirty years ago!

  Holmes and I found ourselves ensconced a short time later at the Metropolitan Police Department. Inspector Jones was somewhat less than welcoming to find that we were already involved in a matter that had just been called to his attention.

  “So let me see if I understand this correctly, Doctor Watson. The deceased was a friend of your wife whose late husband was also your patient. The deceased confided in your missus that her late husband’s ghost was paying her nightly visits. You took it upon yourself to contact Mr. Consulting Detective here to sort the matter out and, in short order, your friend ends up dead while our Consulting Detective assaults the man he claims scared her to death. A man you believe, incidentally, to be the deceased’s late husband as he appeared thirty years ago. Is there anything I have missed?”

  I sighed with frustration. There was no way this was going to be a simple task.

  “Yes, Inspector, that is correct.”

  “I’m finished. I’m finished with the lot of you,” the Inspector said, slamming his fist down upon the top of his desk.

  “Wonderful. Then perhaps you might let Mr. Consulting Detective speak for himself for a change.”

  “Do you have anything to add, Mr. Holmes?” the Inspector sneered with mock politeness.

  “As it happens, Inspector Jones, I have some considerable information to impart. The man you are holding is not Olivia Habersham’s late husband.”

  “But, Holmes,” I cried, “you said so yourself!”

  “I did no such thing, Watson. I said the gentleman in question was Alfred Habersham. That is an entirely different matter in this instance.”