by David Marcum
“Is Alfred Habersham not the name of the deceased’s late husband?” the Inspector hissed through gritted teeth.
“It is,” Holmes replied.
“Then what, by God, are you talking about?”
“Alfred Habersham is also the name of his son.”
My head was reeling.
“Holmes, you’re mistaken. Alfred and Olivia had no children.”
“That is true, Watson. Alfred and Olivia Habersham had no children.”
Inspector Jones slapped his forehead and muttered an oath beneath his breath.
“The young man being held for Olivia’s murder,” Holmes continued, “is the son of Alfred Habersham and a woman whose surname I presume is Clovis.”
I sputtered for a moment as I followed his meaning.
“Alfred... Clovis... you mean you believe that man is Alfred Habersham’s ward?”
“I certainly am not entertaining any doubt about the matter.”
“No, no, no. A thousand times, no. Alfred Clovis was a distant relation that Alfred took as his ward because the boy had no father and would otherwise have suffered a life of destitution. We reviewed the paperwork in Basil Carruthers’ office only yesterday.”
“Yes, we did. Tell me, did Master Clovis ever live with the Habershams?”
I paused a moment.
“No, he did not. As I’ve said, Olivia was unable to have children and, if you must know, she told Mary she objected to the idea of taking the boy in. I suppose because they were an older couple at the time. I never questioned her on the matter, but I knew it was a sensitive one, of course. When the boy was made Alfred’s ward, it was agreed that Alfred would pay for his education. His school holidays were spent with his mother, I presume. To the best of my knowledge, he never once visited his benefactor.”
“Yes, quite. And one more question, Watson. Did Master Clovis benefit financially from Alfred’s will?”
“Well you read the will yourself, Holmes, you must certainly be aware of the answer. He did not. Alfred left everything, that is to say, the apartment building he owned, as well as his considerable savings, to Olivia.”
“And what arrangements did he make were something to happen to Olivia?”
“Well in that event...”
I paused as a terrible recollection of what I had read only yesterday in the will returned to me.
“By Jove, Holmes, you’re right.”
“Thank you, Watson.”
“Don’t tell me,” the Inspector covered his eyes and winced.
“In the event of Olivia’s death, his entire estate passes to his ward, Alfred Clovis. Alfred Clovis is the spitting image of his father. Alfred Clovis is Alfred Habersham’s illegitimate son!”
I would like to say that ended the matter conclusively, but sadly it did not turn out quite so well. Whilst it was true that Alfred Clovis was indeed my old friend’s son, he denied any wrongdoing in Olivia’s death. He claimed he had recently made an effort to establish a relationship with his father’s widow for the purpose of better understanding the man who had sired him. He had no idea that Olivia was suffering from nightmares of being visited by his late father’s ghost and claimed that he had only just let himself into the apartment with a key Olivia had personally given him when he discovered his stepmother dead. When Holmes set upon him, he erroneously believed my friend to have been Olivia’s murderer.
There was little we could say to counter his claims. He did indeed possess a key to Olivia’s apartment. Propriety alone would have precluded her from telling Mary about the boy. It was all entirely plausible, except for the fact that I did not believe his innocence. I was convinced he had indeed posed as his father to frighten his stepmother to death in order to get at the inheritance. The question was how to prove his guilt.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Watson,” Holmes complained bitterly one evening in his study when I paid him an unexpected visit to run through the facts with him yet again. “This is real life, not some penny dreadful. What do you expect me to do, dress up as a ghost myself to trick the murderer into confessing his wrongdoing? We accomplished our task. We solved the case, but we cannot prove his guilt. He was the cleverer of us and he’s gotten away with the crime. End of story. There is nothing more to be done with it.”
“Holmes, I cannot believe you are willing to accept defeat so easily.”
“I am a rational man, Watson. That’s why I knew there were no ghosts involved, no matter how convinced Olivia was to the contrary. I was certain that the only rational explanation for Alfred Habersham to appear from the grave seemingly decades younger was for a close relative, such as an unknown son, to be masquerading as him. That made sense, and the mysterious unseen ward fit the puzzle perfectly. There ends the matter. There is no logical way to prove our suspicions are correct. One must accept that he has earned his earthly reward by foul means and, if one believes in a Christian heaven, perhaps justice will be done there. For the present, there is nothing more to do.”
“Won’t you even speak with him?”
“For what purpose, Watson, to give him further cause to bring charges of harassment against us? We were very fortunate he chose to be understanding, considering the circumstances of his arrest. His level-headedness would only sway the court in his favor. I certainly would command no respect. Inspector Jones is certainly not inclined to look with favor upon our theory that Alfred Clovis killed his stepmother. Again, I beseech you to see reason. There is nothing more to be done.”
“Very well, Holmes, you leave me no choice but to follow your example with Basil Carruthers. First thing tomorrow morning I shall refer the matter to your brother.”
“You can’t be serious,” he scoffed. “Do you honestly believe my brother will lift a finger to help in this matter? I gave you credit for greater intelligence than that, Watson.”
“I’m happy to hear it, Holmes. I do not intend to enlist your brother’s aid. I merely wish to inform him of how badly you bungled the matter and how quick you were to admit you have been bested by a common swindler.”
Holmes’s features froze as he stared at me aghast.
“You wouldn’t dare!”
“I trust you know better than to doubt me.”
“That isn’t cricket, Watson.”
“No, it isn’t, but then nothing about this case has been. Now... how do you propose to proceed from here?”
Holmes stared at me in something resembling admiration for the first time.
“Do you know, Watson, you have a distinct touch of the blackmailer about you?”
“Don’t be vulgar, Holmes. When one heals the ill for a living, one must learn to be persuasive. Blackmail is for the uncouth layman. In any event, there is still the vexing issue of under what pretense we are to approach Mr. Habersham. His story is a reasonable one. His stepmother gave him the key with which he entered the apartment to speak to her when he found her dead...
“Found her dead,” I repeated my own words, startled by a sudden thought. “He couldn’t have.”
“Why is that? The inquest revealed nothing to suggest otherwise.”
“We don’t need the coroner’s report, Holmes; we need only to use our own senses.”
“I’m afraid I don’t follow you, Watson.”
“Do you recall the specific details when you entered Olivia’s apartment?”
My old friend paused a moment. His face appeared conflicted.
“No, I cannot recall precisely the sequence of events. Normally I’m very observant about any such matters, as you well know, but I was so preoccupied with what was happening that I rushed blindly forward in the dark.”
“That explains your confusion, Holmes, but I know for a fact that Olivia was not yet dead when Alfred entered the apartment. I should have realized it sooner.”
“Explain yourself.”
“I know because my first recollection was of hearing a terrible sound emanating from the apartment... a sound I now recognize as Olivia swallowing her tongue during the throes of a seizure. I mistook it for an unnatural snoring at the time. I have heard that same awful sound many times before a patient died. I first heard it as a boy the night my mother died. It... it has haunted me ever since. Recurrence has done nothing to accustom me to its terror. Do you recall hearing it now?”
Holmes paused a moment and shook his head.
“I cannot be certain. You may be right, but I could not swear to it. I will trust your recollection better than my own in this instance. The trouble again remains there is no proof, of course. It is simply your word against his. This is no basis for confronting him with his actions.”
“Surely, you will think of something?”
“I can but try, Watson. Leave me to my thoughts.”
The next morning, I eagerly rang Holmes shortly after breakfast, but there was no answer. I tried several more times to no avail. Frustrated, I took a cab to Baker Street, but was surprised to find Mrs. Turner did not answer the door.
“He’s not in.”
I spun and saw the bundled form of an old woman walking an ugly little dog.
“He’s in hospital.”
“Who is in hospital?”
“The detective... who else would it be? You’re standing on his doorstep.”
“What happened to him? When was this?”
She shrugged her shoulders and pulled on the lead to move her little beast along. Without wasting another moment, I hurried to the corner and hailed a cab. My heart was racing when we reached St. John’s Wood and I rushed inside the hospital. I found Mrs. Turner in the corridor outside Holmes’s room.
“Oh, Doctor Watson... I should have rung you, sir, I am sorry.”
“What happened, Mrs. Turner? What is wrong with him?”
“Brain fever, sir, like his mother before him, I fear.”
I felt my legs start to give way beneath me.
“What... what has the doctor said?”
Mrs. Turner shrugged.
“There is nothing to be done except to watch over him. It is the terrible sleep he may never wake from.”
I saw the toll this ordeal had taken on the poor woman. Mrs. Turner cared for Holmes in spite of the frustration he caused her. She was exhausted. I kept vigil with her for several hours, but eventually insisted she go home and get some rest. I had already rung Mary to tell her I would be staying the night. After several hours, I leaned my head forward and rested my chin on my chest and fell into a fitful sleep.
I dreamed the queerest thing as I slept slumped outside of Holmes’s hospital room. I saw my old friend appear out of nothingness on a street outside a grand estate. I did not recognize the location, but I knew it could not be England. Tropical trees filled with ripe fruit of a kind I did not recognize grew tall in the forecourt. Dust blew up from the street and mingled in the air around Holmes as he approached the large iron gates. Rather than stopping at them, he simply passed through them as if his body were immaterial. My mind’s eye followed him as he approached the grand estate and passed through its walls as easily as he had the gate.
Inside those walls, it became clear the estate was actually a castle. Alfred Habersham, or rather Alfred Clovis, for I now knew it was not my late friend, sat upon a throne at the back of the cold, expansive, stone-tiled room. His face rested in his right hand as he sat in decadent boredom before us.
“What business do you have here, detective?”
Holmes continued to walk, or rather float, toward the throne. He came to a stop, hovering just before that great chair. Young Master Clovis appeared unmoved by this extraordinary visitation.
“My business, as you say, is justice,” my friend answered. “You shall find you are still answerable to a Higher Authority than your own cunning.”
Alfred Clovis snorted in amusement, but his posture remained unchanged.
“Oh, am I now? And what authority would that be, pray tell?”
“That which none can deny when facing their Judgement. I speak of the Truth, of course. It is not a game from which the clever trickster can hide forever.”
“You have no proof,” Clovis sneered at Holmes. “These meaningless accusations are mere trifles without proof to substantiate them, and you have none to offer. Go home, detective. You are as unwanted here. Tend to your own business and leave your betters to themselves.”
“You speak of proof,” Holmes replied. “Will this suffice?”
My friend held up his right arm and a mirror seemed to appear beneath it framed by some ethereal tapestry. Upon the mirror played a series of images that I saw as if I were now staring through the eyes of Alfred Clovis. As I watched these images coalesce and recede, I obtained an understanding of what they signified.
I saw Alfred Habersham, my old friend, in his younger years looking uncannily like Alfred Clovis. I saw a young woman graced with a terrible beauty. I saw Alfred succumb to her charms. I saw my old friend, hardened with the bitterness of his falling, faced with the child that resulted from this adulterous union. I saw Olivia covered in a stony silence to mask the pain of Alfred’s betrayal. I saw Alfred Clovis grow up a privileged young man with no parents to love him, no family to nurture him, no identity to anchor him from the wayward path he chose. I saw Clovis and Olivia, but my comprehension now began to fade. I read torture upon Olivia’s face, but I could perceive nothing to indicate the nature of her interaction with Clovis. Did she know him? Was she being blackmailed or was he deceiving her into believing she was being haunted by his father’s ghost as she maintained?
The mirror went dark, and Holmes pointed a bony finger at Clovis upon his throne, “You know that for which you are condemned. Face your sins, Alfred Clovis. Accept the Judgement your actions warrant.”
Clovis’ face contorted in pain. His only response was to scream in vain like a guilty man going to the gallows.
I awoke with a start, realizing someone was shaking me.
“What is it, Sister?”
“The doctor says you may go in now,” the matron replied. “Your friend’s fever broke overnight. He is on the road to recovery.”
I was elated at the news. Holmes was extremely weak and his face was covered in sweat, but he expressed some relief at seeing me at his side. I was not allowed long to stay in the room with him, but those precious few minutes meant more than the many hours of boredom I endured as their price.
It was with the greatest pleasure that I found myself present to witness Mrs. Turner’s joy when she returned and discovered her sister’s famous tenant on the mend. Exhausted, I managed to find a cab to take me home just a few minutes before noon. Mary greeted me with enthusiasm and listened patiently to the good news about Holmes’s miraculous recovery.
“Before you go off to bed, John,” she said, patting my arm with affection, “I should let you know that Inspector Jones rang you up this morning.”
“Oh no, what did he want?”
“Now, now, don’t be ill-tempered. He only rang to tell you of the tragedy that had befallen that awful Alfred Clovis boy.”
“What tragedy? What are you talking about, Mary?”
“It seems his heart burst from shock in the middle of the night. He was asleep in his bed at the time. When the cleaning woman found him this morning, she said he looked as if he’d seen a ghost. The Inspector said to tell you that word for word. It is the queerest thing. I half-wondered whether he only wanted to make sure that Mr. Holmes and you had played no part in the matter. You know how he is about him.”
“Of course I do,” I replied, as if dreaming. “The Inspector needn’t worry. Holmes couldn’t possibly have been involved while he was in hospital suffering from brain fever...
could he?”
I climbed the stairs, pulled the blinds, undressed, and retired into my soft, warm bed. Sleep soon claimed me, and I lay slumbering through the afternoon, undisturbed by dreams and feeling numb to the tragic end of a child born of sin who would not break the fateful chains that bound him to this world.
The Verse of Death
by Matthew Booth
Those members of the public who have taken such an interest in this series of accounts of my association with Sherlock Holmes will recall that the dark affair of the Agra treasure and the revenge of Jonathan Small resulted in my own marriage to the lady who brought the case to Holmes’s notice. The natural result of my union with Mary Morstan was an inevitable yet unwelcome disassociation with Holmes. My own happiness and the domestic responsibilities with which I became endowed were sufficient to absorb all my attention but, as often as was practicable, I endeavoured to make every effort to remain in contact with him. My correspondence was seldom reciprocated, unless it was in that austere and terse manner which was peculiar to him, but when it was possible for me to visit him in his rooms in Baker Street, I think that my presence was welcome. It was on one such visit that the story of Edmund Wyke, and the sinister mystery of the verse of death, came to our attention.
It was late one afternoon towards the end of September of 1890, I have reason to recall. As we had done so often before, Holmes and I were sitting beside the fire in the familiar rooms, the smell of tobacco and close friendship hovering in the air between us. Holmes was regaling me with the details of some of his most recent exploits, the circumstances of which made me long to have been by his side. He had only that moment completed his explanation of how he had solved the riddle of the Seventh Serpent when Mrs. Hudson showed in our old comrade Inspector Lestrade, of Scotland Yard.
I had not seen the sallow official for some time and I confess it was a pleasure to shake his hand and see him sitting once again on the settee before us. Whilst my domestic happiness was not to be questioned, there was something about this familiar triumvirate in these particular circumstances and surroundings which both thrilled and comforted me.