The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories Part II

by David Marcum

  “Well, Lestrade,” said Holmes, “what brings you to our door? I trust you have been busy since we saw you last during that little affair of the McCarthy murder at the Boscombe Pool?”

  Lestrade shook his head. “A bad business that was, Mr. Holmes, I can’t deny it, but it was nothing compared to the investigation upon which I am currently engaged.”

  Holmes’s eyes glistened in anticipation. “Having a little difficulty, eh?”

  “It is a queer business, sir, and no mistake. You may perhaps have heard of the retired financier, Edmund Wyke?”

  “The name recalls nothing to my mind.”

  “He is a man of considerable wealth, known both for his ruthless sense of business and also his philanthropic endeavours. He is patron of a number of charitable foundations but, conversely, he is responsible for the ruin of many a competitor. He resides in an isolated house called Cawthorne Towers, down in Kent. When I say isolated, you may take it I am not exaggerating. It stands in its own extensive grounds, protected by any outside influence by a high stone wall. Any guest to the house is, I gather, permitted only by express invitation and after careful consideration. I hesitate to say that you could find any property or household so self-contained or cut off from outside influences.”

  “This man, Wyke, is a man who craves his privacy, it seems,” remarked Holmes.

  “You may say so.”

  “And what has befallen him?”

  “He is dead, Mr. Holmes. He was found last night, in his bed chamber, stabbed through the heart.”

  Holmes considered his fingernails. “There does not seem to be very much in the way of interest for me, Lestrade. Despite our friendly rivalry, you are an able and efficient officer. Is a case of simple murder not within your own province?”

  “In normal circumstances, I should not dream of disturbing you, Mr. Holmes. But, you see, the man was dead in the room and there was no trace of any disturbance, nor any means by which any human agency could have entered the room.”

  “No forced entry?”

  “None.”

  “The doors and windows?”

  “All locked. A rat could not have entered the place.”

  Holmes yawned. “I have yet to investigate any crime committed by a flying creature. A locked room mystery always has an explanation. You recall the Speckled Band case, Watson? That, too, was presented as an impossible mystery, but the solution was only too evident once the facts were considered.”

  Lestrade shifted in his seat and, from his pocket, produced some folded papers. “I did not think to entice you with the sealed room alone, Mr. Holmes, although that in itself is enough to beat me. But, I thought you might be intrigued by these.”

  Holmes took the papers from the inspector. “What are they?”

  “Mr. Wyke received them over the course of the week prior to his death. They are little poems, Mr. Holmes. But, if I am not much mistaken, they warn the man of his own impending death.”

  I confess that at these words a shudder passed through me, but Holmes remained as impassive and controlled as ever. His eyes betrayed that glimmer which told me that, despite his austere exterior, he was inwardly excited by Lestrade’s news. I moved behind Holmes and leaned over his shoulder to examine with him these strange portents of death. They were written in printed capitals and there was nothing distinctive about either the ink or the paper.

  The first ran as follows:

  In hatred and shame you die.

  Of guilt must be made your coffin.

  Lay down your head and perish.

  For it comes for you as it came for me,

  A death which none can deny,

  Not least those souls who are innocent.

  The second ran thus:

  The maiden of vengeance must serve

  As my cruel replevin.

  Centuries of wrong will she avenge;

  And to our deaths will she lead us.

  Her lips will touch us both and carry on them

  The kiss of the guilty.

  For some moments, Sherlock Holmes read the curious verses over and over again, his brows furrowed and his eyes squinting against the tobacco fumes of his pipe. For our part, Lestrade and I remained silent, both of us more than aware that in such moments of concentration, Holmes’s greatest ally was silence.

  “What do you make of them?” Holmes asked suddenly.

  Lestrade shrugged. “I can make nothing of them.”

  Holmes gave a quick smile. “I fancy that the author of these fascinating verses gives Shelley and his comrades no reason to fear for their reputations. But there is something very serious behind this, if I am not mistaken. Who alerted you to these messages?”

  “It was Mrs. Agatha Wyke, the dead man’s wife. A stern and proud woman.”

  “She knew of their existence?”

  “Mrs. Wyke says she and her husband had no secrets.”

  Holmes lowered his gaze momentarily. “Every man has his secrets. Who else knew of these curious threats?”

  “Mrs. Wyke insists that she was the only one aware of them.”

  Holmes gave a curt nod. “Now, tell me, Lestrade, who are the other members of the Wyke household?”

  Lestrade aided his memory with the use of his official notebook. “There is the dead man’s wife, as I have told you, and there is their son, Sebastian, a somewhat wayward young man if I am any judge, Mr. Holmes. There is a small staff, led by the butler, Jacobs.”

  “Is that all?”

  “No, there is a friend of the family who is staying with them for the weekend. His name is Dr. James Lomax.”

  “I have heard of him,” said I. “He wrote a splendid article in the Lancet not so long ago on the hereditary nature of disease.”

  “He is a level headed man, fiercely practical from what I have seen of him,” advised the inspector. “He it was who took charge of the situation when the body was discovered.”

  Holmes leaned forward in his chair. “Pray, give us the precise sequence of events.”

  “I had better start with the previous night, that is to say two nights ago. The household, including Dr. Lomax, had assembled for dinner and the evening had been pleasant enough. Over the post prandial brandy, however, Wyke and Sebastian exchanged heated words which resulted in a somewhat fraught quarrel. It culminated with Sebastian asking Dr. Lomax for the hour, as he wished to retire and he could stand the company of his father no more. He wished Wyke would go to the Devil, and that if he would it would cleanse the very air they breathed.”

  “Violent words which he must surely regret now,” I observed.

  “Just so, Doctor, and words which you might expect me to interpret with some suspicion in light of subsequent events. But, Mr. Holmes, if I have learned one thing only from my association with you, it is to keep an open mind.”

  “Very wise,” murmured Holmes with a sardonic twist to his voice.

  “Well, after Sebastian had stormed out of the room, Lomax strove to convince Wyke to make it up with his son at once. He said it did no one any good to go to sleep without resolving an argument, but Wyke was defiant. ‘If the lad wishes to make up before sleep, he may do so,’ said he, ‘but I see no reason to do so. Let him calm down before I make any attempt to speak to him.’ This approach is, I believe, typical of the man.”

  “What was this quarrel about?” asked Holmes.

  Lestrade shrugged. “What are quarrels between father and son ever about? Love or money, in my experience. In this case, it was money. Sebastian is an errant youth, as I have said, Mr. Holmes, and he is in deep with the wrong crowd.”

  “The gaming tables?”

  “Precisely so. His father has been too generous with him before over money matters, and he now refuses to come to his aid. Sebastian has viewed the refusal
as some form of betrayal.” Lestrade looked back to Sherlock Holmes. “Now, Mr. Holmes, we get to the core of the matter. The following morning, Mr. Wyke did not appear for breakfast. It was his custom to rise early and take a stroll in the grounds, so he was usually the first to rise. The fact he was not up and about when the rest of the house rose was sufficient to cause concern. Lomax, Sebastian, and Mrs. Wyke all went to Wyke’s bedroom, accompanied by the faithful Jacobs, and they found that his door was locked. Sebastian knocked but could get no response. Lomax made his own attempt but got the same reply. He kneeled to the lock and found that he could not see into the room, which showed that the key was in the lock. Thus, together, the three men threw themselves against the door and broke into the room.

  “Once inside, they found Wyke lying on the floor. He was on his back and, in his heart, there was one of his own ceremonial daggers which was known to be one of a pair which hung on the wall of his study. The alarm was raised and the local police called in. I was summoned almost at once, and I have spent the morning making my enquiries. As soon as I heard about the threatening poems, I thought of you, Mr. Holmes, and I came straight round to see you.”

  Holmes had been sitting with his fingertips together and his eyes closed, but now he rose from his chair and stood before the fire. “You did wisely, Lestrade. Now, tell me. Has anything in that bedroom been touched?”

  “Nothing. I have a constable on guard by the door.”

  “Excellent. Now, I have one or two other matters to attend to today. Would it be convenient if I came down to this house early tomorrow morning, Lestrade?”

  “Certainly,” replied the little professional.

  “Capital. Watson, you are not averse to accompanying me? I trust the redoubtable Mrs. Watson and your long suffering patients can spare you for one day?”

  Having heard the prelude to this strange story, I felt unable to deny myself the opportunity of witnessing its conclusion. “I would not miss it for the world, Holmes, and my practice is never very absorbing.”

  “Splendid, my faithful Watson. Be back here for seven o’clock and we shall breakfast together before catching the train. Farewell, Lestrade, and we shall be with you tomorrow morning to continue our investigation into what promises to be a most fascinating case.”

  I have stated elsewhere that Sherlock Holmes had the remarkable power of detaching his mind at will. When I met him on that following morning, it was as though the whole story surrounding the inexplicable murder of Edmund Wyke had never come to his attention. For myself, I confess that the previous evening had found me distracted by the whole business, and I fear I had been poor company for my wife. She had retired early, but I had stayed up beyond a reasonable hour, trying to discover some clue in the sequence of events which Lestrade had set out. My researches, I confess, were in vain. However, when I met with Sherlock Holmes for breakfast, he was full of energy, and I had that familiar sensation that already he had seized upon some clue which remained far beyond my grasp. Not one word would he utter of the whole business, though, until we had arrived at the railway station and been greeted by Lestrade.

  “Well, Mr. Holmes, have you had chance to consider the matter?” asked the detective.

  “Certainly. There are particular features of interest to the student of crime which make the matter of specific interest.”

  Lestrade glowed with a triumphant arrogance. “I have not been idle myself, although I confess I ought to have spared your time. With the exception of a few loose threads, the matter is at an end.”

  “You do not mean that you have solved it?”

  “I have my man, although he has yet to confess.”

  A glance at my companion’s face showed that his anxiety had risen. To me, who knew his manner so well, his composure seemed shaken and the pale tone of his gaunt features seemed to intensify. His eyes remained as keen as ever but it was evident that he was disturbed by the inspector’s confidence.

  “You have made an arrest?”

  “Just so.” Lestrade reached into his pocket and produced a small envelope. From it, he dropped a ruby encrusted watch charm into his hand. “A further examination of the body has revealed that this was found in the dead man’s hand. He must have wrenched it from the culprit’s watch as he slumped to the floor.”

  Holmes had clutched at the charm between his thin fingers and he had begun to examine it with his lens. “There is no sign of damage.”

  “What of it?”

  “Perhaps nothing,” said Holmes, with a shrug. “To whom does this belong?”

  Lestrade was unable to keep the chime of victory out of his voice. “I have identified it as belonging to Sebastian Wyke.”

  “The son with the gambling debts?” I recalled.

  “The same, Dr. Watson, and a man whose need for money has now brought him into more troubled waters than he could have foreseen.”

  Holmes handed the watch charm back to Lestrade. “You consider the murder to be the natural sequel to the quarrel of which you told us.”

  “Do you not agree?”

  Holmes shrugged. “Possibly, but I prefer to reserve my position until such time as I have had the opportunity of seeing for myself all that there is to see.”

  Lestrade chuckled. “You will have your little ways, Mr. Holmes, and no mistake. If you will come this way, I have a dog cart waiting, for it is a fair drive along this country track to the house.”

  Despite the invigorating briskness of the breeze which assaulted our faces, the weather was not inclement and there was a shadow of the summer sun still in the sky. The surrounding countryside and its rolling green hills was a treat for the eye, and were it not for the memory of the dark crusade upon which we were engaged, I would have admired it with the fond eye of a man who is proud of his country. And yet, the track along which we rattled was sombre and uninteresting. Lestrade was not guilty of exaggeration, for the narrow lane leading to Cawthorne Towers seemed to me to make the journey seem interminable.

  Lestrade had spoken of its isolation but I had not been prepared for the extent of it. The high wall of which we had heard was sufficient to discourage visitors, so forbidding was it, and the huge iron gates which formed the entrance to the fortress itself were no less relentless in their obstruction. Beyond these imposing fortifications, the Jacobean manor house glared at us from its incongruously beautiful lawns. The windows were like malevolent eyes peering at us maliciously, as though daring us to approach. It was as though the house had shunned any form of social activity, and as though no external influences were desired or to be permitted, save the passing of time which had left its mark in the lichen and faded colours of the bricks.

  We drove up the winding path to the house, and we were ushered inside by a lean, cadaverous old man whom it was impossible not to identify with Jacobs the butler, of whom we had heard. Holmes exchanged a few words with him, but nothing of any further importance could be added to the account which Lestrade had given us in Baker Street, and we made our way upstairs to the bedroom which had been the scene of the tragedy. We were halfway up the stairs when a man’s voice called out to Lestrade and halted us in our tracks. Looking to the foot of the stairs, I saw a man of rather more than forty racing up towards us. He was a handsome man, with hair as black as the most fearful twilight, and eyes which betrayed a keen intelligence.

  “Is this Mr. Sherlock Holmes, of whom you spoke?” he asked of our official companion.

  It was Holmes who spoke. “That is my name, Dr. Lomax.”

  The man stared. “How do you know my name, sir?”

  “The inspector here advised me that there was a man by the name of Dr. James Lomax in the house, and your watch chain bears the initials “J.L”. If any doubt remained, it is not difficult to discern a doctor from the trace of iodine on his left forefinger.”

  The doctor let out a wry chuckle. “For a m
oment, I thought you had done something extraordinary, Mr. Holmes, but I see that it is nothing more than a conjuring trick.”

  “Just so. Now, gentlemen, perhaps we can continue to the bed chamber.”

  The room in question was along a dark, oak panelled corridor on the second floor of the house. It was furnished opulently, if in a somewhat old fashioned style. A large four poster bed with delicate veils tied to each post was the central, imposing figure of the room, and the dark crimson stain next to it, which was so familiar a sight to us in our dark investigations, showed where the man Wyke had fallen down dead. The body had been removed, but the mark on the carpet at our feet gave the unmistakable impression that it still lay before us, its horror displayed for us all to see.

  “May I examine the weapon?” asked Holmes.

  “Yes, I have it here,” replied Lestrade, handing over the blade. “It is of a rather ornate design, as you can see.”

  It was a beautiful object, although its present purpose had diminished its splendour. The handle was carved ivory, decorated with a number of emeralds of the most vivid green. The guard was carved into two claws of advancing menace, and the blade itself curved slightly to its deadly point. There was still the trace of the dead man’s blood smeared across the blade.

  “A fascinating object,” said Holmes. “And it is one of a pair, I believe.”

  “That is correct.”

  “It was no secret that they were kept in the study, as I understand it?”

  “No, they were displayed on the wall.”

  “It is certainly a dramatic choice of weapon,” remarked Holmes. “It is of course a ceremonial dagger, used by a certain ancient cult of assassins for specific forms of executions.”

  Lomax nodded his appreciation. “It is a dagger of the El-Khalikan Cult of ancient Egyptian assassins. They used it to execute those members who had transcended the code of conduct.”

  “In particular, those assassins who knowingly murdered innocent people who were not political targets, if my memory serves me well.”

  “It serves you perfectly well. You are well read, Mr. Holmes.”