“Right.” He paused, apparently ordering the facts inside his head before delivering them.
“Right, it goes this way. I will start with the family. The father is Mr. Samuel Cushing, a senior man in the Foreign Office. Highly respected. Cambridge. Been in the Service for over thirty years. His wife, Mrs. Sarah Cushing, is somewhat younger and comes from a family with money. They live on Ennismore Gardens, just a few blocks west of here. Just a normal, respectable, English commoner’s family with only a couple of exceptions.
“The first is their religious persuasion. They are devout adherents of the sect we call the Darbyites and very strict in their moral behavior and their abstinence from all known pleasant human vices. Not even a pinch of honeydew tobacco can cross their threshold. The second is that Mr. Cushing has an identical twin. Not only that, but the other brother also had a distinguished career, however, in the Home Office. He passed away just over a year ago. Cushing, his wife, his brother and his wife, all four of them, had revolved their lives around the endless meetings at their local Gospel Hall up in Bayswater.”
“Interesting,” Observed Holmes. “And the help? Anything about their household staff?”
“We have learned,” said Lestrade, “to always inquire about them, and so we did. There are some peculiarities, and these have given rise to yet more rumors and speculation in the press, and I must confess, among some of our police officers.”
“Yes,” said Holmes. “Please keep going, Inspector.”
“It is not uncommon among wealthy families of some of the reformist religious sects to treat their employment of help as part of what they call their “ministry.” Instead of working with reliable placement services and securing letters attesting to the character of maids and butlers and the like, they work through their church networks or they contact some of our rescue missions who are busy helping drunkards, former criminals, and fallen women to recover and establish decent lives.”
“Yes,” I interjected. “There are some excellent charities doing good work there. Those dear ladies over at the Elizabeth Fry Society are truly angels in the prisons of the land.”
“They may well be, Doctor,” acknowledged Lestrade, “but the Cushings have chosen to associate only with those charities who share their peculiar religious convictions. The maid, a buxom, pretty lass, at one time worked on the streets of the East End as a prostitute but was brought, as the Christian brothers and sisters say, to ‘a saving knowledge of her Lord and Savior’ as a result of being handed a gospel tract. The cook is an invalid, minus an arm and an eye as a result of an accident in a factory. He was found in the poorhouse by one of their Christian philanthropists and taught to work in a kitchen, and from all reports, has become quite good at it. The man-servant, a former soldier, stumbled in drunk to a Sunday evening church service, came ‘under the sound of the gospel’—whatever that is supposed to be, I do not know—and was saved and as a reward, I suppose, was given employment in the Cushing household. Again, all reports are in his favor.
“Beyond that, there is nothing to distinguish the Cushing family or their help from any other family on the block. The children, a boy and a girl, had reached sixteen and fifteen years respectively. Their names, biblically inspired I believe, are Aaron and Miriam.”
“Ah, yes,” interjected Holmes. “Possibly the only brother and sister in the Scriptures after whom one would want to name your children. Either a Mary or a Martha could have been coupled with their brother Lazarus, but the Disciples lumped that poor chap in with fish and family who begin to stink after three days. And, for rather obvious reasons, Judah and Tamar would be unfortunate. So yes, Aaron and Miriam are a good choice for our devout family’s children. Pray, continue, Inspector.”
“Right. On Saturday, the lad and his sister attended a “youth fellowship” day at their church. Youth from the Gospel Halls throughout the London area get together for such functions once a fortnight in the summer time. As far as we can tell, they played a few games, had supper together, and ended the day with a Bible study and prayer session. At seven o’clock in the evening, they left the church and walked back home, as they did on all previous occasions, through Kensington Gardens and south to Knightsbridge.
“They never made it home. They would usually appear by eight. Their parents were not alarmed until ten o’clock had passed. At eleven they went out to look for them, and at midnight they called for the police.
“Now, as I am sure you are aware, Holmes, the police get countless reports of young people who do not return home on Saturday evenings in the summer time. Invariably, they got into some harmless mischief, or they imbibed some forbidden beverage, or fell asleep at a friend’s home, or any such similar event, and we have learned not to become alarmed. The always manage to show up, shamefaced, at their parents’ door before the end of the following day. The local constables considered this report just another one of the same, and regardless of the parents’ protestations, did nothing other than sending one of their fellows on a walk through Kensington in the middle of the night, which the officer found far more pleasant than sitting all night in the police station.
“Did he now?” asked Holmes pleasantly. “And what happened when the brother and sister failed to show up the following day?”
“The next morning, that being this Sunday past,” said Lestrade, “the parents, as is their inviolable routine, attended the meetings at their church. They put the word out to all of the saints who were gathered there, asking them to report any knowledge they had. No one knew anything. So again they came to the police; this time directly to Scotland Yard. I will admit that at first we were not particularly concerned. For a child in his or her teen years to be missing for two nights is worrisome to us, but again, more often than not, they have done only what we remember wanting to do when we were young, even if we never did. They have run off to Brighton and are romping on the beach, or they are at some sporting event, or some have even run off to Paris. If the girl had been by herself, we would have been more concerned, but she was with her older brother and we reasoned that she most likely was safe. Adding to the lack of urgency was the fact, reported by the maid, that two suitcases were missing from the go-down, and many items of the children’s clothing had been removed from their wardrobes.”
“Which,” said Holmes, “would support the contention of the police and the press that they had run off on a rebellious adventure.”
“Correct,” replied Lestrade. He said nothing for a few seconds and then added, “Then, in yesterday’s post, these arrived.”
He opened an envelope and handed Holmes two oversized playing cards. Holmes passed one of them on to me. I recognized them from my time in the service. They were tarot cards, and specifically the first and second cards of the Major Arcana, The Magician and The High Priestess. I knew that they were used commonly by fortune-tellers in their divinations, but could not see any significance otherwise.
Holmes immediately pulled out his glass and spent several minutes with each of them. When he put them down, he turned to Lestrade, and in a grave voice, asked, “Did anything else come in a later post? In a small box, perhaps?”
“Aha. You spotted it. Thought you might. Have to admit that I failed to until the box arrived, and then, sure enough, we saw it too.”
“Please, both of you,” I interjected. “What did you see?”
Holmes passed me his glass and the two cards. “Observe, carefully this time, the hands.”
I did. Using the glass, I could see that on both the Magician and the High Priestess the first fingers were missing. Someone had taken a fine scalpel and cut them out, leaving a small hole in the card. Suddenly a feeling of revulsion and horror swept over me.
“Oh my good Lord,” I gasped. “What was in the box? Surely it was not what I fear.”
“Yes, Doctor,” said Lestrade. “It was exactly what you fear. Here it is. We are investigating a serious crime.”
From his satchel, he procured a small yellow cardboard box an
d placed it on the table in front of us. He removed the lid and inside I saw two human fingers. The fingers were not a pair. One was somewhat larger than the other and had a fingernail that was closely trimmed. The other, shorter and more slender, had a fingernail that was longer and carefully shaped. They were packed in salt. The end of them had been cleanly severed with a sharp instrument, most likely in one fell swoop.
“What sort of monster would do such a thing?” I said.
“To that,” replied Lestrade, “I have no answer. However, you can now see why I sent for you.”
“I do see,” said Holmes. I looked at my friend. It was usual for his eyes to sparkle with anticipation when a new case was presented to him. That, however, was not the look I saw in his eyes this time. What I saw was alarm, fear perhaps. Urgency. The stern gravity of what was in front of us had hardened his features. I knew that every cell in his exceptional brain was on alert, every muscle in his body, and every strand of emotion in his will had all been galvanized and were already fully engaged in the hunt.
In a slow, deliberate voice, he asked, “And was there any note, any demand received with these?”
“Not immediately with them,” explained Lestrade. “In a later post, though, this note arrived.”
He handed a second envelope to Holmes. I could see that it was addressed to Mr. Samuel Cushing, Ennismore Gardens, Knightsbridge. Holmes opened the envelope, removed the letter, and read it. He handed the envelope over to me as he did so. After several minutes, he retrieved the envelope from me and handed me the letter. Typed on the page were a few words:
One thousand pounds, Mr. Cushing, or everything you hold near and dear in your life will be destroyed.
Lestrade had learned, after many years of working with Sherlock Holmes, to be patient while Holmes looked over the evidence at hand. For five full minutes, nothing was said. Holmes then laid the letter and the envelope on the table.
“We have,” said Holmes, “some leads to follow. Not terribly good ones, but a start.”
“What leads? And just explain, Holmes,” snapped Lestrade. “You know I have no time for any of your riddles.”
“What little we have to begin with is this,” Holmes said. “Tarot cards have been around for several hundred years and there are countless versions and designs used by soothsayers, fortune tellers, and similar charlatans. But this specific design, with these pictures, is very new. It was released less than one month ago. The printing was done by the Rider Press. You can see their mark on the backside. The designs themselves were drawn by a professional illustrator, a Miss Pamela Smith. The project was sponsored by a fellow named Arthur Waite. The cards have never been used for any other reason. They are fresh and crisp. You can still smell the ink on them. They had not been removed from their box prior to being put to this awful use.”
“Arthur Waite?” I queried. “Not that mystic fellow from up Islington way. He is quite the strange one, I hear.”
“The same,” said Holmes. “There was an announcement of the new printing three weeks back in one of our wretched tabloid newspapers. There are likely no more than a hundred of the decks sold to date, and most likely all to the community of clairvoyants. That is a broad field to sort through, but it is a start.
“The ransom demand was typed on a late-model Royal typewriter. There are thousands of them extant, but perhaps fewer that are also owned by occultists. The notepaper and envelope are of exceptional quality. Not the kind you would purchase at any general goods store, but one carried only by a select group of stationers. There are no more than a dozen such merchants in the city of London. It is not at all certain that the kidnapper is from London, but it is a reasonable premise on which to begin our searches. And the typist is a man, not a woman. That is evident by the forcefulness with which the keys have been struck. That is all the evidence we had so far but we may take it that the sender of this letter is the man we want.
“However, if you will permit me, Inspector, it is possible that more evidence may be found in the Cushing home, which is only a few blocks from here. I assume that in calling us to Knightsbridge, you did so with the intention of having us visit the home and the family.”
“Right, again, Holmes. That was obvious. So yes, let us be on our way over there. The worst of the heat is gone from the day and it will not kill us to walk.”
Chapter Three
A Family Terrorized
ENNISMORE GARDENS IS A LOVELY neighborhood that is centered on a small park and located part way between Knightsbridge Road and Brompton Road. The row of four-story white brick houses, neat and trim, with whitened steps and black doors, are not quite as posh as those inhabited by our bluebloods in Mayfair and Belgravia, but they are not to be sneezed at all the same. The families who enjoy the view of the gardens and mature trees are mostly from the upper middle classes, with well-paid positions in His Majesty’s civil services, or among the barristers and solicitors of the Inner Temple. It struck me that an enterprising kidnapper might have done far better for himself by abducting one of the scions of our nobility than the children of a civil servant, and it occurred to me, as I am sure it had already to Holmes, that perhaps money was not the only factor involved.
The Cushing family lived on the west side of the Gardens in a substantial house. A police wagon was parked in front of the door and a dozen of our parasitical press were huddled on the sidewalk. Lestrade had his carriage let us off as close to the door as possible. Holmes pulled his hat down over his forehead and we moved quickly from the curb to the front door, hoping not to be recognized by our vultures from Fleet Street.
It was to no avail. No sooner had we passed than I heard a voice shout out, “Crikey! Isn’t that Sherlock Holmes?”
“Aye. ‘Tis,” came a reply. “There’s somethin’ to this if the Yard is callin’ in Sherlock Holmes.”
Immediately questions were shouted at Holmes, mostly containing the presupposition that the children of this excessively religious family might have turned towards the pleasures of the flesh. We ignored them and entered the home.
A tall, slender man-servant led us through the house to the back section, where it was decidedly cooler, and into the library. There we sat and waited for the master and mistress of the house to join us. In the hallway and in the library I had observed a variety of items adorning the walls. Several were framed and glassed posters bearing verses from the Bible. Others were paintings, some original oils, and others copies of scenes from the biblical narratives, or from some artist’s imagining of the devotional life. In one large painting, the Lord was breaking bread with two of his followers who had astonishment written all over their faces. In another, an oversized Jesus had his hand on the shoulder of a well-formed young man who was steering a ship through a treacherous storm. Curiously, on the wall opposite the desk, there was a familiar print of Christ but on each side were prints that had no spiritual connotation. One was quite well-known—General Gordon’s Last Stand—in which Charles “Chinese” Gordon, defending the British garrison in Khartoum, is portrayed standing defiantly at the top of the stairs while the forces of the Madhi ascend, deadly spears in hand. The second was, I was quite sure, a portrait of the American clergyman, Henry Ward Beecher. His presence seemed odd, given that he was known to be far-removed in his religious beliefs from those practiced by the Darbyite Brethren. I would have gone over for a closer look but at that moment, Mr. and Mrs. Cushing entered the room.
Samuel Cushing was a fit man in his early fifties. He was somewhat taller than me and a little shorter than Holmes. He had a full head of hair that was once black and now speckled with shades of gray. His handsome face looked tired and his eyes looked out over bags of weariness. His wife was obviously at least fifteen years younger than her husband. Even without a trace of powder or lipstick, it was apparent that she was a physically beautiful woman, a tall, brunette, and with eyes of an unusual grey-blue shade. The flesh immediately surrounding her eyes was reddened and one could tell that she had been in tears
shortly before our arrival. Her face was wan and pale. Both of these good people were under considerable duress.
We stood and greeted them as Lestrade performed the introductions. When Mr. Cushing heard the name “Sherlock Holmes,” he turned immediately and looked in amazement at my colleague.
“My goodness,” he exclaimed. “Is there really a Sherlock Holmes? I had thought you were nothing but a work of fiction, made up out of whole cloth by some scribbler for The Strand. Forgive me if I seem surprised that such a fabulous figure should exist in flesh and blood.”
Holmes was not amused but graciously responded, “I assure you, sir, that I do indeed exist and that the stories of my accomplishments, somewhat sensationalized by my friend here, Doctor Watson, are factually true, all of them.”
“You must be joking,” said Mr. Cushing, incredulously. “The only one I ever read, and I remember it clearly, told of some bizarre doctor who had a pet snake that he had trained to sip milk from a saucer, then go and bite someone and kill them, and then, upon hearing a whistle, return through the air vent to his little home inside a metal safe. Since no such creature has ever or could ever exist, the story was patent nonsense, of the same order as the American writer, Poe, and his monstrous shaving ape who decapitated the neighbors, but was then identified by some pedantic Frenchman named Lupin. Anyone who believes such lunacy belongs in Bed’lam.”
I could see Holmes’s entire body tensing. A touch of sangfroid deep within my soul made a point of remembering this incident for future reference. Given the gravity of the reason for our visit, I also refrained from mentioning to Mr. Cushing that his peculiar Christian sect firmly believed in the literal account of a talking snake who might not have been trained to sip milk but had successfully seduced a naked woman by way of an apple.
Sherlock Holmes smiled and, discretion being the better part of valor, moved on to the matters at hand.
“I know sir, and lady, that you are in a state of terrible stress and worry for your children and all I can do is promise you that I will devote my abilities, which I assure you are not fictional, to finding your children and returning them safely to you.”
Sherlock Holmes Never Dies- Collection Four Page 16