The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories - Part VII

by David Marcum

  My friend just smiled at my questions. That was one of his most irritating traits. I decided to ignore him and have my breakfast. I had just filled my plate when Mr. Orrey arrived. Our client looked as if he had spent the intervening hours not sleeping in a comfortable hotel bed, but instead pacing the streets of London. He dropped onto our sofa and looked up at Sherlock Holmes, clearly exhausted. His coat was dirty, his tweed suit was wrinkled, his hair was rumpled, and there was a grey cast to his complexion that I did not like. Despite the hour, I brought him a small brandy. He gulped it down without taking his eyes from my friend’s face.

  “Have you eaten?” asked Holmes sharply.

  Mr. Orrey slowly shook his head. “I don’t remember.”

  Sherlock Holmes piled a plate full of ham and eggs from the platter Mrs. Hudson had brought up earlier. He handed it to our client. The two of us ate in silence. Holmes pressed a cup of coffee on Mr. Orrey and resumed his seat in the armchair. He stretched out his hand and picked up the telegraph forms from where he had left them.

  “I have been investigating the origins of your clock, Mr. Orrey. I have a friend in New Orleans, and he sent me answers to several questions that I asked him by telegraph. Abner Wondowner had that clock made to his design by the Chicago Chiming Clock Company on Canal Street, and had it sent to his store in New Orleans. After a few days, he shipped it to you, along with some other ordinary tall-case clocks. Then he booked a stateroom on the next fast steamer to Liverpool and left New Orleans.”

  “Abner Wondowner is here in England?”

  “He has been here for several weeks.”

  “I had no idea, Mr. Holmes. What do you think he is planning to do?” Mr. Orrey had a sudden thought. “Do you think my daughter Dorit is in danger?”

  “I cannot be certain, but I think it a good idea that you and I and Dr. Watson take the first train to Mousehole.”

  I went upstairs to pack a quick traveling bag. As I came down the steps, I noticed that Holmes had also packed a grip, but carried in his other hand a small square case which tinkled faintly as he passed me. I wondered what was in it, but from the set of my friend’s jaw I was reluctant to inquire.

  Within half-an-hour, the three of us were in a first-class carriage rattling across the miles of countryside to Cornwall. Our client sat in one corner and intently watched Holmes’s every move. Since my friend spent most of the time silently staring out of the window and puffing on his pipe, Mr. Orrey must have had a boring trip. I was silent also. I knew Holmes of old and recognized that he was turning over the facts of the case in his mind before he said anything to us. Once, when I reached to the window in an effort to open it and dispel some of the tobacco smoke, I was stopped by Holmes’s sharp glance and abrupt gesture. He had told me once that a concentrated atmosphere helped him in his thinking. I sat back and made no more moves. Instead, I spent the time thinking about the known facts myself.

  Mr. Richard Orrey had spent years of his life in New Orleans. His wife was even buried there. After she died, he attended séances, trying to reach the afterlife. Later, he had believed enough in the supernatural to set a curse against an unsuitable suitor for his daughter’s hand. He must have a great deal of knowledge of spells, voodoo Legbas, charms, amulets, witch doctors, and the like, picked up in the normal course of life in the South. Could this tall-case clock really be cursed in order to punish him for past dark deeds he had perpetuated during his life in America? Did it have something to do with the death of his late wife? What was the ghost’s origin? Who was Abner Wondowner? Merely a spurned gentleman caller interested in Orrey’s daughter, or a malignant force bent upon revenge? Why had Orrey continued to do business with the man after the incident of the dual curses?

  I shook my head. It was as baffling to me then as when our travel began. Finally the train pulled into Penzance Station. We disembarked and hailed a hack to take us to Mousehole.

  This day was overcast, as was the day before. We were driven down the Cliff Road to Mousehole, about two-and-one-half miles from Penzance. On the left was a magnificent view of the ocean, massive wave upon wave breaking and crashing against the enormous rocks that lined the bottom of the high cliff that gave the road its name. I knew that the high water was a sign of a storm out at sea that was soon to hit land. On the right, beyond the row of trees that edged the meadows next to the road, were crooked dry walls that ran back into the countryside. A few stone farmhouses could be seen in the distance, half hidden by the folds of the land. I heard gull cries and saw a few seabirds in the sky. It seemed no time at all until we were rolling up to the handsome house perched on the edge of the bluff overlooking Mount Bay, just at the east edge of Mousehole.

  Bluff House was a large edifice, made of yellow stone and grounded upon the granite bedrock of the coast. A graveled approach led to the front porch. Its colonnade ran from one end of the old house to the other. Over its roof loomed two more stories, the windows rimmed with white quoins, as were the corners. The landscaping was minimal because the front lawn ended at the cliff’s edge, only twenty yards beyond the graveled drive’s edge.

  The back grounds of the house were more spacious, with small outbuildings and a stone stable in the corner of the property. There was even room for a kitchen garden and a few flowerbeds. Mr. Orrey explained that the rest of his land was located across Cliff Road and was rented to farmers.

  Orrey opened the front door. On the twisting staircase that led upstairs stood a young woman, dressed in a stylish dress, with her blonde hair put up in a simple chignon.

  Our client had a question after they greeted each other and Holmes and I were introduced. “Where is Maurice? Why isn’t he here?”

  A shadow passed over her delicate features. “He has been taken ill, Dad. Last night his hands broke out in blisters and he developed a fever. I called Dr. Jera and he came out at once. He had no answer for what has caused the blisters, but he left a salve. He will be back again this afternoon. Meanwhile, I had the cook prepare a light lunch against your return. It’s spread out in the dining room.”

  “If Dr. Jera doesn’t object, perhaps Dr. Watson could accompany him when he visits the butler,” said Holmes.

  Mr. Orrey shrugged his shoulders. “As you wish.”

  After a hasty meal, Holmes and I were led into the Great Hall where the clock stood. It was a broad, lofty room, well stocked with a mixture of old antique furniture and some more modern additions. Paintings hung from the crown molding and faded but valuable carpets covered the floor. The entire place struck me as imposing, yet homely. It was a comfortable room. I liked it at once.

  Sherlock Holmes went straight to the tall-case clock. He pulled out his magnifying lens from his pocket and examined the entire timepiece from top to bottom. As he did so, he whistled and talked aloud.

  “Ah, this is a handsome clock. Made from hickory, as advertised. Hand-carved! A lot of time and thought went into this creation. Look, Watson, at the three-dimensional panels! Scenes of the American South, I’ll be bound! Crape Myrtle trees, live oak, even palmettos! Look at the fine detail of the Spanish moss dripping down from the oaks. See the animals that inhabit the swamps. Delicate mosquitoes, chunky alligators, half-hidden opossums, raccoons, and armadillos. There are even cypress trees. Here is a pack of hunting dogs, with a gang of men behind them carrying rifles and sacks. Here on the base is the image of New Orleans’ Jackson Square, with the plaza full of men and women and the steeple of the great cathedral rising behind them. On the sides are street scenes, featuring the New Orleans wrought-iron balconies that adorn the old French Quarter buildings. A wonderful example of craftsmanship.”

  Holmes concentrated on the large dial that rested behind the glass-fronted panel. He looked at the beveled glass, opening the door which offered access not only to the gilt dial but also the chains and hanging weights shaped like graceful herons that propelled the timepiece. He carefully inspect
ed the clock-face itself.

  The dial was etched with images of Louisiana’s wild flowers, picked out in blue and pink against a golden background. Wild orchids and magnolias vied with the bougainvillea and wisteria around the dial. The numerals each corresponded with a different bloom, and the end result was most pleasing. After a few minutes, Holmes moved to the small panel on the left side of the clock which, when opened, let access to the inner workings of the timepiece. He pulled out a small penknife and poked about for a few moments. He closed the side panel and returned to the dial, chains, and the hands of the clock-face. Mr. Orrey and I were startled when he began scraping small flakes of paint off of each!

  Holmes carefully placed the flakes into a clean envelope and placed it in his notebook. I looked at him with curiosity. “Why did you do that, Holmes?” I asked.

  “You know my methods, Watson. Mr. Orrey, I require that no one else handle that clock until my investigation is complete. Now, I think I hear the doctor at the door. It is time to speak to M. Maurice Mulot.”

  Dr. Jena was an older, short and portly man with a fluffy white beard and a head of hair to match. He had no objection to a second opinion, and all of us accompanied him into the sickroom. It was a plainly-furnished room in the servants’ quarters. The butler was stretched out on a neatly made iron bedstead. A woman dressed in a maid’s uniform was applying wet cloths to his forehead. His bandaged hands lay on the coverlet, and Dr. Jena was silent as he slowly unwrapped them.

  I examined the exposed flesh with interest. Large blisters, red and inflamed, weeping noxious liquid, ravaged the fingers and palms of the butler. They looked like burns. Dr. Jena asked Mulot how he came to be injured, but the suffering man had no answer. The doctor cleaned the wounds, applied salve, and rebandaged his hands. He checked Mulot for fever and clucked softly at the results. He wrote out a couple of prescriptions and handed them to the maid with verbal instructions about the pain and fever treatments.

  Sherlock Holmes bent over the patient. “M. Mulot, can you answer a few question? My name is Sherlock Holmes and I am investigating how you were injured.”

  The sick man shifted his attention to my friend. “Of course, sir,” he murmured.

  “Did you touch something hot during the past few days? Is that how you burned your hands?”

  “No, sir.”

  “The dial and workings of the clock are the only new things you have touched?”

  “Yes. I set up the clock and adjusted the dial several times.”

  “How long after you first touched the clock did your symptoms begin?”

  “The next day. First there was a redness, but it seemed minor. This morning, I woke up from the pain and my hands were like this. You are not a doctor, M. Holmes. How can you help me?”

  “I do not know yet, M. Mulot. I will do my best, however.” Holmes patted the man on the shoulder and left the room.

  The four of us regrouped in the hallway, leaving the woman with the patient. Holmes turned to the doctor and me. “What is your diagnosis, Doctors?”

  I considered the symptoms for several moments. I conferred with Dr. Jena and we agreed. “Those burns on his hands must have come from contact with a flame or touching a heated surface. What is odd is that he has no recollection of doing so.”

  Holmes nodded. “Mr. Orrey, I think I need to see the other clocks in that shipment.”

  “Certainly. They are stored in an unused room in the back of the house.”

  Dr. Jera left. We followed Mr. Orrey to the remaining clocks. They stood upright in a line, the front side of each packing case open. The clocks were packed in Excelsior and the excess littered the floor. None of the tall-case clocks displayed the lavish detail and fine carvings that adorned the one that stood in the Great Hall. Holmes brought out his lens again and went carefully over each clock, including the inner works and the illuminated dials. He took samples from each clock like he had from the first timepiece. Finally, he put the magnifying glass in his pocket and turned to us.

  “It is getting late. Is there a decent inn in Mousehole?”

  “There is the Ratonera on High Street. But surely we can make you comfortable here, Mr. Holmes - both you and Dr. Watson.”

  “I thank you for your offer, Mr. Orrey, but I think under the circumstances, it would serve your case better if we stayed at the Ratonera.”

  As we left by the front door, Dorit was standing there with a paper in her hand. She looked stricken.

  Her father went to her. “What is it, my dear?” She handed him the note.

  “It came for Dr. Jena. He gave it to me before he left.” There were tears in her eyes.

  Holmes glanced at it then passed it to me. “This says that Winston Looper has been afflicted with the same malady that struck M. Maurice Mulot. That is the name of your fiancé, is it not, Miss Orrey?”

  “Yes! Dad, I must go to him!” She was already pulling on her coat. The sky had darkened and the promised storm clouds were building on the western horizon.

  Holmes and I were dropped at the inn. Soon we accepted our room keys from the manager. I went upstairs while Holmes lingered below. My room was on the floor above Holmes’s. When I finished unpacking, I went to find him. His door was locked. From behind the panels, I could hear the clinking of glass and a pungent smell. “Good night, Watson,” he called. “I will see you at breakfast... perhaps.”

  The storm broke that night. I watched from my bedroom window as black clouds rolled over the bay, streaked in purple and crimson. High winds whipped up the water and drove blinding rain to cascade down from the invisible sky, drenching both land and sea. Trees whipped back and forth as if they wanted to fly off the face of the earth. Leaves and trash flew past my window. Thunder rumbled and banged while lightning shot with white crooked fingers across my view. The violence of Nature was powerful beyond expectation. At last, after a number of hours, I finally went to bed. Any noises from Holmes’s room were covered by the turmoil of the gale.

  Sherlock Holmes wasn’t visible when I came downstairs the next morning. The manager only said he had gone out in the middle of the night. I left for Bluff House without breakfast. Mr. Orrey was alone in the dining room. He told me that the butler was a little better - Dr. Jena had already visited him and left - that Dorit was at the Looper home taking care of Winston, who was improving, and that he had no idea where Holmes was. He offered me kippers and coffee.

  After I ate, I strolled out onto the porch to smoke my first cigarette of the day. The storm was just dying away. There were gaps in the treeline that showed where some trees had been toppled by the wind during the night. Torn leaves and twigs piled up against the foundation and over the gravel drive. Below the house on the shingle, a couple of rowboats had been driven up on the rocks and smashed. I saw Holmes leaning over one of the wrecks, pulling on a dark mass half covered by wet sand. As I watched, two constables ran up to him from the Mousehole side. The three men conferred, then Holmes looked up the cliff and saw me standing at its edge. He waved and made his way up the steep path to Bluff House.

  “Good morning, my dear Watson,” he caroled. He was in a very good mood. There could be only one reason.

  “You have solved the case,” I said. Holmes did not reply, but went straight into the Great Hall where Richard Orrey stood in front of the clock. He turned to us as we entered.

  “Mr. Holmes? Any news?”

  “Yes. Please take a seat. You too, Watson. I have a tale to tell and I think you will find it of interest, Mr. Orrey. My researches of the past few days have come to a conclusion and I now have the complete story of your mysterious clock.”

  Holmes began to pace up and down the room as we settled into arm chairs. His white, nervous fingers were clasped behind his back as was his custom, except when he unlocked them to wave them as he made a special point.

  “You thought this c
ase began a few days ago, when your tall-case clock began malfunctioning. In reality, it started when your wife died. With the help of Abner Wondowner, you were guided to a medium. You visited her twice, then stopped. Wondowner became interested in that world, but over time he switched from spiritualism to voodoo, which had many adherents locally. When Abner Wondowner was rejected by your daughter, he turned to voodoo to gain his ends. The curse on you was the result.

  “When that plan failed, he thought of another. His obsession toward Dorit had not lessened. Wondowner spent time creating the perfect plan. He had this clock made in Chicago and shipped to his warehouse in New Orleans. He had deliberately designed this beautiful timepiece, in contrast to the other clocks he shipped with it, so that you would not sell it, but put it in your own home. You keeping it as a wedding present for your daughter was just a lucky happenstance. He had ordered it built long before Dorit’s engagement.

  “While he had it in his warehouse in New Orleans, Abner Wondowner applied a toxic substance to the metal dial, the hands, and the chains that carried the weights of the timepiece. That is what burned the fingers and hands of your butler Mulot and young Looper when they attempted to fix and set the clock. The irregular chiming was built into the works by the factory mechanics under Wondowner’s directions so the clock would be handled repeatedly in an effort to correct the problem.”

  “The devil!”

  “Exactly. He had hoped that you would be the one to touch the clock. He didn’t foresee that other people would be assigned to that task.

  “My agent in New Orleans confirmed his purchase of the acid he added to the paint he used on the clock. My man in Liverpool found the date he had landed in that city and traced his movements. He had slowly traveled through England until he finally arrived in Penzance two weeks ago. He was waiting for the clocks’ arrival. Remember, the shipment came by a slower boat.

  “The final telegram I received informed me that he had registered at the Ratonea here in Mousehole. I knew his plans were nearly complete. We left for Bluff House at once. I examined the clock and took samples from the hands, the dial, and the inner works. Just to be sure, I also took samples from the other clocks in the shipment. I had foreseen the need of such testing and had brought a small case of chemicals with me from Baker Street. When we signed in to the Ratonea, I checked the registry to make sure Wondowner was there. He was in the bar. I had a good look at him without his knowledge. While Dr. Watson was settling in to his room, I arranged for the manager to let me know when Wondowner left the hotel.