by David Marcum
I stood there, frozen by thoughts I could not comprehend and a feeling I could not describe. It was as if I was suddenly aware of something looming behind me, constantly watching my movements, and if I took another step it would be upon me. The darkness seemed complete when the figure of Mr. Dillenberger came towards me, holding another soaking print in his hands. He placed it under the light to reveal yet another image. This time it revealed the first floor corridor of the house which led to the Dillenbergers’ main bedroom. The details were clearer and the overall print much finer. Clearly, there was significantly more light available there, hence the superior quality of the photograph. Yet, there was something which caught my initial attention more than anything else.
“The silhouette! There is no shadow in this print!” I stammered.
“You see, Doctor?” said Dillenberger. “There is no fault with the machine. But there is something in this room. You must tell the world!”
“I must inform Holmes,” I countered, before my quivering voice was cut short by a series of muffled bangs coming from outside the attic like drums. I stopped short as the sound of footsteps darted across the room. Mr. Dillenberger came to my side, and I could distinctly hear his heavy breathing beside me. The drumming continued, slowly at first until it picked up pace - a relentless, rhythmic beating that bounced wildly around the room.
I extracted the revolver from my overcoat pocket and cocked the hammer, ready to be used on whatever was about to assault us. Although possibly faced with the otherworldly, feeling the metallic firearm in my hands felt reassuring amid the turmoil around us.
A harsh voice suddenly rose close by, its hollow tone keeping apace with the rhythmic drumming. The words it spoke were indistinguishable at first before I could discern one word out of the cacophony.
“Malpacu! Malpacu!”
Beside me, Mr. Dillenberger moved forward, his face suddenly covered in a scowl, rather than the fear that I would have expected. “What is this?” he growled, as a series of mischievous cackles broke out. The drumming stopped and the voice faltered altogether. The laughter continued.
Rushing to the other side of the room, I snatched up the candleholder and moved cautiously forward, bearing both light and revolver towards the sound. The laughter transformed into a murmur and suppressed giggles as the figure of Sherlock Holmes and Mr. Lynch came into view from behind several of the wooden boxes. They sat on the floor, leaning on each other, unable to contain their amusement.
“Holmes!” I cried, feeling both relieved and frustrated at the same time.
“Ah, Watson, our apologies. Do place your revolver back in your pocket, as it will not be of any use now,” uttered my companion, as he regained his composure and assisted Mr. Lynch in standing back up.
He paced forward towards the centre of the room.
“Time to tell the truth, Mr. Dillenberger.”
“An old house, financial problems, and a supposed spirit photographer. Come, Watson! Surely it cannot be more indisputable than that,” said Sherlock Holmes, settling in his favourite armchair across from me.
We were back in 221b, late in the afternoon after that extremely devious deception at No. 24 Willow Road. My temper with Holmes had not yet been fully assuaged, and I demanded a detailed explanation to such outlandish behaviour and the clarification of the events that unfolded.
“I think our good Mr. Lynch was right all along. Dust and wind it was after all,” my companion added.
“Holmes, you would do me a great service, as well as redress a little of your indiscretion towards me, by revealing how you came by the resolution of this case.”
“The conclusion is a rather simple one which will most likely be of no particular interest to you to record in your little stories, but I believe I do owe you an explanation of sorts.”
He readjusted his posture and lit his pipe before beginning the account.
“Mr. Dillenberger’s previous experience in South America, run-ins with native tribes, and choosing to become a spirit photographer in London, gave him the perfect opportunity to practise a profession which would be much sought after by the unfortunate and the gullible.”
“So he does not believe in these ghostly visions and spectral appearances?” I interrupted.
“Not at all, but when a man is cornered, he’ll find himself pretending to believe almost anything in order to play the part. Although he gained something of a reputation within the community, money was still short. So he decided to raise his game.”
“But why go to all of this trouble? It seems rather pointless to me,” I insisted.
“Pointless perhaps, but not senseless,” remarked Holmes. “Mr. Dillenberger wanted to be rid of his financial difficulties, which is why he chose the path of a spirit photographer and, in bringing this apparent haunting upon himself, would generate further interest in and income to his profession.”
The smoke from his pipe filled the sitting room as Holmes paused to relish the moment before arriving at the climactic points of the case.
“That there was no spectral appearance haunting the Dillenbergers’ attic was clear from the start. Although I must confess that the conditions in which we found ourselves upon our first visit, almost threw me off balance. What proved crucial was my later visit to the apothecary where our client’s husband was previously employed. Ever since we stepped inside the attic, amid the scent of numerous chemicals, I found myself unable to determine one in particular. The little shop upon Willoughby Road just a few streets away, provided me with the answer I sought. The owner reported a number of missing glass tubes of silver chloride a couple of weeks ago.
“You must know, Watson, that this particular chemical is sensitive to light. In order to complete his ruse, our spirit photographer applied it to the walls of the attic in order to disrupt the photographic process and produce the rather clever silhouette which was prevalent in all the photographs taken in that one place. I discovered it when examining the window frame. Extraordinary, don’t you think?” He smiled, waiting for me to concur.
“Simple and ridiculous, now that you have explained it all,” I said.
“Superficial,” he added.
“What about Malpacu’s vengance?” That seemed to me a most crucial element in the whole deception.
“Nothing of significance to this case. No doubt that Mr. Dillenberger’s visit to South America was fraught with danger, not least from the Malpacu tribe. Yet, he could not resist adding a bit of colour to his account in order to make it more credible. My presumed haunting, with the very willing assistance of Mr. Lynch, was calculated to force the culprit to confess.”
“But why did you have to go through the whole farce and scare the wits out of me?” I implored, feeling my anger beginning to surge once more.
“My sincerest apologies, Watson! I could never resist a touch of the dramatic. I approached Mr. Lynch, who turned out to be more than willing to help, to assist me in our piece of theatre, and the result was, I think, quite satisfactory.”
The sitting room fell back into silence as both of us seemed to ponder quietly on our own thoughts. The bustle of the street outside was accompanied by the occasional puffs from my companion’s pipe.
“Has my pardon been granted?” asked Holmes with a grin.
“A little,” I responded curtly.
He laughed and reached for an envelope on the mantelpiece before handing it over to me.
“Well, perhaps this might help.”
Opening up the piece of paper, I found the photographic print of myself in the attic, which I still keep today. I took it as a reminder of the fallacies of mankind and the singular nature of Sherlock Holmes, where truth and reason triumph above all.
What happened to the Dillenbergers is not clear. Whether our client forgave her husband’s fraudulent manners is something which Holmes has stated he
has no interest in finding out, now that the case has been resolved, and that Scotland Yard had been warned about his unlawful methods.
“Perhaps I can ask Mrs. Hudson to prepare some delicious dinner for our Good Doctor. I believe he deserves it after today’s interrupted breakfast.”
Sherlock Holmes smiled before he rose briskly from his armchair and descended the stairs as his voice, bellowed throughout our lodgings. His energy unquenchable and his human nature incomprehensible.
The Adventure of A Rat.
by Adrian Middleton
It would be easy for me to dismiss the details of those cases of the esteemed Sherlock Holmes in which I had not played a part. While it is my duty to record and present the facts of his investigations, many of his earlier cases rely upon fragmentary evidence and my friend’s accounts which, while accurately told, singularly fail to capture those details which a more mundane observer would be wont to recall.
I have made mention of the Matilda Briggs in other stories, as much a place-marker to remind me that its events must one day be told as a reference to the case itself, which took place some years before I had taken up residence in Baker Street. Having previously recounted the adventure of the Gloria Scott, I should note that Holmes had a keen interest in seaborne mysteries, actively seeking out the most mysterious of cases in an effort to determine what really happened on these ships from the comfort of his armchair. These included the disappearance of the barque Sophy Anderson, the scuttling of the whaler St. Mungo, the mystery of the paddle steamer Norah Creina and how she came to be in two places at once, the loss of the cutter Alicia in a small patch of mist, the sensational case of the abandoned brigantine Mary Celeste, the wrecking of the sloop Leveret, and the gruesome events which occurred on board the Dutch steamer Friesland.
It was events on board the Friesland that first drew my friend’s attention to the Matilda Briggs. Both ships, owned by the Netherland-Sumatra Steamship Company, had been commissioned to seek out new fauna on the islands of the Indian Ocean and the South Pacific. With their bellies secured and their holds filled to the brim with animal food, these ships would ferry explorers to remote locations, bringing back rare specimens collected to order for clients as diverse as curious Royal patrons, the Zoological Society and even Jamrach’s Animal Emporium.
These facts had come to light when, in the early days of 1888, I entered our Baker Street rooms at a time when Mr. Sherlock Holmes was wrapped in deep thoughts. Upon entering our apartment, a heavy, cloying pall of sweet Turkish tobacco enveloped me. Wafting the billowing clouds of smoke aside, I could see that my friend had adopted a familiar pose, his knees drawn up to his chest as he filled his armchair, puffing furiously upon his pipe as he ruminated on some yet unknown problem.
Gesturing for me to take up my own chair, I noted that an out-spread edition of The Times had been thrust upon it, with some force if its disarray were any indication. Silently gathering up the pages, I tidied up the newspaper before examining it more closely.
“The obituaries?” I ventured. “Who passed?”
“See for yourself, Watson,” said Holmes. “A man for whom I should have the very highest regard, but whose methods never ceased to appal me.”
Scrutinizing each entry, I settled upon the only possible candidate and began to read:
PARIS, January, 1888 - Professor Georges Louis Moreau de Maupertuis, the third Baron Maupertuis, distinguished biologist, naturalist and discoverer of the Pantagruel effect, is dead.
“And may he stay so,” added Holmes, as tersely as he had ever spoken.
“You crossed paths?” I asked. As an eminent, if controversial, biologist, the name was well known to me, but the vitriol that I detected in Holmes’s voice was personal.
“More than paths, my friend. We crossed swords. You will recall, of course the Friesland incident?”
“What little you have told me,” I concurred. “The ship ran adrift on the coast of Portuguese East Africa after a wild animal broke loose and several crewmen were killed.”
“Killed? They were dismembered. I was asked to identify the offending creature based on indentations in the bone.”
“Wasn’t one of the experts convinced it was a dinosaur?”
“A young palaeontologist called Challenger. He believed they may still exist, but I find most so-called experts to be blinded by their obsession. An objective mind knows when to stop looking for clues.”
“So, what did Maupertuis have to do with the Friesland?”
“Read on,” said Holmes, gesturing towards the newssheet with his pipe.
“‘Born at Coutances in the Department of Manche in Normandy to a wealthy family of merchant-corsairs-’”
“Further on, further on,” he urged. “Before he came to England.”
“‘Following a very public disagreement with the renowned physician and biologist Friedrich Meischer, he gave up his seat at the Saint-Lô Lycée and moved to Amsterdam, where he took his late father’s place as Chairman of the Netherland-Sumatra Steamship Company.’”
“The very same!” said Holmes. “I found it very curious that a world-renowned scientist should abandon his profession over a small spat and turn his attentions to the family business.”
“It says here he returned to science. He took up the chair of anatomy at the University of London in 1873...”
“And by 1875 he had been singled out by a Royal Commission on Vivisection. The man was forced to resign because he saw nothing wrong with experimenting on animals whilst they were both alive and conscious. I was approached by the Victoria Street Society to investigate certain allegations, and the evidence I presented - both shocking and unrepeatable - helped Parliament to formulate the Cruelty to Animals Act.”
“It was not a crime then,” said I, “and while I regret such practices, their termination surely put an end to matters.”
“Would that it were so. It was my suspicion that as both an experimental biologist and the owner of a shipping company, he had both the motive and the means to continue these barbarous practices behind closed doors. A simple examination of the company portfolio revealed that one ship was making regular trips from Amsterdam to London from 1874 onward. What does the obituary have to say about him following his resignation?”
“‘He established the Maupertuis Institute in 1875, continued to teach behind closed doors until, in 1877, he set up a biological research station in the Sunder Islands, where - through tireless labour and endless experimentation - he continued to challenge and redefine our understanding of the human condition.’”
“‘77,” said Holmes, interrupting me once more. “That was the year. The Matilda Briggs was bringing animals and other supplies from islands as far apart as Madagascar and Indonesia into the Pool of London. Maupertuis was conducting a variety of experiments both here in the heart of the city and in rural villages scattered across the southeast of England. Applying to become his agrégé préparateu with counterfeit papers, I spent several weeks observing and documenting the very worst practices that man conducted.
“It was a simple matter for me to arrange the escape of a live but mutilated animal on the very same day that a pamphlet was published exposing his misdemeanours. He fled aboard his ship and I pursued him. It was there, toe-to-toe above the very cargo hold that had imported his voiceless victims, that we fought, he with a dress sabre and I with a walking cane. Such a weapon was a poor defence against his expert swordsmanship, but it proved enough to save my life and to send him tumbling head first into the ship’s cargo - copra meal. He had ordered the ship back out to sea before it had been unloaded, and I last saw him sinking into a mountain of animal feed, unable to pull himself free. Assuming that he was dead, I abandoned the ship, diving into the Thames, and heading back to shore.”
“Good grief,” said I. “And was that the end of the matter?”
“Un
til now,” said Holmes. “It required a singular degree of brutality and imagination to pursue such experiments, and with Maupertuis gone, there was no one quite so amoral as to continue his work. I have dismantled a number of his legacy projects over the years - you will recall how busy I was last year - and the Anti-Vivisectionists have been keeping a close eye on matters. It was they who made me aware that another ship, the Ipecacuanha, had taken over the Friesland’s shipping route through the Suez Canal and into the Indian Ocean.”
“So, with the Baron dead, the matter is concluded,” said I, thinking that perhaps the time was right for me to write up the affair.
“Things are never so straightforward,” said Holmes. “One mystery remained, and a minor incident one week ago piqued my curiosity.”
“Oh?”
“If you review correspondence for August of 1877, you should find letters relating to this matter.”
Complying with the request, which first required me to open the window to clear the air and improve visibility, I took up the folder for ‘77, locating a letter from a shipping agent, Morrison and Dodd, asking if Holmes might shed some light upon the disappearance of the Matilda Briggs. Attached to this was a carbonic duplicate of my friends’ reply, informing the inquirer that another ship appeared on the Lloyd’s Register with identical tonnage, registered dimensions and hull type on the very same day the Matilda Briggs disappeared - the Ipecacuanha.
“This is a solved mystery, not-”
Holmes upraised hand was quick to halt my speculation. Launching across the room toward me, he snatched The Times from my hands and just as swiftly stabbed the later part of the Baron’s obituary.