by David Marcum
I took the lace fragment from Gregson and held it next to the deceased nobleman’s neck. Holmes was right, as usual. The abrasion patterns matched perfectly, and there were no other marks of injury or strangulation around his neck. The lace was rather tough.
Holmes examined the discoloured fingernails of the corpse and invited me to do the same. My medical instincts tingled, and I proceeded to examine the dead man carefully. When I finished my examination, one fact was clear: Had Lord Rochester not been murdered, he would have died of consumption within a few months. I announced my conclusion, and Holmes agreed with me.
“Your attending doctor will come to the same conclusion,” he said to Lestrade and Gregson. “Additionally, he will find traces of poison in his bloodstream. William Rochester did not die of strangulation. He died of poison.”
“Then why the elaborate ruse?” Gregson asked.
“I wonder,” Holmes muttered.
“Shall we return to the hotel?” I asked quickly, sensing a dark mood about to envelop my friend. I wondered myself. Was it possible for a dying man to seek revenge through such convoluted machinations from a man who was hardly more than an accessory to a drama unfolded half-a-decade earlier? It made no sense.
Holmes strode out, followed by Lestrade and Gregson. I glanced at Mycroft, who smiled sadly. “He knows the how, but not the why,” he said softly.
“And you do?” I asked.
“I have an inkling,” he replied.
We left Barts in silence and returned to the hotel. As soon as we entered, a constable ran in to speak to Lestrade and Gregson. Then he left the room, returning shortly with two young men. Both were well-dressed.
Holmes extended his hand to one of them. “You must be Henry. I am sorry for your loss.” Mycroft stood up and repeated the gesture.
“You have grown up well, my boy,” Mycroft said jovially. “You look remarkably like your uncle did at your age. Does he not, Sherlock?”
“Indeed,” Holmes replied. “The likeness is remarkable.”
The young man glared at Holmes, his comely face flushed with fury. “I know who you are, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and I know what you did to my uncle! He intended to challenge you to a fencing duel, but since he cannot do so himself any longer, I shall fight you in his stead!”
“Ah,” Holmes said calmly. “But he did challenge me, you see. He visited my rooms last evening, at a time when he was supposedly lying dead in this very room.”
Henry Rochester looked ready to stab my friend with his walking stick. He seemed restrain his rage with great effort.
“Have you taken leave of your senses, Mr. Sherlock Holmes?” he demanded.
Holmes shrugged nonchalantly. I swiftly moved to his side, fingering the revolver in my pocket.
“Your uncle was indeed in Baker Street last evening, Mr. Rochester,” I said firmly. “I met him, too.”
The young nobleman rounded on me. “Who the hell are you?” he shouted.
“John H Watson, M.D., previously of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers,” I replied, keeping my voice level.
Henry Rochester stared at me mutinously, but remained silent.
I turned to the other man. “Would you be Mr. Thomas Byrne?”
Byrne nodded and shook my hand firmly.
“I hear that you work at the palace as a footman, and that Lord Rochester met Her Majesty for tea yesterday?” I asked.
He nodded again. “You are well-informed, Doctor.”
I smiled at him and turned to Mycroft, who stepped up.
“Mr. Byrne,” the older Holmes said pleasantly, “Would you mind telling us when you joined the palace staff and to whom you report?”
The man shifted uncomfortably. “Why?”
Mycroft’s smile widened, and the raptor eyes he shared with his brother gleamed. “I have not been informed that a new footman had been appointed at the palace, and your profile was certainly not sent to me for review, which is the standard protocol for appointments to the royal staff. Also, I did not see Lord Rochester at our tea gathering with Her Majesty yesterday.”
Byrne immediately attempted to run, but the policemen were quick to restrain him.
Several things happened at once. Rochester pulled out a blade from his walking stick and ran at Holmes. Holmes pushed me aside and caught the blade Mycroft threw at him, unsheathing it in a fluid movement and smartly blocking the young nobleman’s attack.
We all watched silently as Holmes and Rochester fenced expertly. Finally, Holmes managed to disarm the young man. Both of them slumped to the floor, chests heaving with exhaustion. Mycroft and I rushed to Holmes and helped him to the couch, while Lestrade and Gregson put handcuffs around young Rochester’s wrists and led him to a chair.
“Arrest the steward as well,” Holmes told the policemen, breathing heavily.
A few minutes later, Rochester, Byrne, and Roberts were seated next to each other, all three in handcuffs.
“Mr. Holmes,” Lestrade said finally. “Would you care to explain?”
Holmes sighed and nodded. “I do not know why this tragic drama was staged, but I can certainly tell you how it was done.” He glanced at Roberts. “The small window,” he said quietly.
The steward cursed.
Holmes smiled slightly. “You see, gentlemen, the corpse of Lord Rochester found by Miss Smith last evening was not a corpse at all, nor was it William Rochester. It was Henry Rochester pretending to be his uncle’s corpse. They have similar builds, and the chambermaid never saw his face. The steward made a show of looking at his face - which was suspicious by itself: Checking for a heartbeat does not require a view of the face. The only mistake in the otherwise perfect scene was the small window behind the curtains. Miss Smith opened it, and Roberts failed to lock it when he left with her, but when the police arrived, all windows were shut. It was probably closed by Byrne when he brought the real Lord Rochester’s corpse.”
“But who killed Lord Rochester?” Gregson asked.
“I believe he ingested the poison immediately after his departure from Baker Street. Byrne, who accompanied him, did the strangling in the carriage so that the asphyxiation and death would appear to be caused by strangulation. Henry Rochester, by that time, would have stepped out of his uncle’s clothes and into his own, and would have been waiting for Byrne. As soon as Byrne arrived at the hotel, Byrne and Henry Rochester transported the dead man to his room. Byrne set up the scene while Roberts dallied with the arriving policemen. However, Byrne and Rochester did not know that the small window was meant to remain open, and they closed it after leaving through it. There are traces of mud from Baker Street from Byrne’s shoes, as well as soil from Kensington, where I believe Henry Rochester visited his club in the afternoon. Also, the tobacco ash I extracted from the fireplace earlier comes from the specific brand of cigarettes I spot in Byrne’s pocket. Am I correct?” Holmes fixed his raptor gaze on the three young men. One by one, they nodded.
“What was the point, though?” Lestrade asked.
Holmes shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine.”
“You made a laughing stock of my uncle five years ago,” Henry Rochester spat. “He wished to return the favour. Your credibility would have been greatly affected if you went around claiming to have seen a dead man walking.”
“But why would you claim that the clearly cheap lace belonged to the Queen?” Gregson asked.
Roberts smirked. “That was to lure out Mycroft Holmes, for we were not sure if a threat to his brother would be adequate motivation for him to step out of his places of accustomed safety,” he said, and leapt from his chair towards the older Holmes. He had somehow managed to free his hands and pointed a pistol at Mycroft.
Before he could open fire, however, two shots rang out. I shot his gun-wielding hand and Holmes shot his knee at the same time. Roberts
cried in agony and fell to the floor.
“The Professor wants you dead!” he hissed at Mycroft.
“Shut up, you idiot!” Byrne screamed. “Do you want all of us to be killed?”
“The Professor?” I asked Holmes. He shook his head and exchanged a look with his brother.
Byrne’s predictions proved right. The police carriage in which they were being transported met with a horrendous accident and the three young men died instantaneously. Holmes was unsurprised at the news, but refused to elaborate. It was not until a few years later that I learnt of the existence of Professor Moriarty and realised that the unseen hand at work behind the tragic affair of the Rochesters had been his.
The Last Encore of Quentin Carol
by S.F. Bennett
“The fact is, Watson, we are possessed of more curiosity than understanding, to quote Montaigne. In acknowledging our limitations, thus do we overcome them.”
Sherlock Holmes threw the last of his cigarette into the empty grate and thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his dressing gown. His mood, though initially discursive, had tended towards languor as the evening wore on, his vigour fading like the oppressive heat leeching from the ruddy London bricks on that fine day in early August of 1889. When the moon had taken its turn in the dying light of the purple-stained sky, a breathless calm settled over the city, as if all were waiting for the first rumblings of storms which never came. All the while, the mercury stubbornly refused to fall, leaving the populace damp of brow and depressed of spirit.
For myself, the heat served only to cloud my already turbulent frame of mind. I had come to Baker Street, seeking I knew not what. A return, perhaps, to a time when certainties were more plentiful than at present, for on the evening in question, I felt the mantle of my professional responsibility weighing more heavily about my shoulders than usual.
I had not spoken of it, wishing to make my visit appear more by accident than design. I had expected Holmes to discern the nature of my preoccupation and thus allow the conversation to proceed naturally from this observation. But he did not. Instead, after several weeks of distance, he seemed overly concerned with impressing upon me the fullness of his diary and the endless calls upon his time from every strata of society.
“The necessity for adopting a dispassionate approach applies as much to the detective as to the philosopher or scientist,” he continued, his gaze turning to the darkened street beyond the sitting room windows. “I had a case recently involving the missing employer of a single-handed cook. It was necessary to abandon all my preconceived ideas to approach the matter with an entirely open mind in the manner of an innocent. In the event, it was a simple affair, though the temptation was there to confuse the matter with other, extravagant explanations. The cook was satisfied and left to find herself a position with a more trustworthy employer.”
“That cannot have been easy for her, given her condition,” I remarked.
Holmes drew a long breath and released with something approaching weary impatience. When his imperious gaze came back to rest on me, I knew I had erred.
“Your decision to entrust your wife with the sole running of your household was a wise one,” said he. “The arrangement has worked admirably.”
I cast my mind back, but could not remember discussing the details of my domestic affairs with him. How he had deduced it, I could not say.
“I have no cause for complaint,” I agreed, conceding the accuracy of his statement. “Mary has good judgement and I trust her. But how did you know?”
Holmes smiled. “A man who takes an interest in the employment of the staff in his household would know a ‘single-handed cook’ is one who works alone, without the assistance of a kitchen maid. Your ignorance of the phrase tells me you have yet to frequent the interview room of a servants’ registry office. Thus, you are satisfied with Mrs. Watson’s choices. As for our single-handed cook, she is a rare creature and by far the greatest in demand, given the proliferation of smaller households these days. You will struggle to find a good one who will work for less than thirty pounds a year.”
“Good heavens! As much as that?”
Holmes nodded. “If ever you think to give up medicine, Watson, you could do worse than find employment in such a capacity. ‘We may live without poetry, music, or books; but civilised man cannot live without cooks’, to paraphrase the poet.” He chuckled. “Doggerel achieves its greatest charm when it acknowledges a universal truth.”
“As it happens,” I admitted, “your suggestion sounds tempting. I have a new patient whose case is giving me pause.”
“Your inattention has not escaped me. I have been attempting to engage your interest for the best part of an hour. I was beginning to wonder if the lure of this address extended no further than the promise of whisky and soda. Well, Watson, if you have come to my door seeking advice, you have had a wasted journey. In matters medical, I defer to you.”
Given the rarity of anything approaching praise from Holmes, I would have been forgiven for basking in the glow of his confidence. I could not summon up the enthusiasm, conflicted by doubts as I was.
“In this case, your faith in my skills may be misplaced. I fear it is beyond my area of expertise.”
“Then refer the fellow to another doctor.”
I shook my head. “I cannot. He came to me for a second opinion. Were I to turn him from my door, I do not doubt it would harden his belief that his condition is real. The consequences could prove fatal.”
Holmes glanced at me, his brows raised. “He has threatened suicide?”
“Not directly. But he does not seem to be a man who would flinch from such an action if he deemed it necessary.”
“Then you do have a problem, for which I do not envy you. Such is the life of a general practitioner. The existence of a consulting detective is, by comparison, more prosaic.”
“On the contrary, Holmes, his condition may be more in your line.” I saw a glimmer of interest come to his eye. “He has had cause of late to question his sanity.”
“It would be a rare fellow who did not do so from time to time,” said he. “In that respect, he sounds quite sensible. How did he arrive at such a conclusion?”
“He believes his upstairs neighbour died and came back to life.” I paused, watching his expression closely. I was surprised, however, when the curt dismissal which was his usual response when discussing anything touching on the supernatural failed to materialise. “Impossible,” I added when he did not respond, “as I am sure you would agree.”
“Improbable,” said he after a moment’s consideration. “There have been numerous documented cases of people rising from their coffins after burial in the family vault had taken place. No miracle had occurred, but rather a misdiagnosis of death. The fear of being buried alive is what fuelled the late fashion for bells as coffin furniture, should one awaken at an inopportune moment. Such occurrences are rare, however. In your case, my dear fellow, one must ask what is more probable: That your patient has erred, or that his neighbour has really risen from the dead? The former, certainly, I should say. I discount a deliberate lie. Cui bono? Not your patient, for it has caused him to doubt his sanity.”
His eyes settled on me.
“Then there is your reaction, Watson, which is most revealing of all. You believe his story. If you did not, your conscience would not be troubling you.”
I was forced to admit that I did.
Holmes shot me a fleeting smile of satisfaction. “Your reasons must be compelling.”
“They are.”
“But you are bound by the ‘seal of the confessional’.” He nodded in understanding. “Well, well, I would not compromise your professional ethics by pressing you further. I would suggest instead you bring this fellow to see me. As it happens, tomorrow I am at liberty and therefore at your disposal.”
“
That is most considerate of you.”
Holmes shrugged. “Given the nature of the last case you brought to my door, Watson, I would be loath to do otherwise.”
So it was that on the morrow, I found myself in conference with my patient, informing him I would prefer to defer my judgement on his health until he laid the facts of his case before my friend. Colonel John Smith, as he had introduced himself, was an elderly, choleric man of eighty-two, surrounded by a perpetual miasma of strong tobacco. He now regarded me with suspicious eyes, his bony fingers twitching restlessly on the silver handle of his ebony stick, as he considered my request. A vein throbbed under the translucent skin of his temple, from where ran an old scar in the shape of a question mark down his cheek to the side of his thin bloodless lips.
“Is this really necessary?” he asked with irritation. “It’s your opinion I want, Doctor, not that of a private detective.”
Despite his reservations, I succeeded in convincing him and together we took a cab to Baker Street, arriving a little after two. The colonel was ill-at-ease in his new surroundings, glancing about him at the assorted clutter of newspapers, shoes, and a broken moustache cup which had somehow found its way into the grate. Regarding my friend with evident mistrust, he perched on the edge of the offered chair, disdaining the suggestion of either tea or coffee in the manner of a man expecting to leave at any moment. Holmes said nothing, although I gathered there was something about the colonel which had piqued his interest, for he was being unusually tolerant with our gruff and unsociable visitor.
“I suppose yon doctor fellow has told you all about me,” said he, jerking his head in my direction after the introductions had been made. “In my day, what passed between a man and his physician was sacrosanct.”
“Dr. Watson has told me nothing,” said Holmes, easing himself into his chair and charging his pipe. “He is the soul of discretion, as I am. There was no need for the alias, Colonel Warburton.”
The elderly gentleman started forward, his lacklustre eyes suddenly lit with some inner light of agitation. “Who has told you?”