by David Marcum
Holmes intervened. “Calm yourself, Colonel. Carol died of natural causes. He had been taken unwell the previous evening when his employment was terminated by the proprietor of The Hare and Hounds. I am sure, Watson, you recognised the early indications of a weakening constitution from the barman’s description. Mr. Carol managed to get himself home and died the afternoon of the next day. Besides which, Elliot believed he had nothing to gain from his uncle’s early death. Keeping him alive was paramount.”
“He has left me nothing,” said Elliot wretchedly, now released from the colonel’s grasp. “My own parents are dead. I am destitute, Mr. Holmes.”
“On the contrary, Mr. Elliot, your uncle was more generous than you realised.” Holmes indicated an age-blacked picture hanging on the bedroom wall. It showed a scene of buildings around a canal, a superior version to that purchased by Colonel Warburton. “Carol painted only one scene because he was copying from an original. This is it, gentleman. Unless I am much mistaken, this is a capriccio by the hand of Canaletto. I dare say Carol purchased it in his younger days, when his profession took him to the Continent. It may be worth a pretty penny to a connoisseur.”
“That is all very well,” muttered the colonel. “But what of this deception?”
“Quentin Carol’s death must be reported,” said Holmes. “That cannot be delayed. As for Mr. Elliot, that is in your hands, Colonel.”
Elliot turned pleading eyes on the elderly gentleman.
“Well, I supposed no real harm has been done,” said Warburton, gruffly. “Sir Edward lives still and no money has changed hands. I dare say the prisons are crowded enough without this young puppy being locked up for attempting to obtain money by deception.”
“Then we shall say nothing,” said Holmes. “Watson shall record the business for posterity in case you feel inclined to perpetrate such a fraud again, Mr. Elliot.”
He shook his head vehemently. “Never again, sir, never again! I have been scared out of my wits every night. I nearly died of fright when a policeman walked by as I was breaking into the neighbouring house. I had to gain access to the attic, you see. Every night, I have taken my life in my hands hauling myself from one house to the other to get into my uncle’s room. But what choice did I have? It was important that the landlady saw me depart before my ‘uncle’ went out later in the evening.”
“So that was the reason you climbed out of the window,” I said to Holmes.
He nodded. “These properties, although similar from the front, often vary greatly at the rear. The parapets between the two houses at the attic level did not quite meet, but it was possible for an active man to move between them. But now, Mr. Elliot,” said he, addressing the young man, “you must pluck up your courage one last time. Mr. Carol must be found exactly as you found him, cleansed of all salt. It is best, Colonel, if you discover the body. You are an impeccable witness.”
Warburton regarded Elliot with a softening eye. “That much I can do. I am indebted to Mr. Carol for his nightly performances, and I dare say he would not want his nephew to suffer. And youth, as well I know, is prone to error.”
With the arrangements in hand, we proceeded downstairs. Outside, Warburton paused to shake our hands and offer his thanks.
“You are a clever man, Mr. Holmes,” said he.
“And you a fortunate one. Your relative spoke of an offer to accommodate you in his home.”
The colonel grunted. “Mr. Sweeting has a silver tongue. He could charm the birds from the trees, as my father used to say. But actions speak louder than words, Mr. Holmes. Where is he, I ask you? For all his fancy talk, I’ve seen neither hide nor hair of him this week.”
“His wife has had a little girl,” I said. “They are to call her Kathleen.”
“Are they?” The colonel gazed at me with a watery eye. “A good choice. Perhaps I should call round and pay my respects. I dare say it cannot be easy raising a family on a meagre wage. As for the other matter, I shall discuss it with my wife.”
At that moment, through the silence of the night, came the sound of a voice, singing a familiar refrain. I caught my breath as the colonel raised his eyes to heaven, hearing the words to ‘I’ll Take You Home Again, Kathleen’.
“Is it the ghost of Mr. Carol?” he uttered.
“I believe we shall find that the solution lies in this world rather than the next.” So saying, Holmes picked up a pebble and rattled it against the second floor pane. The singing stopped and the window was opened. A curly-headed youth appeared, looking perplexed.
“Why, it is Mr. Robson, the medical student who shares my floor,” said the colonel, before raising his voice. “Were you singing just now, young man?”
“I’m sorry, Colonel,” called down Robson. “I returned this afternoon while you were out. I’ve only just woken up and that song was on my mind. I don’t know why. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
“Bless you, lad, you didn’t,” said Warburton.
“Is anything wrong, sir?” asked Robson, regarding us with suspicion.
“No, my boy, everything is well. Very well indeed!”
“I fancy,” said Holmes, when we had taken our leave of Warburton, “that the colonel has made his decision.”
I nodded. “A felicitous choice of song on the part of his neighbour.”
“Serendipitous, perhaps,” said Holmes absently. “Nothing more.”
“He believes his wife is guiding him.”
“That is his prerogative. As for myself, I should say that Mr. Robson was not as deaf to Mr. Carol’s songs as he led the colonel to believe. Who can say what effect the nightly chorus had on his sleeping mind? Did that song implant itself there, ready to emerge when familiar sounds roused him from his slumbers? Whatever the case, my dear fellow, I can say with all certainty that the world has finally heard the last encore of Quentin Carol!”
The Case of the Petty Curses
by Steven Philip Jones
Few of Sherlock Holmes’s cases have started so bizarrely, or ended so tragically, as the affair of the Angus-Burtons of Notting Hill, which began for me with a letter from my friend that arrived at my Paddington practice with the four-o’clock post on a blistering afternoon in August of 1889.
It read: “Watson, if you happen to be free this evening, could you come round to Baker Street at seven? A young woman has presented me with a problem ripe with those unusual and outré features so dear to us both. Also, since the fair sex is your department, your opinions of this new client might prove beneficial to my investigation. Holmes.”
My wife, Mary, was in Whitby for a few days as a favor to my predecessor, old Mr. Farquhar. It turned out to be an excellent opportunity for her to escape the extreme summer heat, but I had no choice but to remain behind to attend to my new medical practice. I was feeling quite forsaken, and therefore was delighted by Holmes’s request.
A storm was beginning to brew when I arrived at Baker Street. The wind had picked up, the air was thick and humid, and the sky was beginning to churn with purple clouds piled high over gray clouds. Holmes was standing at the curb waiting for me, careful to keep a tight hold of his hat, and gratefully climbed in my cab while giving the driver our destination, 17 Kensington Place. After settling in, he commented, “I see that your wife is away, Waston, and left you to fend for yourself.”
“And how exactly do you deduce that?”
“A few little things told me,” he chuckled, “but primarily your tie. It is not perfectly straight, as when Mrs. Watson brings it into regulation for you. Though circumstances have prevented us from seeing more than little of each other since your recent marriage, I am nevertheless confident that your tie has not looked quite this off-balanced since you resided at Baker Street.”
“I see. Well, I won’t bother asking about the other little things. You’re right, as usual.” I imagine it was t
he heat that put me in as petulant a mood to add, “Of course, your deductions always seem simple after you explain them.”
A nettled expression came over Holmes. “Yes, the obvious always seems simple when it is explained.”
Realizing I had been rude, I apologized and asked him to tell me about the facts of this new case.
Holmes unexpectedly looked less than sure of himself. “I shall, but first, Watson, may I ask you a theoretical question?”
“Of course.”
“What would you do if your wife insisted that you had placed a curse upon her?”
For several moments I was speechless, the question being so nonsensical. All I could muster was to mumble, “Pardon me?”
“What would you do if the person you vowed to love, honor, and cherish so long as you live convinced herself that you have cursed her?”
“I suppose I would seek professional help. An alienist. It’s ridiculous, though.”
“In the abstract I would agree, but this is not a theoretical problem for the young lady that I wrote to you about, Mrs. Halima Angus-Burton. She is seeking professional help, but, rather than an alienist, she has sought my aid.”
I was no nearer a resolution as to what to say than before, and could only think to resort to logic. “Holmes, if you’re serious, then a situation like this definitely requires skills outside your talents.”
“That may turn out to be so,” he conceded with professional humility, “but consider that her husband, Malcolm Angus-Burton, is the sole heir of a respected family, holds a high position with the Foreign Office, and is one of the Queen’s most trusted advisers in matters regarding China. Under the circumstances, wouldn’t you eliminate all alternative explanations before you irrevocably stained the character of the person you most loved?”
“Under those circumstances - yes - but how could anyone even entertain such a thing? It’s irrational!”
“I’m afraid the explanation I’ve been given will not sound any more rational.” Holmes looked at the gathering clouds as if to collect his thoughts. As incredible as the situation sounded, or perhaps because of it, I listened to my friend with more than normal interest when he continued. “To begin with, Mr. and Mrs. Angus-Burton share the distinction of being raised in foreign lands. He was born in China to British parents, but Mrs. Angus-Burton is a pureblooded Egyptian who was adopted by a British father who married her widowed mother.”
“‘Halima’. I thought the name sounded foreign, but I couldn’t recollect its origin.”
“It means ‘gentle’, and if I am any judge of character, Mrs. Angus-Burton is precisely that. She is also loyal, levelheaded, and I would be remiss not to mention that she is a bonnie thing.”
“Appreciating a woman’s beauty? That isn’t like you.”
“On the contrary, Watson. My living is made by observing, and all I’ve done is state an obvious assessment. Tell me if you disagree when you meet the lady.”
“Fair enough. I suspect this observation plays a part in whatever theories you may have buzzing in your head about this case.”
As I should have expected, Holmes was appalled at my suggestion. “You know my methods. I never hypothesize before I have all the facts.”
“Yes. I stand corrected.”
“Angus-Burton’s father was a representative of the British East India Trading Company in Canton, where his family lived until Angus-Burton entered university in 1878. Angus-Burton’s father retired to London at that same time, but both he and Angus-Burton’s mother have passed away within the last three years.” Holmes paused to consider his thoughts again. “Make careful note of this, Watson. The reason shall be made clear when we meet Mrs. Angus-Burton. Ten years before Angus-Burton was born, his parents took charge of a Chinese boy named Tseng. Apparently Tseng’s family was massacred by Muslim Chinese in Chinese Turkestan, and the boy wandered east where he managed to survive in the port cities of Kowloon, Hong Kong, and Macao until his plight came to the Angus-Burtons’ attention. They raised Tseng, who has been the head of the family’s household staff since he turned twenty-one.”
“So noted, Holmes. Now what about Mrs. Angus-Burton?”
“Her adopted father worked in banking, and was part of the Goschen-Joubert Mission that established the Caisse de la Dette Publique in Egypt in 1875. This is when he met his wife, whose family reputedly once practiced black magic, beginning with their service to the Eleventh Dynasty of Egyptian Kings against the Theban priesthood.”
I shook my head. “That sounds like something concocted by Haggard for one of his wild adventures.”
“Nevertheless, the rumor is an element in this case, as is this: Our client met Angus-Burton while he was touring Cairo during the summer holiday prior to his final year at Cambridge, and when their plans to be wed were announced, only Mrs. Angus-Burton’s father approved.”
“On what grounds did the other three parents object?”
“Angus-Burton’s parents wanted to see their only child marry a lady of pure British stock, while Mrs. Angus-Burton’s mother was adamant that her daughter remain in Egypt, rather than move away to England. Eventually Angus-Burton’s parents accepted their daughter-in-law, but the relationship between Mrs. Angus-Burton and her mother remained strained. Then, last June, Mrs. Angus-Burton’s parents were killed in a railway accident near El Mahalla el Kubra. Any possibility of reconciliation between mother and daughter died with them, in this world at least. Mr. Angus-Burton insists this accident motivated his wife to curse him.”
Abruptly something about Holmes’s tale followed some train of logic. “I presume he believes her capable of such a feat because of her alleged hereditary strain of black magic?”
“Once more, I caution against the practice of presuming, Watson, but you are correct in this instance. I warned you that this would not sound rational.”
“Does it really matter, so long as Angus-Burton sincerely believes it is true?”
Holmes started to concur when the cab came to a halt. We had stopped on the Notting Hill end of Kensington Place. Holmes instructed to driver to wait, then asked me for the time. Looking at my watch, I informed him, “Seven-twenty-eight. What is this place?”
“The home of Mr. and Mrs. Angus-Burton.”
During our journey, the wind had grown stronger as the storm clouds grew thicker and the evening darker, but I could still make out that the Angus-Burton home was grand in scale and architecture, common attributes of the houses in this district. As we approached the front door, Holmes said, “Mrs. Angus-Burton informed me that her husband routinely leaves for his Pall Mall club at seven-fifteen each Monday evening. She assured me that he intended to keep to his routine tonight, giving us the opportunity to inspect the home without alarming him. I am particularly anxious to examine his study.”
“Why the study?”
“Because Angus-Burton believes his wife has incorporated the study into her curse. Attend to the knocker, would you, Watson?”
When the door opened, we were invited within and Holmes introduced me to his client. Mrs. Angus-Burton warmly greeted me. However, I had been struck speechless upon my first good look at the woman. Not before nor since have I beheld so handsome a creature. Her sunset complexion, regal cheekbones, and large russet eyes were at the very least enthralling. If Medusa’s loveliness in any way was comparable to Mrs. Angus-Burton’s beauty, I can understand why the insecure Athena cursed that vain mortal woman. At Holmes’s gentle prodding, I regained my composure. “I beg your pardon. My mind went elsewhere for a moment. I’m afraid I think too much at times.”
“Yes, I’m forever admonishing Watson about thinking too much.” Holmes then asked the mistress if she had given her staff the evening off.
“I did just as you instructed.”
“Excellent. May I look about the house while you and the Doctor become acquainte
d?”
Mrs. Angus-Burton had barely given her leave before Holmes dashed away, asking over his shoulder, “Has there been any word from your butler, Tseng?”
“No. The police have still found no trace of him.”
Recollecting Holmes’s comments about the man, I asked, “Your butler is missing?”
“Yes, Doctor.”
“For how long?”
“At least a month. Possibly two. As I told Mr. Holmes this afternoon, my husband and I departed for China in March and did not return until two weeks ago. It was our third trip there in as many years, but the Foreign Office insisted my husband investigate the possibility of Britain leasing the New Territories in the near future. While we were away, Tseng vanished.”
“When was he last seen?”
“In July, so far as we know. When my husband and I are away for any extended time, our staff, with the exception of Tseng, is sent to work at an estate near Withyham that belongs to a friend of my late father-in-law. Tseng remains here by himself, except for a few days at the beginning of each month when the staff returns to help him clean the house. The rest of the time he spends tending to upkeep and repairs. He is a superb handyman.” I asked if it would be simpler to shut up the house during their absences, but Mrs. Angus-Burton explained her husband preferred that Tseng remain to guard the home. “Our staff saw Tseng in July, but when they returned at the beginning of this month, he was gone. Nothing had been stolen. There was no sign of violence. It was almost as if Tseng left without giving notice, except that his clothes and everything he owned is still here.”
“Did he have any provocation to leave? Perhaps a disagreement prior to your leaving in March?”
“No. Tseng never disagrees with anyone, and my husband adores him like an uncle.”
A rude pounding erupted, interrupting our conversation, accompanied by Holmes calling out for Mrs. Angus-Burton to unlock the door to the study.