The Manifestations of Sherlock Holmes

by James Lovegrove

  “No, there were definite signs of injury at the scene. Fresh bloodstains on the garden wall.”

  “Then he misidentified the burglar. It wasn’t Farnaby-Coutt at all. He wanted so much to see Farnaby-Coutt that that was who he imagined he saw, but it was in fact someone else.”

  “It was unquestionably him. Sir Reginald was quite adamant. ‘Wouldn’t mistake that cocky little whippersnapper anywhere’ – those were his very words.”

  “What if Farnaby-Coutt is one of identical twins?”

  “Really?” said Mr Holmes, arching an eyebrow. “And all this time he has kept his brother under wraps? No one has ever seen this other Farnaby-Coutt? Even if that were so, a quick check in Debrett’s would dispel the notion that he is anything other than an only child.”

  “So you admit you considered the possibility and looked him up?”

  “It was, I will allow, a conjecture I briefly entertained – but for no more than the few seconds it took me to eliminate it. And no, Watson, don’t you dare say what you are about to say next.”

  “What am I about to say?”

  “That Farnaby-Coutt has some supernatural gift that enables him to appear in two places at once. I have seen those books on mediumship and spiritualism in your library.”

  “They are Mrs Watson’s.”

  “And yet they sit on a shelf directly adjacent to your preferred reading matter: Dickens, Thackeray, Scott, Trollope. It is suggestive of the fact that you yourself like to peruse them.”

  “I may have dipped into one or other of them now and then.”

  “Pray do not let their charlatan content infect you.”

  “But it has been well documented that certain people, saints not least among them, have been shown to display the power of bilocation and—”

  Mr Holmes held up a hand and barked, “Watson! Enough! We are not going to consider even for a moment a non-rational explanation for this mystery.”

  “Farnaby-Coutt’s leg healing so swiftly does, if nothing else, seem miraculous.”

  “It is fraud, old fellow. Fraud and subterfuge, nothing more. As you yourself will soon discover, assuming my inferences are correct and Toby’s nose is still the sharp forensic tool it has hitherto shown itself to be.”

  At the mention of my name I pricked up my ears and gave a little wag of the tail. Humans always like to be rewarded with a sign of acknowledgement when they bring you into the conversation. They’d feel neglected otherwise, wouldn’t they?

  Seventh Instalment: Pavement of Victoria Embankment

  Nice long stroll Mr Sherman is taking me out on today. I love it when he exercises me properly and gives me a chance to stretch my legs and take in the air. I spend so much of my time cooped up in 3 Pinchin Lane. Sometimes I think my master forgets that I’m half spaniel and half lurcher – both of them breeds as relish the great outdoors.

  My journey with Mr Holmes and Dr Watson, which covered at least as much distance as this one looks set to, took us across the river at the Albert Bridge and northward up into Chelsea. Lots of scents unfamiliar to me there, the markings of dogs I’d never met and would likely never meet, their histories splashed piecemeal everywhere. I would have loved to stop and sniff, learning about who they were, where they had been, what they had done. But that would have been possible only if this had been a leisurely amble. The three of us were, instead, engaged on a mission. There was no time to pause and check the chronicles these other dogs had left behind, nor add commentaries of my own – a dash of opinion, a sprinkling of advice.

  Presently we arrived at a huge house just off the King’s Road, a dwelling fully five times the size of Mr Sherman’s humble abode. Outside, we were greeted by a police inspector I had not previously made the acquaintance of, although Mr Holmes and Dr Watson both bore old residues of his scent on them, in such quantity as to indicate they had had numerous dealings with him in the past. Lestrade was his name, and his pointed, pale features put me in mind of one of the weasels in my master’s menagerie.

  “Mr Holmes, Dr Watson,” said he, “I trust this is not going to be a waste of my time and that of these two constables with me.”

  “Very much not, Inspector,” said Mr Holmes. “I fully anticipate an arrest.”

  “But Farnaby-Coutt is as slippery as an eel. We’ve never been able to lay so much as a finger on the fellow. We’re not even sure where and to whom he fences his stolen goods.”

  “I doubt he does. I imagine he keeps them all for his own pleasure, perhaps even on these very premises. Farnaby-Coutt does not steal for a living. He is comfortably well off as it is. He steals for the sake of stealing. It is more a hobby to him than a profession.”

  “We have nothing on him that would furnish us with a warrant to search his house. No grounds on which to nab him other than hearsay.”

  “Give me ten minutes, Lestrade, and I will rectify that situation.”

  Eighth Instalment: Corner of Upper Thames Street and Southwark Bridge Road

  Mr Holmes knocked on the front door, which was opened by a frosty-faced manservant. Mr Holmes presented his card, saying that Mr Farnaby-Coutt would surely agree to see him, if only to exonerate himself once and for all from guilt for the robbery last night at Sir Reginald Theakswood’s.

  He was preying upon Farnaby-Coutt’s pride and egotism, and sure enough it worked. Farnaby-Coutt instructed the servant to invite us in, and soon we were in a handsomely furnished drawing room with Farnaby-Coutt dancing attendance on us as though we were honoured guests.

  He uttered a few unflattering words about me, I must confess. “What the deuce is that!” he ejaculated as I loped into view. “I have never seen a dog so ugly.”

  “Don’t let Toby’s homely appearance fool you,” said Mr Holmes. “He is deceptive in his plainness. Unlike you, who are deceptive in your sophistication.”

  “You do me a disservice.”

  “On the contrary, I am paying you the highest of compliments. You have succeeded in hoodwinking some of the best and brightest this country can boast.”

  “But obviously not you, the great Sherlock Holmes.”

  “That remains to be seen. What I would like to do, if I may, is conduct a quick test.”

  “I cannot see the harm.”

  “It will determine once and for all if you are the perpetrator of a crime or entirely blameless.”

  “I am quite certain I know the outcome already. I will be exculpated.”

  “Very good.” From his pocket Mr Holmes produced a wadded-up handkerchief. He unfolded it to reveal specks of human blood soaked into the fabric. He held it before me and I duly took a long, hearty sniff. “Good boy, Toby,” he said. “Now, would you care to perform the same function upon Mr Farnaby-Coutt?”

  He led me over to the aristocrat who, with something of a haughty sneer on his face, permitted himself to be thoroughly examined by me. I ran my nose up and down his leg, gleaning all the data I could about him.

  Then I looked up at Mr Holmes in puzzlement.

  “So, Toby,” said he, “what is the verdict?”

  “Yes, Toby,” said Farnaby-Coutt. “The verdict.”

  I made it perfectly clear that the blood on the handkerchief did not come from the man in front of me. My eyes were wide, my head cocked to one side. I could not fathom why Mr Holmes had thought the two – the bloodstains and Farnaby-Coutt – were connected. The bloodstains had a meagreness about them, redolent of a poor diet and too much gin, whereas Farnaby-Coutt exuded ripeness and refinement, like banknotes and lavender.

  “Shouldn’t this canine monstrosity be barking, or lifting a paw, or something?” said Farnaby-Coutt smugly. “Isn’t that the result you were hoping for, Mr Holmes?”

  “Far from it. Toby has confirmed what I already thought.”

  “That I am not the culprit. That Sir Reginald Theakswood has falsely accused me.”

  Without replying, Mr Holmes bent and offered me the handkerchief a second time. “Take another sniff, Toby. Does this scent se
t any bells ringing at all?”

  It did not.

  Then it did.

  Oh, it did!

  The scent was already in the house. I had smelled it, among a myriad of others, as we crossed the threshold.

  Whoever’s blood this was, he was in the building with us.

  Ninth Instalment: Southern End of Southwark Bridge

  Nearly there. If you’ve followed this tale so far, trickle by trickle, congratulations – especially if you’ve managed to visit all the instalments in the correct order, treading in my pawprints. Hope it’s been worth your while.

  As soon as I realised what Mr Holmes was driving at, I leapt up at him, barking frantically.

  He immediately detached the leash, and off I raced. I heard Farnaby-Coutt behind me yelling in protest. “What is this? Where is that beast going? I demand that he be stopped. This is outrageous. He is running amok!”

  I charged upstairs, Mr Holmes and Dr Watson following as fast as they were able. Within seconds I was outside a bedroom on the second floor, turning circles and letting out a volley of loud, urgent woofs.

  Mr Holmes barged through the door to the bedroom, Farnaby-Coutt still remonstrating volubly as he joined us on the landing.

  On the bed lay a man with a heavily bandaged leg.

  He was the absolute spitting image of the Honourable Jeremy Farnaby-Coutt.

  Tenth Instalment: Doorstep of 3 Pinchin Lane, Again

  Full circle. We end where we began.

  Suffice to say that the jig was up as far as Farnaby-Coutt was concerned. Inspector Lestrade and his constables were summoned from without, and the noble burglar was swiftly clapped in handcuffs, as was his accomplice.

  The latter was only too ready to make a confession, once it was explained to him that the courts would look leniently on him if he incriminated Farnaby-Coutt.

  His name was Bill Jervis, and he was a petty larcenist of no great breeding and no great account. What had elevated this fellow to Farnaby-Coutt’s company was the fact that the two of them looked to all intents and purposes the same man. Farnaby-Coutt had encountered Jervis one evening while trawling the stews of the East End in search of paid female companionship. Jervis had attempted to pick Farnaby-Coutt’s pocket, but Farnaby-Coutt, sensitive to the illicit activities of others, had seized hold of his hand as it dipped inside his jacket. He had taken one look at Jervis’s face and immediately spied an opportunity. Jervis was his perfect double. The two were alike as pups in a litter. Other than a certain roughness of speech, the Cockney commoner could have passed for the aristocrat in any light. Even their own mothers might not have been able to tell them apart.

  Farnaby-Coutt hatched a plan. He had begun to feel that his sins were catching up with him. He was pushing his luck further than was wise. He was not going to be able to get away with his burglaries much longer. Sooner or later his winning streak was going to come to an end.

  He could not, however, bear to abandon the habit. But this other man, this twin from another set of parents, provided the solution. Farnaby-Coutt would carry on selecting the targets for thievery, but Jervis would commit the actual felonies while Farnaby-Coutt paraded about town garnering unimpeachable alibis everywhere he went. In return, Jervis was rewarded with a sizeable wage from the nobleman’s own pocket, worth around half of the proceeds, along with the assurance that if Jervis were ever caught, Farnaby-Coutt would use his influence as an aristocrat to get him off the hook. I’m not sure that promise would have been worth anything if put to the test, but it had seemed acceptable to Jervis, who, one can assume, was not the freshest dog biscuit in the tin.

  Theirs was a cosy little alliance, and would have continued despite the bullet wound. The plan had been that Jervis would lie low until he recuperated, whereupon the stealing would resume as before. At the same time, Farnaby-Coutt’s bona fides would be maintained and even strengthened, for how could he be the burglar Sir Reginald had winged if he was demonstrably, palpably unhurt?

  As for the loot, there I played a vital role again. Mr Holmes invited me to seek more of Jervis’s scent around the house, and my nose led us to several rooms before finally we ended up in the wine cellar, where the smell was at its strongest. I found a wall that appeared to be solid but which I knew was made of plasterboard not brick. I whined and scratched at it, and sure enough Mr Holmes discerned that it was a false partition, and behind it lay Farnaby-Coutt’s ill-gotten gains, a treasure trove of stolen property, all neatly arranged upon shelves like trophies.

  That clinched it, and currently the Honourable Jeremy Farnaby-Coutt is languishing in a police cell at Scotland Yard, facing trial and possible transportation.

  “A lengthy stretch in gaol awaits him,” said Mr Holmes as he, Dr Watson and I wended our way back to Lambeth. “Perhaps his father might intervene, pull some strings, have the sentence reduced or even quashed – but equally Viscount Harrington may wish to disavow his wayward off spring and wash his hands of him. I know, were Farnaby-Coutt my son, which of the two options I would choose. At any rate, thanks to Toby here, justice is going to be served and all the items that Farnaby-Coutt purloined are going to be restored to their rightful owners. Which reminds me… Would you do me the favour of holding Toby for a moment?”

  He passed my leash to his companion and ducked into a nearby butcher’s shop. Dr Watson stood gingerly by me, every so often offering me a timorous “Good boy. Good dog.” Shortly Mr Holmes emerged from the shop with a big, juicy hambone wrapped in waxed paper. I started salivating, and didn’t stop until I was back home and sinking my fangs into that crunchy, marrowy treat.

  Thus concludes my tale.

  Do you know, it never ceases to amaze me what a dull instrument the human nose is. Mr Holmes’s seems keener than most – I suspect all his senses are keener than most – but even so, by comparison with me he might as well not have the use of that organ at all. He cannot smell a hundredth of what we dogs can. Something that to him and all humans seems an incredible feat is, to us, mere pup’s play.

  Never mind. As long as he has need of my nose, reliable old Toby will be here, ready and willing to lend a paw.

  THE ADVENTURE OF THE BOTANIST’S GLOVE

  First published in The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories

  Part III: 1896–1929, ed. David Marcum, 2015,

  MX Publishing

  Shortly before I began work on this tale, my wife had started carrying an EpiPen with her, following an incident when she was stung by a wasp and suffered a severe anaphylactic reaction. That had got me thinking how one might murder someone by bee sting. Not, I hasten to add, that I have ever once considered murdering my wife, not even when she hogs the TV remote. It’s just how my sometimes macabre imagination works.

  The date of the story, 1903, was mandated by the fact that the isolation of adrenaline and its use as a preventative medicine did not occur until the turn of the last century.

  Relevant trivia: The character of Mrs Frensham is named after Frensham Ponds, which lie a few miles north of Hindhead, the Surrey village where Conan Doyle lived between 1897 and 1907 and where he wrote, among other things, The Hound of the Baskervilles.

  The Adventure of the Botanist’s Glove

  The autumn of 1903 found my friend Sherlock Holmes in a ruminative and occasionally melancholy frame of mind. Again and again in our conversations he would raise the subject of retirement; not only his own, but mine. “Watson, do you ever feel you have done enough?” he might say. “Seen enough patients, cured enough ailments, fulfilled your vocation as a general practitioner? Do you begin to wonder if it is not time to step back and take the respite that more than two decades of hard work has earned you?”

  I might respond by telling Holmes that I was in fine fettle and believed I had another four or five good, productive years in me. If he took the hint – for I was, of course, encouraging him not to sheathe his sword just yet – he did not show it. Poring over the property sections of various Sussex-based periodicals had become
one of his favourite pastimes. He had house agents in the South Downs area scouting for a suitable smallholding for him to purchase. Increasingly his thoughts were turning to a rural retreat and a life of quiet contemplation and research.

  As if to confirm his general state of ennui, the cases he had been accepting of late displayed a marked penchant for the grotesque and the outré. It seemed that nothing else was sufficiently spicy for his jaded palate. There was the affair of the blanched soldier, and the bizarre episode that I have chronicled as “The Creeping Man”, not to mention those adventures of this period which I have yet to set down on paper such as the sighting of fairies in Epping Forest, the hair-raising affair of the Dorking Demon, and the Gerrards Cross meteorite which had such a singular effect on any who touched it.

  Thus it came as somewhat of a surprise that Holmes agreed to investigate the death of Sir Peregrine Carshalton, given that on the face of it the eminent botanist’s demise appeared to be nothing more than a tragic accident. There were no eerie overtones, little of the Gothic about it – yet it piqued his curiosity nonetheless.

  It was as I was paying one of my increasingly infrequent calls at 221B Baker Street one September evening that an unannounced guest arrived. Billy, the page, had gone home for the night, so it was left to Mrs Hudson to escort the visitor up.

  “A Miss Mary Smith,” she said, ushering in an anxious-looking woman of perhaps only twenty, comely in a rather unremarkable way, with features that spoke of honesty and a familiarity with hardship. “No card,” Mrs Hudson added, with all that that implied.

  Indeed, Mary Smith was a person of no great means, as was evident the moment she opened her mouth.

  “I am sorry for coming at such an inconvenient ’our, Mr ’Olmes,” she said in broad Cockney tones. “Especially when you already ’ave a guest.”