Sherlock Holmes and the Christmas Demon

by James Lovegrove

  “In this company it can hardly matter,” said the lady, with a certain sourness. “Practically everybody knows by now.”

  “By great mischance, the two of them were meeting up in the same part of the castle where Trebend was carrying out his excavations. As far as Goforth and Danningbury Boyd were concerned, the east wing was ideal. No one else went there, especially not after the sad demise of Mrs Perdita Allerthorpe, and there were plenty of vacant rooms. Goforth even took the precaution of claiming to have had a ghostly visitation in the east wing, in order to ensure their privacy. Mrs Trebend then went and compounded it by saying that she, too, had encountered a ghost. Her reasons were not dissimilar from Goforth’s.”

  “She knew what her husband was doing, then?” said Thaddeus. “She wished people to stay away from the east wing to lessen his chances of discovery? She was his accomplice?”

  Mrs Trebend’s curl of the lip was tantamount to a yes. “It appears to be the case,” said Holmes, “that at some point Goforth’s and Trebend’s paths crossed. Goforth fathomed that Trebend was up to something in the east wing – something clandestine and nefarious – and being the kind of girl who thought nothing of extorting a diamond necklace out of a paramour’s wife, she spied an opportunity to profit from it. Do I have it right, Mrs Trebend? Did Goforth get it into her head to blackmail your husband?”

  Another lip curl gave him the answer he sought.

  “Trebend invited her to the tower room to discuss the matter. His intention, no doubt, was simply to convince her to keep her silence. Perhaps he promised her that once he had proved he was an Allerthorpe and gained a more elevated position in life, he would share some of his newfound prosperity with her. Mrs Trebend? A simple nod will do. There. It is affirmed. Goforth, however, must have stuck to her guns. She wanted money immediately, not at some unspecified future date. Trebend therefore felt he had no alternative but to get rid of her, and did the deed promptly and cold-bloodedly.”

  A silence settled over the drawing room as the Allerthorpes contemplated Trebend’s heinous act.

  Holmes resumed his monologue. “He must have realised, however, that the murder would have repercussions, especially with Sherlock Holmes a guest on the premises. All at once he had graduated from mere duplicity to a far more serious crime. He also needed to be able to pursue his excavations uninterrupted. One must presume that my presence, and his act of murder, served as a spur. He perceived that his time might be limited, and if was to complete his task it were best done as soon as possible, rather than delayed. Mrs Trebend, you may be able to confirm whether or not this was his thinking.”

  “Robert was feeling some greater urgency than before,” said she. “He also believed he was close to achieving his ultimate aim, and after so long, so much effort, he would not be denied it. It may have been rash of him to carry on, not least with the east wing occupied by guests, but he would not be deterred. Nowt I said to him, at any rate, would convince him otherwise.”

  “No. Rather, you and he together concocted a scheme that you hoped would deflect my attention away from the east wing. You would fake a heart attack, and do it in such a way that you would even fool a trained medical practitioner, namely my friend Dr John Watson.”

  “But her symptoms…” I began.

  “The consumption of orange peel in significant quantities is known to cause palpitations, sweating, an irregular heartbeat,” Holmes said, “and orange peel is something that a maker of excellent marmalade would have in plentiful supply. I remarked at the time of her collapse that Mrs Trebend smelled of oranges, did I not, Watson?”

  “You did. Dash it all.”

  “I have been considering for a while penning a short monograph on the toxicity of certain everyday foodstuffs and condiments if consumed in excess. Orange peel will undoubtedly rate a mention.”

  “It was quite a risk to take,” I said.

  “Yet, as Mrs Trebend has just admitted, the times were desperate, and so desperate measures were called for. Trebend, you see, had observed at supper that evening that Watson and I were more or less abstaining from drink. He would have guessed that we needed to be sober and alert because we were intending to stay up late. He would have assumed that we were ghost-watching in the east wing and thus he would be hindered from digging. Mrs Trebend elected to provide a distraction so that we would be drawn away from there and possibly spend the rest of the night investigating her professed sighting of a ghost in the servants’ quarters. Doubtless she and Trebend hoped we would thereafter not bother with the east wing, so that he could continue his labours, regardless of the guests occupying that part of the castle. I went one better than that and announced that Watson and I were leaving Fellscar altogether. The Trebends must have been overjoyed at the news. Now Trebend had carte blanche. His great work could begin again, all fear of discovery gone. What is more, I had identified Fitzhugh Danningbury Boyd as the killer of Becky Goforth. Trebend had got away with murder. Or so he thought.”

  He addressed himself once more to Mrs Trebend.

  “There remain a few gaps in my understanding, madam,” said he. “Would you, for the benefit of us all, care to fill them in?”

  Chapter Thirty

  THE TRAGIC HISTORY OF THE TREBENDS

  Slowly, haltingly, Mrs Trebend began to speak.

  “My husband only wanted what was due him,” she said. “His great-grandfather, Tobias Allerthorpe, was a cousin of Sir Mansfield Allerthorpe. Sir Mansfield’s closest living relative, in fact, and a Yorkshireman as well. By all accounts, though, he had little in common with that notorious devil worshipper. Quite the opposite. He was a rector, pious and honest, well loved by his flock.

  “But Sir Mansfield’s sinful behaviour was bringing shame to the Allerthorpe name. My husband told me that his great-grandfather tried several times to persuade his cousin to change his ways and embrace the message of the scriptures. Sir Mansfield repeatedly rebuffed him.

  “Eventually, renouncing all association with his cousin, Tobias quit Yorkshire. He moved south and started over in a London parish. He married a local woman and, in order to wipe the slate completely clean, changed his surname. The name he adopted instead of Allerthorpe was Trebend. He knew a thing or two about heraldry, did Tobias, and the word was taken from the family coat of arms, as you say, Mr Holmes.

  “When the news reached him that Sir Mansfield had met his end in a fire, Tobias journeyed back up to Yorkshire. He wished to pray at the site of Sir Mansfield’s demise, begging the Lord to have mercy on his cousin’s soul. He found the crude grave in which the body was buried. He also found, beside it, a triangle-shaped chunk of charred stone with an inscription on it – words in Latin.”

  “Part of the Hell Stone,” said Holmes.

  “Just so. Tobias knew of the Hell Stone, the thing that Sir Mansfield had had made from a segment of meteorite in order to seal his compact with Satan. It was supposed to have been broken into bits and buried with Sir Mansfield’s body, but it seems a fragment had been overlooked. Tobias took the fragment away with him. A sort of souvenir, I suppose.”

  “Or a memento mori. To remind him of the fallibility and frailty of man.”

  “Maybe,” said Mrs Trebend. “At any rate, when Tobias died, the fragment ended up in the possession of his son, my husband’s grandfather. It was passed on from there to my husband’s father, Thomas. Over the three generations the Trebends’ circumstances declined. Thomas Trebend was reduced to eking out a living as a casual labourer. He was a drunkard, a profligate and a bully. He was free with his fists, too, and it were his wife and child who bore the brunt.

  “His son, my Robert, grew up in poverty, with a savage brute for a father and a burning yen to improve his lot. When Thomas Trebend died – jaundice, of course – he left behind little in the way of worldly goods. A few worthless knick-knacks, or so it was thought. But amongst them there was one thing of value, even though it might not have appeared as such. The Hell Stone fragment.

  “My husband
had known nowt about the fragment until he happened upon it while emptying out his father’s cupboards. Thomas himself must have had no idea what the piece of stone signified. It had become just a piece of family junk, a meaningless heirloom. He’d probably have sold it if he’d thought it would fetch a decent price.

  “Robert, though, was intrigued by it, and began researching its origins. The trail led to Fellscar Keep and the Allerthorpes.

  “It was child’s play for him to insert himself into the household. A butler position was advertised, after the previous butler, Lapham, took ill and retired. By then Robert had several years’ experience in service and an exemplary record. He came highly recommended by his previous employers.”

  “That is very true,” Thaddeus admitted. “I considered myself fortunate to be able to hire him.”

  “He even married the cook,” said Holmes, “thereby further entrenching his position as a loyal servant.”

  Mrs Trebend clucked her tongue disputatiously. “Robert is – was – an admirable specimen of manhood through and through. We were a good match, him and me. A very good match.” A hoarseness entered her voice as she uttered these last words, and I was reminded that only a few minutes ago did she learn she had been widowed. Her composure under the circumstances was remarkable, evidence of a strong will; but it was fragile, too.

  “Did you learn of his Allerthorpe roots before or after you were wed?” Holmes asked.

  “After. It wasn’t a consideration in my marrying him, if that’s what you’re implying. We’d been husband and wife for many a week before Robert took me into his confidence. He told me he’d identified which area of the castle was built over the old castle. He said he even thought he knew how to gain access to the ruins below. He showed me the Hell Stone fragment. ‘This,’ he said, ‘is my proof. It will reveal the truth about my heritage.’”

  “I see. He believed that if he could unearth the other fragments of the Hell Stone and match his part of it with them, this would put the matter of his ancestry beyond question.”

  “It would confirm that he, and nobody else, was the lawful owner of these lands,” said Mrs Trebend. “Never mind that Alpheus Allerthorpe had erected his own castle on the island. All of it belonged to my husband, fair and square, and once that had been established, he’d claim the place for himself and evict these folk who wrongly thought it theirs. He would become the lord of the manor, and I the lady. And so he commenced his digging.”

  “Astonishing,” said Thaddeus. “To think that for two years that – that snake was pouring my wine, overseeing my pantry, serving my guests, and all the while quietly plotting to oust me.”

  “And I loathed every minute of it,” said a sneering voice.

  All eyes turned to the doorway.

  There stood none other than the man himself, Trebend. He was holding a double-barrelled shotgun.

  There were gasps of alarm from the Allerthorpes.

  Mrs Trebend gasped too, but hers was one of joy. “Robert! You’re alive!”

  “Very much so, my dear Margery,” said he, “and now that everything is out in the open, it is a relief to have to play the meek, unflappable underling no more. All those months kowtowing to my master.” The emphasis he placed on the last word was more than a little sarcastic. “Recompense for what was stolen from me is long overdue. I have come to collect.”

  “Trebend…” said Holmes.

  “No, sir.” Trebend levelled the shotgun at my friend. “I have been listening at the door. You have talked enough. Now it is my turn.”

  Briefly holding the gun with one hand, he delved into a pocket and produced a chunk of stone. It had roughly the size and shape of a set square from a child’s geometry set. I glimpsed letters carved into its scorch-marked surface. One word stood out: DIABOLUS.

  “Here is Sir Mansfield Allerthorpe’s Hell Stone, the little of it my great-grandfather retrieved. When I locate the other pieces – and it is only a matter of time before I do – there will be no dispute. Fellscar Keep and its estate will be mine. I have worked long and hard, exhausting myself night after night, in pursuit of this goal. After all that, I will not be denied my inheritance.” He returned the chunk of stone to his pocket.

  “You are hardly likely to be granted ownership of the land even if you were given the chance to find the other pieces of the stone,” Holmes pointed out. “You are a criminal now. You have committed murder.”

  “And I will do it again!” Trebend declared, tightening his grip on the weapon. His eyes, staring from his soil-stained face, were wide and wild. “I will murder you all if I have to.”

  “Just calm down, Trebend,” said Shadrach. “Put the gun aside. Let us discuss this rationally. I am sure we can come to some sort of accommodation.”

  “Never,” snarled the other. “I have endured enough. Being manhandled by Mr Holmes and shot at by Dr Watson was the final indignity. I knew that by stamping a hole in the ice of the lake and slapping the water beneath hard with both hands, I could give the impression that I had drowned. That left me free to steal back to the castle and remove this weapon from your gunroom.”

  “But what now, Trebend?” said Holmes. “You have sprung your ambush. You have the upper hand. You are in a position to make demands. What are they? Mr Allerthorpe is right. We can surely arrive at some sort of compromise, can we not?”

  Trebend was preoccupied with Holmes at that moment. He was paying no attention to me. My hand crept to my pocket where my revolver nestled.

  “I will concede nothing at gunpoint,” said Thaddeus to Trebend. “I am prepared, however, to negotiate with you, provided that you cease to threaten me and my family.”

  “At present this gun is all that’s keeping me from being overpowered by the various men in the room,” Trebend said. “I may be a snake but I am no fool. The likes of you people are forever trying to keep down the likes of me, and I won’t have it any more. The gun is my one advantage, an equaliser of imbalances, and I shall not throw it away.”

  I had my revolver in my grasp. All I needed to do now was draw it.

  Before I could, however, Erasmus propelled himself off the sofa, diving at Trebend. He managed to seize hold of the shotgun by the twin barrels. There was a ferocious struggle. The shotgun went off.

  The report was deafening, and was followed by a peal of frightened screams. I scanned around the room. A framed mezzotint on the wall now lay on the floor in pieces, but by great good fortune, nobody had been hit.

  Out came my revolver, but Erasmus and Trebend were still locked together, vying for control of the shotgun. I could not get a clear shot.

  Rising to my feet, I took three swift paces forwards. My plan was simply to place the pistol’s muzzle against Trebend’s temple. He would surely then realise that the game was up and would surrender.

  In the event, Trebend spotted my move. With a sudden surge of effort, he wrested the shotgun out of Erasmus’s grasp and swung it towards me. Before I could do anything, he squeezed the second trigger.

  Next thing I knew, I was on my back and there was an intense, burning pain in my upper leg. The room reeled around me. I caught blurred glimpses of Sherlock Holmes snatching the now empty shotgun out of Trebend’s clutches and then performing some intricate double-handed manoeuvre, a baritsu technique, which brought the other man helplessly to his knees. Thaddeus, Shadrach and Erasmus then took over, seizing Trebend and wrestling him to the floor, where he writhed and protested, to no avail.

  Now Holmes was bending over me, a look of horrified concern upon his face.

  “Watson. Watson! My God, man. I pray your wound is not a mortal one. I could not bear to be without my Watson.”

  I tried to reassure him that I was fine, but the words would not come out. Everything began to cloud over, as though the mist that surrounded the castle was leaking indoors and filling the room. The last thing I was aware of was Holmes demanding that someone must fetch a doctor. Absurdly, I wanted to remind him that I was a doctor. There was no need
to pester anyone else.

  Then all went black.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  A CHRISTMAS MIRACLE

  Dr Greaves, the Allerthorpes’ family practitioner, turned out to be a grizzled fellow in his sixties, with the kind of voice that instilled faith and the air of someone for whom no illness or injury came as a surprise.

  I had passed out from the shock of being shot. When I came round a couple of hours later, Greaves was already bandaging up my leg. Although he had been roused from his bed and driven from Yardley Cross to Fellscar in the dead of night, he seemed unruffled. He was the kind of seasoned senior medic I hoped I might become.

  “I have picked out as many of the shotgun pellets as I could with my tweezers,” he told me. “Some have gone deep into the quadriceps and will either work their own way to the surface in time or else will remain where they are in perpetuity. I’m afraid this may cause your leg to ache, especially in cold weather. But I understand from Mr Sherlock Holmes that you already have a bullet lodged in your shoulder, so you will perhaps be used to the discomfort.”

  “Used to it? No,” I said, essaying a laugh. “Resigned to it? Yes.”

  “That’s the spirit. Of course, you must not move for several days, to give the affected area time to heal properly. The Allerthorpes are only too happy for you to remain their guest while you recuperate. Thaddeus Allerthorpe insists upon it, in fact. He is immensely grateful for what you have done for his family – you and Mr Holmes both – and for your personal sacrifice.”

  “Out of the question.”

  “Doctor’s orders.”

  “Which do not apply when directed at a fellow doctor. I must get home. Tomorrow is Christmas Day. I cannot miss it. Forget about Trebend and his shotgun – Mrs Watson will kill me if I am not there. She is an understanding woman, but wifely benevolence only goes so far.”