by Bill Peschel
“Yes, I thought you’d say so. I’m a much better-looking chap than my counterfeit presentment.
“But come, we have moralised enough to-day,” and pressing the button, Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson took the lift and ascended into spiritland.
The Scarlet Drop
An Adventure of Spitlock Phones
“Sir Kadaver Bonan Oyle” (“Fibulous”)
Here is another contribution from the trench journal Fifth Gloster Gazette, which published “The Mystery of 2643, Pte. Chugwater” in the 1915 chapter. The identity of “Fibulous” could not be determined.
Exactly how Phones and myself came to be in Germany in the year of the War 1917 it is not my purpose here to tell; suffice it to say that we had been installed in Cologne for several months prior to the period of this adventure and were engaged on a most delicate and special mission.
It was early one morning that Phones burst suddenly into my room in the Dom Hotel. In his hand he held a pink paper. I had never before in my life seen Phones excited. Now he could scarcely contain himself.
I looked at the telegram he offered me. In bold letters was written: “Potztausend. Graf von Schmerzenkerzendochtgam und Klufthugel.”
“What does this mean?” I asked Phones.
“It’s from the Count of Painswick and Cleeve Hill, summoning us at once,” he replied. “The Count is the chief shareholder in the Kadaver Factories Ltd.”
* * * * *
On our arrival Phones was closeted privately with the Count for over an hour. Then he came to me.
“Are you ready to leave for France tonight?” he asked.
“Phones,” I said, “I am ready to leave for Hell tonight, if it’s with you.”
Without another word Phones told me to hurry up, so rushing upstairs I just put together enough shirts and socks to complete to summer scale and in five minutes’ time I was ready to start. Not so quickly as Phones, however. He already stood, pipe in mouth and hat in hand, ready for the journey.
“My dear Wonson,” he smiled, “I really think you ought not to leave your shaving brush behind.”
I stared at him in amazement. The man was a veritable marvel.
Noting my astonishment Phones was amused. “But it’s perfectly obvious,” he said, “from the size of your valise that you have omitted that necessary article of kit.”
We left a few minutes later and caught the night-boat from Zeebrugge to Ostend. From there we rapidly proceeded in the reinforcement train to Douai, and it was only here that Phones confided to me the motive for our sudden departure.
“It is one of the most interesting cases I have ever met,” he began. “Landsturmer Franz, with whose mysterious murder we are concerned, was the Count’s Under-Sausage Keeper. He was apparently in perfect health, having been refused exemption on National Grounds and passed fit by the doctors some months back as A.1.
“He came to France for business reasons and whilst somewhere in the neighbourhood of Cambrai, he met his death in most mysterious circumstances. He was walking along the B road one day when suddenly and without warning he was most foully murdered.
“The two friends who were with him describe the scene as terrifying. They were all walking abreast, Franz on the left hand side, when there was a sudden crash. The other two at once fell on their stomachs and when they recovered consciousness half an hour later they could find nothing of their friend. They searched for some moments and at length found what was apparently the sole remnants of the Landsturmer’s mortal remains. It was a scarlet drop of blood which they recognised by the identity disc.”
I gasped for horror and after a slight pause Phones concluded: “And it is this atrocious crime that we have come here to solve.”
We left next morning on the 5.15 for C—, which we reached late in the afternoon. The Grand Hotel, at which I had stayed on a previous visit to the town being no longer in existence, we decided to put up for the night at the Rest Camp.
“Tomorrow,” said Phones, as I was about to retire for the night, “we must go over at dawn.”
Happening to run out of tobacco a couple of hours later, I ran into Phones’ room. He had his back turned to me as I opened the door, so I stood quietly for a while. He was at the window, apparently trying the sash, and after a short time I was surprised to see him take a pistol from his pocket. A moment later there was a loud report. I rushed forward. As I did so, a bright red and green light burst in the sky. Before I could reach Phones he had turned round on me, smiling.
“A little experiment which has failed, my dear Wonson,” he said. “And now let us get to bed.”
I knew Phones well enough to understand that he wished to be alone, so getting my tobacco I left his room, though I must confess that it was not without great curiosity as to his motives.
The next morning, attired in field-grey, we started at dawn as arranged. Phones, with his customary foresight, had warned me to don this uniform so as to make ourselves as invisible as possible.
We soon reached the scene of the crime. In the centre of the road was a hole about 4 feet across and on either side were tall trees. Beyond these the open country stretched away for miles in the distance. The only place for concealment, I thought to myself, would be behind those trees. However it was not I that was to solve the problem and Phones had already started on his job in his inimitable way. He was pacing out various distances from the hole with his eyes half shut and deep in thought. Once he came into a tree with some force and by the sudden look of astonishment that crossed his face I though for the moment he had spotted something. He next got down on his hands and nose and examined the whole ground with his pocket microscope. Now and again he would also pick up lumps of earth and bring them under the glass.
We must have been there some two hours before he got up with a sudden grunt and started off rapidly for home. Apparently he had entirely forgotten me, but I knew well enough how unwise it would be to interrupt him, so I followed closely behind him the whole way back whilst he strolled on, his hands in his mouth and his pipe in his pocket.
In the afternoon he drew out his violin and began to play soulful little tunes on it, but he was soon asked to desist by the manager of the rest camp, and during the remainder of the day he said no word to me until we parted for the night. Then he remarked, “I shall be going out again early tomorrow. You need not come with me.”
Disappointed as I was, I knew it would be useless to argue.
The following day I eagerly awaited Phones’ return, but he did not come in until about eleven in the evening, and I saw at once that he had had a day of it. He looked thoroughly worn out and was obviously still baffled.
However, he only murmured, “A tough case”, and then went to bed.
During the next few days Phones made no reference to the case in hand and I almost thought that he had forgotten it, until one morning he came into my room, his eyes shining like Very lights, and I knew at once that he had spotted a clue.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
For an answer I quickly assumed my puttees and jammed my bowler on my head. Then we set off together down the now-familiar road.
We had not been at our destination more than five minutes when I heard Phones mutter, “Yes, it is a shell-hole,” and the gleam once more lit up his face.
He then walked rapidly across to the nearest tree and waved a white handkerchief. I stared at him in astonishment and for a minute we waited perfectly still. Then there was a sudden whiz and a crash. Phones and I dropped flat from instinct, and a few seconds later, when we got up again, Phones was beaming all over like a small boy.
As for me, I felt most annoyed. In bringing my hand into too sudden contact with a sharp stone on the road I had cut it, and was now bleeding profusely. Phones, however, seemed not to notice it.
“I must apologise, my dear Wonson,” he began, “for submitting you to a most dangerous experiment. It was, however, most essential for the proof of my theories. I must confess that for the firs
t few days the case completely baffled me.
“Last night I happily lighted on a clue, though I must confess it was by a most extraordinary coincidence. I was undressing for bed when suddenly one of my candles began to emit weird little groans and started spluttering. Realising it was in pain I at once put it out, but it was not until some minutes later that I connected it in any way with the case in hand. Then in a moment the whole thing seemed clear. I re-lit the candle, and was just able to recognise in the groans, “Franz—Gott straf—” when it went out again of its own accord.
“Landsturmer Franz, my dear Wonson, was the victim of a most peculiarly atrocious crime. Having been partially destroyed by gunshot wound, two of Count Schmerzenkerzendochtgam’s agents kidnapped him, and before he had time to protest he had been transformed into a candle. Thus since Franz was his Under-Sausageer the Count’s cruelties reflected on his own head. And now I think we may go and have lunch . . . .”
Thus ended one of the most interesting episodes in Phones’ career, and I am happy to think I have been the means of conveying it to a credulous public.
Zero! or The Bound of the Baskershires
Anonymous
By the end of 1917, the trench journal The Wipers Times (which published Herlock Sholmes At It Again and Narpoo Rum in the 1916 chapter) had become so popular among the British Expeditionary Force that it was renamed The B.E.F. Times. This story ran from Dec. 25, 1917, to Feb. 26, 1918, when publication was suspended. Germany had launched its spring offensive in a last-ditch attempt to defeat the Allies before American troops arrived. The drive failed, and in August, the Allies counterattacked with the help of fresh American troops. By November, the war was over. Although The B.E.F. Times published two more issues as The Better Times, for unknown reasons “Zero!” was left unfinished.
Characters:—
Maj. General Wilfred Montmorency Duggout—A General.
Maj. Horace Malcolm Charles Frigiped Bassy—A Staff Officer.
Andrews—His Chauffeur.
Anastasia Doubloy—An Estaminet Girl.
Marguerite—Waitress in a Restaurant.
Randolph Wunpip—A Subaltern.
Capt. Martell—A Coy Commander.
Herlock Shomes—The Great Detective.
Capt. Hotsam, R.A.M.C.—His Admirer.
Sergt. Sniffins—Provost Sergeant.
W.A.A.C. and soldiers will be introduced as necessary.
Chapter 1
Night was fast closing in on Dickebusch when suddenly the door of an estaminet was flung open, and three figures emerged to be quickly swallowed up in the gathering gloom.
They were Sergeant Sniffins and two of his satellites, who had just been to see if Anastasia Doubloy was conforming with the regulations, and had destroyed the sugar card previously issued to her.
Hardly had they gone when a cry was heard and shouts for help. Figures came rapidly running from all sides, but too late. Captain Martell was gasping his last on the pavé with a hole in his windpipe. He just managed to gurgle “Cox 7 and 11!” e’er he threw himself back and died.
The crowd melted away in the darkness; and left one figure standing beside the corpse of Captain Martell. This was none other than our old friend Herlock Shomes, who had been looking for cigarette ends on the Dickebusch Road.
Hastily examining the surrounding country for clues, he crawled around on his hands and knees and made several small packages, sealing each in an envelope. Then he carefully went through the pockets of Captain Martell, and disappeared into the night.
Meanwhile what of Anastasia? As it was after closing hours she had a full complement of military police, who were drinking and playing banker, pontoon, and other innocuous games. Only the quiet curses of the losers broke the stillness which was occasionally shattered as glasses hurtled across the room.
Suddenly the door was pushed open, and a man rushed in and broke the news of the murder of Captain Martell. All was instantly confusion as the M.P.’s returned to their posts, assuming an expression both grave and stern the while.
Anastasia was left alone, and closing the door she collapsed in a chair, and buried her face in her hands. Sobs shook her being.
Chapter 2
Sobs continued to shake the being of Anastasia, and so we will leave her and return to our friend Shomes.
On reaching his dugout he dropped into a chair and seizing his vermoral sprayer injected a good dose into his leg. Then picking up his banjo he began to play in an odd, disjointed manner. Suddenly the gas curtain was pulled aside and Hotsam entered. Throwing himself down on the bed he grabbed a tin of bully and a biscuit, and grunted—“Stop that damned row.”
“My dear Hotsam,” ejaculated Shomes. “You are unnerved. Music is absolutely essential for my brain, and I have a difficult problem on hand.”
At the word problem Hotsam dropped the bully on the floor, and was immediately all attention.
“The case has some very interesting features, and I expect developments in a moment. In fact, I shouldn’t be surprised if they are here now. You know my methods? Who is it we can hear coming up the duckboards?”
Hotsam listened a moment, and said, “A runner.”
“Wrong, my dear fellow,” said Shomes. “Your powers of deduction are not very strong. It is a Staff Officer in a hurry. Heard him say, ‘Which is the way to the line? Are they shelling?’ And then when he fell off the duckboard he said, ‘Bother.’”
“Wonderful, Shomes,” said Hotsam.
At that moment the gas curtain was violently wrenched aside, and a Staff Officer entered hastily. “Gad but the Hun is lively to-night” was his greeting, as he took a seat and a drink.
“Well,” said Shomes. “What can I do for you?”
“Have you got a drying room and a soup kitchen?” said the Staff Officer.
“No,” said Shomes.
“Then all is lost, and the murderer will get away undetected.”
“Murderer,” said Shomes. “What murderer?”
“Come,” said the Staff Officer and started off at a run.
Rapidly grasping the vermoral sprayer Shomes followed, accompanied by Hotsam. Shells fell rapidly some miles away, yet still they sped on in the opposite direction until they came to the estaminet at Dickebusch. Bursting open the door they rushed in.
Anastasia was there rocking herself to and fro. Sobs shook her being.
Chapter 3
Whilst the tragic scene described in our last chapter was being enacted, a gay throng was assembled at Headquarters, many leagues away, where a ball was in progress. The orchestra had just struck up the opening bars of the next dance, a can-can; asthmatic majors were picking their partners from the bevy of sweet and blushing young subalterns; the drinkers were drinking noisily and swiftly at the bar; the General was telling a few anecdotes to a small but admiring circle of his more intimate cronies; when suddenly a perspiring and mud-bespattered dispatch-rider dashed into the room and handed to the General an envelope marked “URGENT. SECRET.”
Quickly tearing open the cover the General read the message, emitted a low groan, and turned a ghastly white. Seeing the agitated demeanour of their chief, the musicians, dancers and drinkers ceased their various occupations and crowded round the General.
“Grave news, my friends,” he cried. “Terrible news, listen,” and holding the fateful message before him he read out, in a quaking and quivering voice, the following dreadful words:—
“Capt. Martell has been foully murdered in vicinity of front line AAA Am tracking down murderer with Shomes and Hotsam AAA Please send assistance to me at once to the Estaminet Dickebusch AAA Bassy AAA”
Before the General had finished reading the last sentence the room had quickly, quietly and completely emptied, with but one exception, and shouts of “damn you that’s my mess-cart,” “leave my horse alone,” “no, there’s no more room in this car,” were heard issuing from the darkness without.
The General looked up and found that the only other occupan
t of the room was no other than Sec. Lieut. Randolph Wunpip, V.C. (3 bars), D.S.O. (5 bars), M.C., etc., etc., of the famous Baskershire Regt.
“My good Wunpip,” commenced the General.
“Say no more, sir,” answered the gallant young officer, “I will go to Dickebusch.”
“My brave fellow, I will see that your action does not go unrewarded. Outside you will find my car. Take it and begone! Only do not forget your steel helmet, 120 rounds of ammunition and your iron ration. Good-luck and Godspeed,” and the General’s voice shook with emotion.
After two hours rapid driving, Wunpip was in Dickebusch. Leaping from the car he thrust open the door of the estaminet where a strange scene met his astonished gaze. Upon the floor surrounded by many rum-jars, lay Bassy, insensible. Beside him knelt Hotsam vainly endeavouring to bring him too by pouring the contents of Sholmes’s vermoral sprayer down his throat. Shomes was standing before a mirror blacking his face with a piece of burnt cork. And Anastasia, poor Anastasia, was sitting on the floor, slowly rocking herself to and fro. Sobs shook her being.
Belsize as a Commentator: Sherlock Holmes