Sherlock Holmes

by David Marcum

  I entered through a heavy door, and an intolerable smell of decay filled the air. Possibly invading rats had died here. The lantern’s meagre light did little to dispel the blackness, but I saw that a shallow channel had been dug across the cellar. It ran from where a brick had been removed from the base of one wall, to the opposite wall, where it disappeared. Also, I saw at once that there was a thickening to the walls which sealed the air in here and deadened all sound. I held the lantern higher to discover several deep vents, drilled deep into the same wall. I deferred my curiosity of these, in favour of further exploration, holding the lantern higher still in order to examine the ceiling

  Again, the brickwork had been fortified with a kind of padding. Close beneath it was a mechanism of springs and weights, and in a moment I realised that I was looking at an oubliette, a device that I had read was employed in mediaeval French castles and elsewhere. This was confirmed by the metal axis across the ceiling, on which the entire floor had pivoted like a child’s seesaw, and by the polish that glinted in the lantern-light having formerly been uppermost as the floor of the sitting-room. This movement, I saw, would have occurred but once, and then the reversed floor would have been securely locked into place after tipping the occupants above into the abyss.

  I moved the lantern again, its glow now illuminating a succession of vertical iron bars that divided the cellar. Behind these was the true horror of the place. The putrid smell was explained, and I shuddered at this discovery. Two partially decomposed bodies lay with arms outstretched between the bars, clawing at something beyond their reach. They were without question a man and a boy, Thomas Rander and his son, their faces agonised in their death throes. Bulging eyes stared at me in silent appeal, and a scuttling from a corner told me that rats had already fed here.

  I turned back and found the stairs. My shadow was cast darkly upon the wall again as I climbed, and disappointment at my failure to interpret the facts and signs in this tragic affair weighed heavily upon me. I locked the house and left Carmody Alley, for there was nothing more to be learned here. After five minutes of brisk walking I hailed a hansom and journeyed to Montague Street in deep thought. By the time I was settled in my lodgings, I had attained a new perspective, and a final confirmation would complete my case.

  Early the next day, I requested the driver of the cab to stop briefly, in order to send telegrams to Lestrade explaining my progress, and to Mr. Nathanial Pargeter announcing my arrival. I caught the early train to the Midlands from Euston with minutes to spare, and commenced a few hours of mesmerised observation through the compartment window as the evidence of a dying summer paraded before me. Skeletal trees amid carpets of shed golden leaves alternated with dulled and muddy fields. The smoke-grimed buildings and chimneys of towns large and small flashed past with hypnotic effect, so that I awoke from a peaceful doze as the train approached Darlaston Station.

  No trap awaited me as I left the platform, but I was fortunate enough to be able to hire one for the morning and, after obtaining directions, I set off down lanes that had until recently boasted carpets of fragrant blooms.

  Causewell House was but a mile or two distant. I reached it in the early afternoon, an unimposing structure that had once extended to a wing that now stood in ruins. I led the horse to a stone trough not far from the perimeter of the grounds, near topiary that had been sculpted into fantastical shapes.

  A grim manservant answered the door to tell me that Mr. Pargeter was not at home, but when I sent a scrap of paper with the words “All at Slaughterer’s Lane has been discovered” written upon it, he quickly appeared in the doorway. He was much as I had imagined, a squat, blunt man with a full handlebar moustache and a brusque manner.

  “My name is Sherlock Holmes,” I announced. “Did you not receive my telegram, Mr. Pargeter?”

  “I did, Mr. Holmes, but did you not receive my reply forbidding you to come?”

  “I regret that I did not, since I had already left, but it would have made little difference. You will already know what we have to discuss.”

  I received a long appraising look. Finally, he seemed to make up his mind.

  “Very well,” he said reluctantly. “You may enter.”

  With that, he led me into a dusty room – probable evidence, I thought, of his wife’s demise – containing little more than a dining table and chairs. The fire was unlit and he offered no refreshment, but my spirits leapt as I saw the last obstacle to the completion of my case swept away: Along the walls were the paintings, the originals that had hung in the house in Slaughterer’s Lane!

  “There is a fox,” he explained as he saw that I had noticed a long-barrelled rifle near an open window at the end of the room. “I keep geese and chickens at the back of the house, you see.”

  I nodded, as we sat down with the dining table between us.

  “What is it then, that I am accused of?” he asked gruffly.

  “I am here to tell you that your trap has been sprung successfully.”

  “Trap? What is this you say? I am an honourable man from an honourable family. No less so than the nobility. I was born in that house in Slaughterer’s Lane, and have worked hard to advance myself. Your suggestion of anything less is scandalous, sir!”

  “I will relate to you your actions since the death of your wife towards revenging yourself upon the thieves who broke into your premises. Pray feel free to correct any errors in my deductions, although I am quite certain that the essence of my understanding is correct.”

  For the first time, his expression became troubled. He looked into my face, a valiant attempt but he could not meet my eyes. Some seconds passed before he fixed his gaze upon the dusty table-top and spoke in a whisper.

  “Very well, then. Tell your story.”

  “After your wife’s unfortunate death,” I began, “you swore revenge on the intruders who had caused it by their sudden appearance and intention to steal your art collection.”

  “I recognised them. The newspapers had carried their photographs before. They were already infamous.”

  “Quite. Am I correct in my assumption that you kept your art collection in Slaughterer’s Lane, not only because of a sentimental attachment to that address, but for the ease of obtaining further pictures from the London dealers?”

  “It was my wife who loved art. She looked upon my London home as her personal gallery. It was harmless, and gave her pleasure.”

  I shifted in my chair. “After her death, the burglars, the father and son Rander, disappeared, in order to evade the law, but you resolved to entice them into a second attempt to rob you. You removed the old masters and precious seascapes to where I see them on the wall behind you, after first having them copied by an artist, or artists, because of the short time it took for the completion, and installed the reproductions at Slaughterer’s Lane.”

  “There is no crime in protecting property against thieves.”

  “Indeed there is not, but these copies were a lure, as was the addition of other paintings as reported, possibly fictitiously, in the newspapers. Knowing that these additional prizes would prove even more irresistible, you ensured that entry to the house was made simple. Such an uncomplicated lock would prove but a small obstacle, to professionals. You then ensured, by means of bolts, that progress beyond the sitting room was impossible. When the robbers arrived they could not, in any case, have avoided the trap, which workmen from your ironworks had constructed, along with other alterations to the cellar, and so they fell through the revolving floor into the cage.”

  “The law failed to imprison them, but I succeeded.” Mr. Pargeter confirmed in a dull voice.

  “If you had but handed them over to Scotland Yard!” I exclaimed. “Then no crime would have been committed. Up to that point, you were not reprehensible!”

  He gritted his teeth. “I wanted them to suffer, as did my wife. As I have suffered. I wanted their souls to go straight to hell!”

  “And, indeed, they must have felt some of the pangs of that to
rturous place. Imagine their feelings as, in total darkness, they hungered and became increasingly thirsty. But even then they had yet to experience the torment that you had arranged. How long was it, before they heard the trickle of running water as it passed from the drains along the newly-dug channel a few feet from their imprisonment? How must they have longed for food, as the aroma from the bakery surrounded them from the vents which you had caused to be drilled in the wall? It is easy to see why you have not responded to enquiries from the official force, requests to travel again to London, since it suited your purpose to let your prisoners die slowly, painfully, and alone. I tell you sir, that you have brought into being a torture chamber, and that the law does not allow.”

  Mr. Pargeter was silent for a while. I sat watching as an array of expressions crossed his face.

  “I suppose you have informed Scotland Yard?” he said at last.

  “I despatched a wire to Inspector Lestrade, at the same time as the telegram to you.”

  “Then why did you come here, Mr. Holmes?”

  “Because, despite your actions, I am not without sympathy for your situation. For a man to lose his wife in such circumstances is no small thing. The resulting heartbreak was quite undeserved.”

  “Then why have you been instrumental in exposing me?”

  “I must always champion the law. The one service I could perform for you, however, was to warn you, so that you could prepare your legal defence. This will give you the best chance to obtain a lighter sentence, for I am aware, as the court will hopefully be, that you were driven by your own pain, rather than criminal intent. I do not think, in the normal course of things, that you would have acted thus.”

  I left the house, to which I had brought nothing but sadness and despair, shortly afterwards. The horse seemed restless and anxious to be away from that place, and trotted eagerly as I took up the reins.

  We were still within the grounds when I heard a single rifle shot, and a remark of Mr. Pargeter’s came back to me: “I am an honourable man from an honourable family.”

  The fox, I thought, was safe now.

  Mr. Chen’s Lesson

  by Derrick Belanger

  After a friendship of well over forty years, I am happy to report that Mr. Holmes still never ceases to amaze me. Though we drifted over the course of the twentieth century and now only see each other in person on rare occasions, we still remain good friends by way of the post. Holmes surprised me a few days ago when I received a letter from him which did the unusual job of paying me a compliment. When the letter was handed to me, I sliced it open and read it immediately. In his typical fashion, the man included no pleasantries and went directly to his point:

  My Dear Watson,

  Over the years, you have often asked me if you could tell the story of my honorable instructor, Mr. Chen, the man I have respectfully referred to as Master and whom you have bestowed the title of The Third Man, though I’m not certain if you call him that more to show the stature of the man or as a slight jab at my own incapabilities. It has been years since the man’s passing, and I’d wager forty since I, myself, told you his tale. With the passing of time I feel it is finally appropriate to begin to reveal to your readers the story of Mr. Chen, a story the world must hear.

  I concede that some, but not all, of the reasons I kept your pen stilled these years has, with our own increased time upon the Earth, disappeared. The world should know of Mr. Chen before we join him in the Undiscovered Country. Though I can’t yet allow the retelling of all of my encounters with Mr. Chen, I believe relating the story of my first encounter is now warranted. At times, I have expressed my own interest in telling of my lessons with Mr. Chen. However, I am humble enough to admit that while my skills are strong in terms of technical writing, you are the superior crafter of narratives.

  Therefore, I ask that your next published adventure be that of my first lesson with my dear Master.

  Good day Watson, and I remain respectfully your true friend,

  Sherlock Holmes

  The story of Mr. Chen! I could finally tell the story of Mr. Chen! I felt as giddy as a young lad receiving his first bicycle. But how should I tell such a story? Should I relate the first lesson in isolation or as part of a longer narrative? I sat at my desk, pen in hand, and made several attempts, yet I couldn’t grasp where to make my starting point. Should I start with Lestrade? Holmes in Montague Street? Should I try a more modern take with Holmes attending the man’s funeral and having the entire tale told in flashback?

  By the late afternoon, I had a collective pile of discarded and crumpled up paper at my feet. This was a story I had to get right, but I couldn’t even find how to begin. Then, it dawned on me. Why not let the reader hear it as I first did, and my pen magically transported me back to the final day of September, 1887. Holmes had just finished explaining to me how he had set a trap for Captain James Calhoun, the man responsible for the death of Mr. John Openshaw, as I have relayed in the story, “The Five Orange Pips”.

  At the time, since Holmes did not yet know that Mother Nature would thwart him in his mission to apprehend the criminal and his mates upon his arrival in the state of Georgia, the detective was in a rather cheerful mood. That evening we drank, smoked, and played cards in celebration. While I enjoy a good game of poker, my merriment was not quite that of my companion, as Holmes wanted to play just for sport and refused my persuasions at incorporating some low wagers. With a few glasses of brandy in me and a Turkish blend of tobacco filling my lungs, I found my tongue loosened, and since I could not enjoy a gamble, I thought I’d strike up conversation.

  “Holmes,” I said, while eyeing three deuces in my hand and hoping my faithful opponent had no more than two pairs in his, “when your dearly departed client, Mr. Openshaw, first met with you, and he explained that he hired you because you have never been beaten, you countered that you have in fact, been beaten on four occasions – three times by men, and one time by a woman.”

  Holmes was analyzing his hand, and I could see the cogs in his mind working over his cards. He gave a slight nod acknowledging my statement.

  “The name of the woman is quite obvious,” I admitted, “and I believe that I can identify two of the men, but the third . . . I don’t recall him.”

  Holmes joyfully slapped down his hand, which only contained a pair of aces. “Ah, Watson, that would be Mr. Chen, one of the finest men I have ever known in my lifetime. If you would prefer ending our cards and retiring to our chairs, I could tell you about him. The man had an extraordinary impact on my detective work.” Holmes looked down as I revealed my winning hand. “Looks like you took this one, old man.”

  Even with my winning hand – absent the joy of winning money – I had no interest in continuing our game. I told Holmes I would prefer hearing of this extraordinary Mr. Chen, a man he had never once mentioned in all my years residing at Baker Street.

  “This takes me back quite some time Watson,” Holmes said after we had settled into our arm chairs and refilled our glasses of brandy. “It was ten years ago, back when I resided in Montague Street.

  “As I’m sure you recall Watson, in those days I did most of my consulting work within the confines of my room. A member of the force would bring me a case, I’d untangle a puzzling knot, help solve the problem at hand, and then pocket my fee. By the time of this tale, the force had become more and more dependent upon me, and they kept bringing me more and more ridiculous cases. I was becoming angry at the laziness of the Yarders, and my ire was making me arrogant.”

  “You don’t say,” I commented, thinking that Holmes’s arrogance still had not left him.

  “Yes,” Holmes continued, “and Lestrade was the worst of the lot. He had brought me a case that appeared so obvious that even a nine-year-old schoolboy could have figured it out.

  “The case involved an apparent kidnapping of the Lady Marianne, daughter of Lord Mapleton. The police had arrested the coachman who had driven his ladyship to the city for an afternoon of sho
pping and returned with an empty carriage. He claimed that his mistress had entered an apothecary’s shop to purchase supplies to restock her toilet chest, and never returned. The driver insisted that he waited for over an hour for his ladyship, and when she didn’t come back, he entered the shop to make sure she was still all right.”

  “Nothing unusual about a woman taking her time shopping,” I chuckled.

  “The driver had the same thought as you,” Holmes responded with an amused expression on his face. “However, this was an apothecary and not a clothing shop. The coachman thought it seemed a bit unusual to take that long for toilet supplies, so he entered the shop and asked about the Lady. The apothecary told him that Lady Marianne had purchased supplies and, he believed, had left through the rear exit of the store. The coachman returned to his carriage and waited an additional two hours before returning home, hoping that his ladyship had returned to her residence through other means of transport.

  “Upon his return to the estate, the driver learned that a ransom note had been discovered in the entryway. Police had already been summoned, and they arrested the driver soon after his arrival.”

  “I say,” I interjected, “did they interview the apothecary to see if he corroborated the driver’s story? Seems the simplest thing to do.”

  “It was,” Holmes agreed, “And they did. The apothecary gave his statement to the police and it matched the coachman’s story.”

  “However . . . .” I said, almost in the form of a question, for I knew there was a catch to Holmes’s statement.

  “However, instead of releasing the coachman and widening their search, what did the nincompoops do? Why, they went and arrested the apothecary as an accomplice!”