Holmes said, ‘Much as Dr Watson and I sympathise, Mr Small, the prejudices of your parishioners are out of our purview, and I fear that I at least can spare you little of my time, for I have matters of some urgency to investigate. You may have heard that there has been some trouble at Mr Garforth’s studio, and it will be a surprising coincidence if it is not related to the business at Parapluvium House. However, there is one point I fail to understand about your session on watch with Mr Beech, on which you can perhaps enlighten me. Since you were not, in fact, intoning an incantation to curse Mr Kellway into non-existence, what was the actual purpose of your chanting?’
Small looked abashed. He said, ‘I fear the truth of that will be no more to my credit among my congregation than if it had been a prayer to Beelzebub himself. It is a chant which I understand to be used by monks of the Buddhist faith, and which I have found helpful at times of emotional strain. As I mentioned to Dr Watson, when it comes to religion I am somewhat of an experimentalist, and I am quite willing to accept the practices of other traditions when their utility is clear. I take an ancient Roman’s view of this, I confess: I believe that the gods of other races, many of them the subjects of our empire, are merely our own under different names. I learned this mantra, as it is called, from a missionary, a friend of my father who returned from Tibet when I was a youngster. He was a remarkable man, and has been most influential in my own theological thinking.
‘The mantra is helpful in calming the mind, and after an hour with Mr Beech I found myself sorely in need of it. The alternative would have been to have angry words with him, and as words are Beech’s weapon of choice I would inevitably have come off the worse from such an exchange. I tried to make my chant inaudible to him, in the hope that he would think I was merely praying, but evidently his ears are sharper, and his knowledge of Christian liturgy more precise, than I expected.’
‘I see,’ said Holmes. He looked, I thought, somewhat more well disposed towards the little priest than before, and I remembered that he, like Mr Small’s family friend, had visited Tibet and spoken with the monks there. ‘Well, I think that clears up that matter satisfactorily. Now, if you will excuse me, I must attend to the urgent matters I mentioned. Will you join me, Watson?’
‘I think not,’ I said. I had little desire to return to the carpenter’s workshop that Holmes had made of our rooms. ‘I have some errands of my own to run.’
‘As you wish, Watson, as you wish. You will find me at home. Good day to you, Mr Small. I hope you are able to resolve your difference of opinion with Mr Skinner.’
Small stared ruefully after Holmes as he left. ‘I had hoped to find Mr Holmes more sympathetic.’
‘He has a lot on his mind at present,’ I assured him. ‘I, on the other hand, have no pressing engagements. With your permission, I believe I will call around and have a quiet word with Mr Beech. I’m sure he can persuade Skinner to adopt some other avenue of enquiry.’
‘Oh. If you would, Dr Watson, I should be most grateful,’ Small said, with some relief. ‘I find Mr Beech’s conversation a great trial of my forbearance.’
‘As do I,’ I assured him, ‘but I have less at stake if I lose my temper than you. Indeed, after the past day I admit that I might positively relish it.’
‘I quite understand your sentiment, Dr Watson, even if as a man of the cloth I cannot condone it. But Mr Holmes said that something had happened at Mr Garforth’s studio. Is he well?’
I supposed the story would be reported in the newspapers soon enough. ‘It seems he has disappeared. I don’t mean like Kellway,’ I added, remembering that Small thought the Evolved Man a fraud in any case, ‘just in the sense that nobody can find him. There may have been some violence involved, but we’re not sure who else was there at the time.’
‘Ah,’ said Small. ‘Well, none of us know him well, of course.’ A gleam of the old mischief came back into his eye as he added, ‘Except for Mr Rhyne. He did seem dreadfully preoccupied this morning, you know. I wonder what they spoke about, he and Mr Garforth, that morning when Garforth came to Parapluvium House, and left so precipitately the instant you arrived? Well, it has been very pleasant seeing you again, Dr Watson. Do please give my regards to Mr Beech.’
Excerpt from Apparitions and Hauntings of the British Isles, A Compendium, from the Scillies to the Shetlands, with Gazetteer and Map, and a Newly Formulated Theory to Explain the Persistence of Tales of Spectral Manifestation (1879) by Samuel Marston, Gent
Accounts of the haunting of Keelefort House in Richmond (now belonging to Percival Heybourne, the last scion of the family by that name) must begin in 1644 with the slaying of the wife and daughters of Sir Robert Heybourne, an intimate of King Charles the First.
The current Keelefort House was built during the Regency, but it stands in the place of a Tudor dwelling erected by an earlier Sir Robert Heybourne, great-grandfather of the aforementioned, in 1568. It was here, in the Great Hall during dinner, that the latter-day Sir Robert’s family and servants were ambushed and set upon by soldiers in the pay of the King’s enemies in Parliament. Robert himself fled and hid in a garderobe, by which recourse he survived, while his wife and daughters were treated barbarously and ultimately killed along with many of the maidservants. Anne escaped from the house and into the grounds, where she was hacked to pieces by the pursuing soldiers.
Such indeed was Sir Robert’s account after the event, but the matter was strenuously denied by those on the Parliamentary side, and indeed the scandal of the story did them poor service in the eye of the public. Others have averred that Robert himself ran mad and slew his family and servants, chasing his own daughter from the house to perform murder upon her outside, and once his wits were recovered placed the blame upon the King’s enemies. Neither interpretation is altogether satisfying, but it may be agreed in either case that Anne’s ending was a shocking, sad and painful one, of just the kind that I have suggested commonly result in a psychical residuum.
There was indeed no dearth of accounts of such over the following centuries: guests at Keelefort House under its later owners (beginning with Sir James, Robert’s son, who being away at Oxford had escaped the massacre) noted such frightening phenomena as a wailing that might be heard at night in varying places among the buildings and grounds, the violent opening and closing of doors and windows in the house when no-one was present to touch them, and the inexplicable movement of furniture, some of it very heavy, likewise without human agency.
In addition a figure was occasionally seen, a young woman ‘cutte and much bloodied but comelie of face and forme’, as one guest put it in 1726. Family legend naturally named this apparition as the ghost of Anne, although no portrait of Anne survived for comparison, and her brother James, who had seen the spectre for himself in 1669, had noted no clear resemblance. Perhaps one of the unnamed servant girls who also perished on that night instead leant her residuum to the site, and was elevated in death to the position which in life she had merely served.
Regardless of the wraith’s identity and origins, by the early eighteenth century her nuisances had become a trial to the house’s owners, who were not only prevented thereby from receiving visitors but were themselves obliged to dwell for long periods away from the family home. In 1813 Sir Malcolm Heybourne had the original Tudor building torn down and replaced with the structure that stands there today, from which time to the present ‘Anne’ has remained both silent and unseen.
To kill so many with but one partial escapee would surely be beyond the capacity of even a madman, yet the tale of the Parliamentarian soldiers’ atrocities is rather too convenient for the Royalist cause. Might we perhaps deduce that Sir Robert had decided to defect to Parliament’s side, and was given a horrific warning to reconsider by the King’s lieutenants? I must take this up with a historian when I have the leisure. – S. H.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Gideon Beech’s home was in Belgravia, a tall white Georgian townhouse to one side of a leafy square. As I arrived th
ere a young woman emerged from the house and hailed a cab, and I was surprised to recognise the pale blonde hair of Miss Casimir. As I paid my own cabman, she hurriedly bundled the frail figure of Countess Brusilova aboard the vehicle. As they departed I doffed my hat and called a greeting to them, but they were evidently in too great a hurry for conversation.
I rang the bell and was surprised when I was greeted by Beech himself, beaming with pleasure. His smile twitched as he saw me, then redrew itself with a dash of malice. He made a show of looking around for Holmes as he said, ‘Why, it’s Dr Watson – and alone! I had as soon expected to play host to Coster Joe in the absence of Fred Russell.’ The reference would have been lost on me but for a recent evening spent at the Tivoli in the Strand, where I had seen this newly popular ventriloquist’s act. (Coster Joe was, naturally, the doll.) Evidently Beech’s tastes in entertainment stretched beyond even the popular theatre.
Gesturing expansively, the playwright told me, ‘Come in, please. Ah – no, Jack, not the drawing room. Dr Watson and I will take tea in the conservatory.’
A pageboy, who had been about to open the drawing-room door, led us instead through to the rear of the house, where a veritable landscape of perennials, ornamental shrubs and small trees had been crammed into a huge glasshouse. Though my botanical knowledge is imprecise, I recognised a palm, an araucaria and some japonicas, and could guess from my visits to Kew Gardens that the others I could see were all foreign varieties. I thought I even recognised a shrub or two from my time in India.
‘When the demands of my work, which are many and rigorous, become wearisome to me,’ said Beech, ‘I like to sit here in quiet, and contemplate the potent virility and illimitable variegation of Life. Though Man may be the more evolved type, plants such as these make for a powerful metaphor, don’t you agree?’
I offered some non-committal comment, but Beech predictably required no encouragement.
He said, ‘In their vegetal majesty, these humble organisms exhibit in its most honest form Life’s purest goal: to propagate, grow and increase, to fit Herself for every place and every kind of landscape, drawing on the materials at hand to fulfil Her one sacred and eternal mission – to make more of Life. It is a calling which, in their respective, imperfect and partial ways, both the capitalist building his fortune and the pastor attempting to enlarge his flock are stumbling to answer. Though, as it happens, perhaps the highest human expression of this universal urge is found in the writer, who grows from the germ of his first insight, in the rich soil of his brain, a great organism of thought which may – publishers, theatrical impresarios and other mundane gatekeepers grudgingly permitting – disseminate itself into the wider world, planting its own seeds into the soil of other minds.
‘I refer, of course, to those writers who create, and not to those mere stenographers who confine themselves to the dull business of transcribing reality; they resemble at best those collectors of butterflies who pin to the everlasting stasis of an index-card that which was once a vivid and irrepressible expression of Life.’
As I expected, having thus insulted me, he paused with a smile to see my reaction. I had been patiently awaiting such a moment, and so came immediately to my point.
I said, ‘Speaking of pastors, Beech, your creature Skinner has been levelling the most outlandish accusations against the Reverend Small. Accusations which, though baseless, seem calculated to assist certain factions who would destroy his career. I am hoping you might prevail upon him to retract them.’
‘I see.’ For a moment I thought perhaps I could detect a trace of relief in Beech’s superciliousness, but it passed. ‘So poor wee Small’s dogmatic mind is pothered by Skinner’s untrammelled theorising, is it? And he has sent an intermediary to have me call off, as he sees it, my attack dog.’
I said, ‘He didn’t ask me to come, but he confided in Holmes and myself. Skinner is a loose cannon, but those who bear Mr Small ill will may doubtless say that there is no smoke without fire. I don’t even believe you agree with his conclusions, Beech. Weren’t you arguing that Kellway had been translocated to Venus? That would be difficult to reconcile with his being psychically murdered in the Experiment Room.’
‘I try to keep an open mind, laddie. It’s always imaginable that one day I might be wrong about something. But,’ he continued magnanimously, ‘as it happens I concur that, with his most recent aspersions, young Skinner is barking up the wrong tree. The boy’s intellect has yet to develop the kind of rigour I am sure Holmes would wish to see in a person of his calling. And yet there is something to be said for understanding the virtue of humility in the face of others, caring about one’s clients for their own sake rather than as logical conundrums, and preferring one’s own imagination as a remedy for boredom rather than addictive narcotics.’
Again I ignored his jibes. ‘And yet I believe you pointed him towards that tree yourself, Mr Beech, fully intending him to bark up it. Did you not tell Holmes and me, too, about Mr Small’s use of a Buddhist mantra during your watch together?’
‘Ah, is that what it was? I know little of such things, Doctor.’ Beech smiled lazily. ‘It’s possible I was overly conscientious in giving Skinner all the information he might require, to the point of including some that was perhaps not strictly relevant. And certainly we wouldn’t want to hobble Vortigern Small’s illustrious career of promulgating sugar-coated lies to control the masses, would we? I suppose I could have a word with the lad, as a favour to Holmes and yourself, of course, and mention to him that I think he’s labouring down the wrong garden path.’
‘I would be grateful if you would,’ I said, still biting back my anger. Infuriating though his condescension was, and despite what I had told Small about looking forward to losing my temper, I knew that feigning obsequiousness was the only way to stay on the right side of a man of Beech’s temperament.
There seemed, however, little to be gained by staying to be lectured on the supreme grandeur of the Will of Life, or the role of interplanetary influences in evolution, or vegetarianism or nudism or eugenics or any other fad of Beech’s, so I drank my tea quickly and made my excuses. Though he made some allusion to stray dogs running home to their masters, Beech seemed relieved by this.
As we passed out of the conservatory and along the hall to the front door, the page, Jack, said, ‘The other gentleman’s here, sir.’
I had already wondered whether Beech had expected to see someone else when he opened the door to me. ‘I hadn’t realised you were expecting company, Beech,’ I said. ‘It seems you’re having quite a busy afternoon. I saw the Countess and her companion leaving earlier.’
Beech’s annoyance was evident. ‘It’s just some business of the Society’s, Doctor,’ he said, ‘and none of yours. It’s nothing you should concern yourself with.’
‘I see,’ I said. ‘And is your new visitor also a member of the Society Committee?’ I hazarded a guess. ‘Mr Floke, perhaps? If he’s here I’d be interested to renew our acquaintance.’
A maid approached the drawing-room door carrying a tea tray, and Beech turned on her sharply. ‘When I ring for it, Mary, not before,’ he snapped, and she scuttled away – but not before I saw that the tea service was set for three. ‘You must forgive me, Dr Watson,’ Beech instructed me peremptorily. ‘My visitor and I have a great deal of business to discuss, which I have no doubt you would find interminably dull.’
I turned to make a further comment, but by now Beech was standing in front of the closed door to the drawing room, his hand raised in farewell, while his page, abashed at his master’s evident annoyance, held open the front door for me.
I could, I suppose, have pushed the illustrious playwright aside and forced my way into the drawing room, but that would have been as unforgivably rude as Beech was being himself. Had I suspected immediate wrongdoing I would have ignored such qualms and acted at once, but my only thought was that Beech was concealing a visitor, and however infuriating the man might be he was entitled to entertain whoeve
r he wished in his own house without my interference. Indeed, if I were to barge in on his visitors against his will, he would be perfectly justified in calling the police. I bade him a stiff goodbye and returned in careful thought to Baker Street.
In the hallway I heard a loud hammering noise emanating from upstairs, and met Mrs Hudson, dressed for the street and carrying a small valise. She shouted to me, as best she could over the din. ‘I’m sorry, Dr Watson, but I can’t stay in this house a moment longer.’
‘You’re leaving us, Mrs Hudson?’ I cried back, flabbergasted. In all Holmes’s and my adventures together, our landlady’s self-effacing toil on our behalf had been a constant comforting presence. Even when Holmes’s work had taken us on travels in England and abroad, we were both sustained by the knowledge that Number 221B Baker Street still had its loyal guardian to keep the pantry stocked and stoke the fire for our return. Though Holmes’s behaviour had often been annoying, and occasionally outrageous – his habit of practising with his pistol from the comfort of his armchair making for a point of particular contention – she had never before been driven to such a recourse.
‘I am, sir. I’m going to my sister’s, and I’ll come back once this latest craze of Mr Holmes’s has finished, not before. I’ve left a cold collation in the kitchen, and the butcher’s boy is due in the morning.’
She bustled off, leaving me aghast and bereft.
I ascended to our rooms, carrying with me a large tub of pitch that had been delivered for Holmes and had been sitting in the hallway, which I dumped without ceremony upon the carpet. I saw that in my absence the sitting room’s other occupant had pushed most of its furniture up against one wall, and that the paint-spattered timber from Garforth’s studio had been partially assembled in the centre of the space thus cleared.
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