The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories Part II (11 page)

My friend held up his right arm and a mirror seemed to appear beneath it framed by some ethereal tapestry. Upon the mirror played a series of images that I saw as if I were now staring through the eyes of Alfred Clovis. As I watched these images coalesce and recede, I obtained an understanding of what they signified.

I saw Alfred Habersham, my old friend, in his younger years looking uncannily like Alfred Clovis. I saw a young woman graced with a terrible beauty. I saw Alfred succumb to her charms. I saw my old friend, hardened with the bitterness of his falling, faced with the child that resulted from this adulterous union. I saw Olivia covered in a stony silence to mask the pain of Alfred's betrayal. I saw Alfred Clovis grow up a privileged young man with no parents to love him, no family to nurture him, no identity to anchor him from the wayward path he chose. I saw Clovis and Olivia, but my comprehension now began to fade. I read torture upon Olivia's face, but I could perceive nothing to indicate the nature of her interaction with Clovis. Did she know him? Was she being blackmailed or was he deceiving her into believing she was being haunted by his father's ghost as she maintained?

The mirror went dark, and Holmes pointed a bony finger at Clovis upon his throne, “You know that for which you are condemned. Face your sins, Alfred Clovis. Accept the Judgement your actions warrant.”

Clovis' face contorted in pain. His only response was to scream in vain like a guilty man going to the gallows.

I awoke with a start, realizing someone was shaking me.

“What is it, Sister?”

“The doctor says you may go in now,” the matron replied. “Your friend's fever broke overnight. He is on the road to recovery.”

I was elated at the news. Holmes was extremely weak and his face was covered in sweat, but he expressed some relief at seeing me at his side. I was not allowed long to stay in the room with him, but those precious few minutes meant more than the many hours of boredom I endured as their price.

It was with the greatest pleasure that I found myself present to witness Mrs. Turner's joy when she returned and discovered her sister's famous tenant on the mend. Exhausted, I managed to find a cab to take me home just a few minutes before noon. Mary greeted me with enthusiasm and listened patiently to the good news about Holmes's miraculous recovery.

“Before you go off to bed, John,” she said, patting my arm with affection, “I should let you know that Inspector Jones rang you up this morning.”

“Oh no, what did he want?”

“Now, now, don't be ill-tempered. He only rang to tell you of the tragedy that had befallen that awful Alfred Clovis boy.”

“What tragedy? What are you talking about, Mary?”

“It seems his heart burst from shock in the middle of the night. He was asleep in his bed at the time. When the cleaning woman found him this morning, she said he looked as if he'd seen a ghost. The Inspector said to tell you that word for word. It is the queerest thing. I half-wondered whether he only wanted to make sure that Mr. Holmes and you had played no part in the matter. You know how he is about him.”

“Of course I do,” I replied, as if dreaming. “The Inspector needn't worry. Holmes couldn't possibly have been involved while he was in hospital suffering from brain fever... could he?”

I climbed the stairs, pulled the blinds, undressed, and retired into my soft, warm bed. Sleep soon claimed me, and I lay slumbering through the afternoon, undisturbed by dreams and feeling numb to the tragic end of a child born of sin who would not break the fateful chains that bound him to this world.

The Verse of Death

by Matthew Booth

Those members of the public who have taken such an interest in this series of accounts of my association with Sherlock Holmes will recall that the dark affair of the Agra treasure and the revenge of Jonathan Small resulted in my own marriage to the lady who brought the case to Holmes's notice. The natural result of my union with Mary Morstan was an inevitable yet unwelcome disassociation with Holmes. My own happiness and the domestic responsibilities with which I became endowed were sufficient to absorb all my attention but, as often as was practicable, I endeavoured to make every effort to remain in contact with him. My correspondence was seldom reciprocated, unless it was in that austere and terse manner which was peculiar to him, but when it was possible for me to visit him in his rooms in Baker Street, I think that my presence was welcome. It was on one such visit that the story of Edmund Wyke, and the sinister mystery of the verse of death, came to our attention.

It was late one afternoon towards the end of September of 1890, I have reason to recall. As we had done so often before, Holmes and I were sitting beside the fire in the familiar rooms, the smell of tobacco and close friendship hovering in the air between us. Holmes was regaling me with the details of some of his most recent exploits, the circumstances of which made me long to have been by his side. He had only that moment completed his explanation of how he had solved the riddle of the Seventh Serpent when Mrs. Hudson showed in our old comrade Inspector Lestrade, of Scotland Yard.

I had not seen the sallow official for some time and I confess it was a pleasure to shake his hand and see him sitting once again on the settee before us. Whilst my domestic happiness was not to be questioned, there was something about this familiar triumvirate in these particular circumstances and surroundings which both thrilled and comforted me.

“Well, Lestrade,” said Holmes, “what brings you to our door? I trust you have been busy since we saw you last during that little affair of the McCarthy murder at the Boscombe Pool?”

Lestrade shook his head. “A bad business that was, Mr. Holmes, I can't deny it, but it was nothing compared to the investigation upon which I am currently engaged.”

Holmes's eyes glistened in anticipation. “Having a little difficulty, eh?”

“It is a queer business, sir, and no mistake. You may perhaps have heard of the retired financier, Edmund Wyke?”

“The name recalls nothing to my mind.”

“He is a man of considerable wealth, known both for his ruthless sense of business and also his philanthropic endeavours. He is patron of a number of charitable foundations but, conversely, he is responsible for the ruin of many a competitor. He resides in an isolated house called Cawthorne Towers, down in Kent. When I say isolated, you may take it I am not exaggerating. It stands in its own extensive grounds, protected by any outside influence by a high stone wall. Any guest to the house is, I gather, permitted only by express invitation and after careful consideration. I hesitate to say that you could find any property or household so self-contained or cut off from outside influences.”

“This man, Wyke, is a man who craves his privacy, it seems,” remarked Holmes.

“You may say so.”

“And what has befallen him?”

“He is dead, Mr. Holmes. He was found last night, in his bed chamber, stabbed through the heart.”

Holmes considered his fingernails. “There does not seem to be very much in the way of interest for me, Lestrade. Despite our friendly rivalry, you are an able and efficient officer. Is a case of simple murder not within your own province?”

“In normal circumstances, I should not dream of disturbing you, Mr. Holmes. But, you see, the man was dead in the room and there was no trace of any disturbance, nor any means by which any human agency could have entered the room.”

“No forced entry?”

“None.”

“The doors and windows?”

“All locked. A rat could not have entered the place.”

Holmes yawned. “I have yet to investigate any crime committed by a flying creature. A locked room mystery always has an explanation. You recall the Speckled Band case, Watson? That, too, was presented as an impossible mystery, but the solution was only too evident once the facts were considered.”

Lestrade shifted in his seat and, from his pocket, produced some folded papers. “I did not think to entice you with the sealed room alone, Mr. Holmes, although that in itself is enough to beat me. But, I thought you might be intrigued by these.”

Holmes took the papers from the inspector. “What are they?”

“Mr. Wyke received them over the course of the week prior to his death. They are little poems, Mr. Holmes. But, if I am not much mistaken, they warn the man of his own impending death.”

I confess that at these words a shudder passed through me, but Holmes remained as impassive and controlled as ever. His eyes betrayed that glimmer which told me that, despite his austere exterior, he was inwardly excited by Lestrade's news. I moved behind Holmes and leaned over his shoulder to examine with him these strange portents of death. They were written in printed capitals and there was nothing distinctive about either the ink or the paper.

The first ran as follows:

In hatred and shame you die.

Of guilt must be made your coffin.

Lay down your head and perish.

For it comes for you as it came for me,

A death which none can deny,

Not least those souls who are innocent
.

The second ran thus:

The maiden of vengeance must serve

As my cruel replevin.

Centuries of wrong will she avenge;

And to our deaths will she lead us.

Her lips will touch us both and carry on them

The kiss of the guilty.

For some moments, Sherlock Holmes read the curious verses over and over again, his brows furrowed and his eyes squinting against the tobacco fumes of his pipe. For our part, Lestrade and I remained silent, both of us more than aware that in such moments of concentration, Holmes's greatest ally was silence.

“What do you make of them?” Holmes asked suddenly.

Lestrade shrugged. “I can make nothing of them.”

Holmes gave a quick smile. “I fancy that the author of these fascinating verses gives Shelley and his comrades no reason to fear for their reputations. But there is something very serious behind this, if I am not mistaken. Who alerted you to these messages?”

“It was Mrs. Agatha Wyke, the dead man's wife. A stern and proud woman.”

“She knew of their existence?”

“Mrs. Wyke says she and her husband had no secrets.”

Holmes lowered his gaze momentarily. “Every man has his secrets. Who else knew of these curious threats?”

“Mrs. Wyke insists that she was the only one aware of them.”

Holmes gave a curt nod. “Now, tell me, Lestrade, who are the other members of the Wyke household?”

Lestrade aided his memory with the use of his official notebook. “There is the dead man's wife, as I have told you, and there is their son, Sebastian, a somewhat wayward young man if I am any judge, Mr. Holmes. There is a small staff, led by the butler, Jacobs.”

“Is that all?”

“No, there is a friend of the family who is staying with them for the weekend. His name is Dr. James Lomax.”

“I have heard of him,” said I. “He wrote a splendid article in the
Lancet
not so long ago on the hereditary nature of disease.”

“He is a level headed man, fiercely practical from what I have seen of him,” advised the inspector. “He it was who took charge of the situation when the body was discovered.”

Holmes leaned forward in his chair. “Pray, give us the precise sequence of events.”

“I had better start with the previous night, that is to say two nights ago. The household, including Dr. Lomax, had assembled for dinner and the evening had been pleasant enough. Over the post prandial brandy, however, Wyke and Sebastian exchanged heated words which resulted in a somewhat fraught quarrel. It culminated with Sebastian asking Dr. Lomax for the hour, as he wished to retire and he could stand the company of his father no more. He wished Wyke would go to the Devil, and that if he would it would cleanse the very air they breathed.”

“Violent words which he must surely regret now,” I observed.

“Just so, Doctor, and words which you might expect me to interpret with some suspicion in light of subsequent events. But, Mr. Holmes, if I have learned one thing only from my association with you, it is to keep an open mind.”

“Very wise,” murmured Holmes with a sardonic twist to his voice.

“Well, after Sebastian had stormed out of the room, Lomax strove to convince Wyke to make it up with his son at once. He said it did no one any good to go to sleep without resolving an argument, but Wyke was defiant. ‘If the lad wishes to make up before sleep, he may do so,' said he, ‘but I see no reason to do so. Let him calm down before I make any attempt to speak to him.' This approach is, I believe, typical of the man.”

“What was this quarrel about?” asked Holmes.

Lestrade shrugged. “What are quarrels between father and son ever about? Love or money, in my experience. In this case, it was money. Sebastian is an errant youth, as I have said, Mr. Holmes, and he is in deep with the wrong crowd.”

“The gaming tables?”

“Precisely so. His father has been too generous with him before over money matters, and he now refuses to come to his aid. Sebastian has viewed the refusal as some form of betrayal.” Lestrade looked back to Sherlock Holmes. “Now, Mr. Holmes, we get to the core of the matter. The following morning, Mr. Wyke did not appear for breakfast. It was his custom to rise early and take a stroll in the grounds, so he was usually the first to rise. The fact he was not up and about when the rest of the house rose was sufficient to cause concern. Lomax, Sebastian, and Mrs. Wyke all went to Wyke's bedroom, accompanied by the faithful Jacobs, and they found that his door was locked. Sebastian knocked but could get no response. Lomax made his own attempt but got the same reply. He kneeled to the lock and found that he could not see into the room, which showed that the key was in the lock. Thus, together, the three men threw themselves against the door and broke into the room.

“Once inside, they found Wyke lying on the floor. He was on his back and, in his heart, there was one of his own ceremonial daggers which was known to be one of a pair which hung on the wall of his study. The alarm was raised and the local police called in. I was summoned almost at once, and I have spent the morning making my enquiries. As soon as I heard about the threatening poems, I thought of you, Mr. Holmes, and I came straight round to see you.”

Holmes had been sitting with his fingertips together and his eyes closed, but now he rose from his chair and stood before the fire. “You did wisely, Lestrade. Now, tell me. Has anything in that bedroom been touched?”

“Nothing. I have a constable on guard by the door.”

“Excellent. Now, I have one or two other matters to attend to today. Would it be convenient if I came down to this house early tomorrow morning, Lestrade?”

“Certainly,” replied the little professional.

“Capital. Watson, you are not averse to accompanying me? I trust the redoubtable Mrs. Watson and your long suffering patients can spare you for one day?”

Having heard the prelude to this strange story, I felt unable to deny myself the opportunity of witnessing its conclusion. “I would not miss it for the world, Holmes, and my practice is never very absorbing.”

“Splendid, my faithful Watson. Be back here for seven o'clock and we shall breakfast together before catching the train. Farewell, Lestrade, and we shall be with you tomorrow morning to continue our investigation into what promises to be a most fascinating case.”

I have stated elsewhere that Sherlock Holmes had the remarkable power of detaching his mind at will. When I met him on that following morning, it was as though the whole story surrounding the inexplicable murder of Edmund Wyke had never come to his attention. For myself, I confess that the previous evening had found me distracted by the whole business, and I fear I had been poor company for my wife. She had retired early, but I had stayed up beyond a reasonable hour, trying to discover some clue in the sequence of events which Lestrade had set out. My researches, I confess, were in vain. However, when I met with Sherlock Holmes for breakfast, he was full of energy, and I had that familiar sensation that already he had seized upon some clue which remained far beyond my grasp. Not one word would he utter of the whole business, though, until we had arrived at the railway station and been greeted by Lestrade.

“Well, Mr. Holmes, have you had chance to consider the matter?” asked the detective.

“Certainly. There are particular features of interest to the student of crime which make the matter of specific interest.”

Lestrade glowed with a triumphant arrogance. “I have not been idle myself, although I confess I ought to have spared your time. With the exception of a few loose threads, the matter is at an end.”

“You do not mean that you have solved it?”

“I have my man, although he has yet to confess.”

A glance at my companion's face showed that his anxiety had risen. To me, who knew his manner so well, his composure seemed shaken and the pale tone of his gaunt features seemed to intensify. His eyes remained as keen as ever but it was evident that he was disturbed by the inspector's confidence.

“You have made an arrest?”

“Just so.” Lestrade reached into his pocket and produced a small envelope. From it, he dropped a ruby encrusted watch charm into his hand. “A further examination of the body has revealed that this was found in the dead man's hand. He must have wrenched it from the culprit's watch as he slumped to the floor.”