The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories Part II (12 page)

Holmes had clutched at the charm between his thin fingers and he had begun to examine it with his lens. “There is no sign of damage.”

“What of it?”

“Perhaps nothing,” said Holmes, with a shrug. “To whom does this belong?”

Lestrade was unable to keep the chime of victory out of his voice. “I have identified it as belonging to Sebastian Wyke.”

“The son with the gambling debts?” I recalled.

“The same, Dr. Watson, and a man whose need for money has now brought him into more troubled waters than he could have foreseen.”

Holmes handed the watch charm back to Lestrade. “You consider the murder to be the natural sequel to the quarrel of which you told us.”

“Do you not agree?”

Holmes shrugged. “Possibly, but I prefer to reserve my position until such time as I have had the opportunity of seeing for myself all that there is to see.”

Lestrade chuckled. “You will have your little ways, Mr. Holmes, and no mistake. If you will come this way, I have a dog cart waiting, for it is a fair drive along this country track to the house.”

Despite the invigorating briskness of the breeze which assaulted our faces, the weather was not inclement and there was a shadow of the summer sun still in the sky. The surrounding countryside and its rolling green hills was a treat for the eye, and were it not for the memory of the dark crusade upon which we were engaged, I would have admired it with the fond eye of a man who is proud of his country. And yet, the track along which we rattled was sombre and uninteresting. Lestrade was not guilty of exaggeration, for the narrow lane leading to Cawthorne Towers seemed to me to make the journey seem interminable.

Lestrade had spoken of its isolation but I had not been prepared for the extent of it. The high wall of which we had heard was sufficient to discourage visitors, so forbidding was it, and the huge iron gates which formed the entrance to the fortress itself were no less relentless in their obstruction. Beyond these imposing fortifications, the Jacobean manor house glared at us from its incongruously beautiful lawns. The windows were like malevolent eyes peering at us maliciously, as though daring us to approach. It was as though the house had shunned any form of social activity, and as though no external influences were desired or to be permitted, save the passing of time which had left its mark in the lichen and faded colours of the bricks.

We drove up the winding path to the house, and we were ushered inside by a lean, cadaverous old man whom it was impossible not to identify with Jacobs the butler, of whom we had heard. Holmes exchanged a few words with him, but nothing of any further importance could be added to the account which Lestrade had given us in Baker Street, and we made our way upstairs to the bedroom which had been the scene of the tragedy. We were halfway up the stairs when a man's voice called out to Lestrade and halted us in our tracks. Looking to the foot of the stairs, I saw a man of rather more than forty racing up towards us. He was a handsome man, with hair as black as the most fearful twilight, and eyes which betrayed a keen intelligence.

“Is this Mr. Sherlock Holmes, of whom you spoke?” he asked of our official companion.

It was Holmes who spoke. “That is my name, Dr. Lomax.”

The man stared. “How do you know my name, sir?”

“The inspector here advised me that there was a man by the name of Dr. James Lomax in the house, and your watch chain bears the initials “J.L”. If any doubt remained, it is not difficult to discern a doctor from the trace of iodine on his left forefinger.”

The doctor let out a wry chuckle. “For a moment, I thought you had done something extraordinary, Mr. Holmes, but I see that it is nothing more than a conjuring trick.”

“Just so. Now, gentlemen, perhaps we can continue to the bed chamber.”

The room in question was along a dark, oak panelled corridor on the second floor of the house. It was furnished opulently, if in a somewhat old fashioned style. A large four poster bed with delicate veils tied to each post was the central, imposing figure of the room, and the dark crimson stain next to it, which was so familiar a sight to us in our dark investigations, showed where the man Wyke had fallen down dead. The body had been removed, but the mark on the carpet at our feet gave the unmistakable impression that it still lay before us, its horror displayed for us all to see.

“May I examine the weapon?” asked Holmes.

“Yes, I have it here,” replied Lestrade, handing over the blade. “It is of a rather ornate design, as you can see.”

It was a beautiful object, although its present purpose had diminished its splendour. The handle was carved ivory, decorated with a number of emeralds of the most vivid green. The guard was carved into two claws of advancing menace, and the blade itself curved slightly to its deadly point. There was still the trace of the dead man's blood smeared across the blade.

“A fascinating object,” said Holmes. “And it is one of a pair, I believe.”

“That is correct.”

“It was no secret that they were kept in the study, as I understand it?”

“No, they were displayed on the wall.”

“It is certainly a dramatic choice of weapon,” remarked Holmes. “It is of course a ceremonial dagger, used by a certain ancient cult of assassins for specific forms of executions.”

Lomax nodded his appreciation. “It is a dagger of the El-Khalikan Cult of ancient Egyptian assassins. They used it to execute those members who had transcended the code of conduct.”

“In particular, those assassins who knowingly murdered innocent people who were not political targets, if my memory serves me well.”

“It serves you perfectly well. You are well read, Mr. Holmes.”

“I have been told that I am an omnivorous reader with an immense knowledge of sensational literature. You, sir, are not so far behind, it seems.”

Lomax blushed at the compliment. “I have listened to Edmund talk about the ancient history of Egypt many times. It was one of his passions.”

Holmes handed the knife back to Lestrade and walked over to the door of the room. He bent to his knees and, with his lens, examined the lock and the hinges. Finally, with his lens close to his eye, he picked up the key from the carpet and examined it in minute detail.

“This key fell to the floor when the door was forced, no doubt,” said he.

“I suppose it must have done,” said the doctor.

Holmes rose to his feet. “I believe, Doctor, that you attempted to look through the key hole but were unable to see into the room.”

“The key was in the lock. We had tried the door several times.”

“Quite so. Did anybody else look through the hole?”

“No, I decided it was best to get the door down as soon as possible.”

“You acted wisely,” said Holmes. “When you rushed into the room, did you ascertain at once that Mr. Wyke was dead?”

“It was perfectly obvious in any event,” said Lomax. “Sebastian said, ‘My God, he is dead,' and I went over to confirm it.”

“You had remained by the door until that moment?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you, that is very clear.”

“It is a terrible thing, a son murdering his father in this fashion,” said Lomax with some sadness.

“You are sure of the young man's guilt?”

Lomax looked at my companion with the expression of a confused man. “Do I take it you are not?”

“I form no biased judgment, Dr. Lomax. I walk where the facts lead me and draw only those conclusions which the facts allow. Now, Lestrade, perhaps I might be permitted to speak to the widow.”

In spite of her obvious grief, Agatha Wyke was a stoic and proud woman of perhaps sixty years of age. At Holmes's request, he and I interviewed her alone. Lestrade offered no objection, for he had already spoken with the lady and he had other matters to which he had to attend. When we entered the drawing room, Mrs. Wyke greeted us with dignity and a demure elegance which only seemed to increase my empathy for her. Her features were blanched with sadness, but they retained a delicacy of expression which must once have been captivating, but which the passing of time had slowly sought to eradicate. She took my friend's hand in hers and spoke to him in a voice which was soured by tragedy.

“Can any woman say she has suffered more than me, Mr. Holmes,” said she, “to discover that my husband is dead and my son thought to be responsible for it?”

“Might I ask whether you believe that he is truly guilty?”

A flash of colour rose to her sallow cheeks. “Bless you for giving me hope! Do I take it from that question that you believe in his innocence?”

“I have reason to believe so.”

“Might I enquire what those reasons are?”

Holmes shook his head. “If I am to be of service to you, you must possess your soul in patience and allow me to act as I see fit, including permitting me to disclose my thoughts when I consider it appropriate.”

“I am at your service, Mr. Holmes. I wish only to have justice for my husband and vindication for my son.”

“I hope I shall be able to bring you both, madam. You have told Inspector Lestrade of these strange verses which you husband received. I believe they mean nothing to you?”

“I cannot explain them.”

“Were they delivered by hand?”

“No; they came through the post.”

“Did your husband keep the envelopes?”

“I am sorry, he did not.”

“That is unfortunate. An envelope can tell many secrets to the trained observer.” Holmes paused for a moment. “I believe no one else knew about these verses.”

“No one.”

“Not your son?”

“Certainly not. Edmund was at pains to keep them secret from Sebastian.”

“How long has your husband known Dr. Lomax?”

The lady thought for a moment. “Perhaps five years.”

“How did they meet?”

“A mutual friend introduced them. I am not aware of the details, alas.”

Holmes nodded and sat for a moment in serious thought. “I have one final question, Mrs. Wyke, and then I may leave you in peace. Did your husband ever mention a woman by the name of Violet Usher to you?”

The question took the lady by surprise and for a moment she could find no words of response. Finally, with her hand to her cheek in surprise, she gave her answer. “Do you suggest that there was another woman in my husband's life, Mr. Holmes? How did you come by this information?”

Holmes held out a hand of calming gentleness. “Have no fear, madam, I am suggesting no infidelity of that nature.”

“Then who is this woman of whom you speak?”

“A woman of great sadness, like you, madam.”

“I have never heard the name.”

“The fact that you have not may well have kept you alive, Mrs. Wyke,” said Sherlock Holmes. With those cryptic words, he ushered me out of the room and we left the lady to her sorrow.

“Come, my dear Watson,” said he in hushed tones when we were in the hallway once more. “Let us find a quiet corner and consider the position.”

We spent half an hour in each other's company, strolling around the beautiful stretches of lawn which surrounded the house in which these dark deeds had occurred. Holmes walked in silence, and I did not dare to break it for I knew that his mind was turning over all the facts of this strange business into which we had walked. Instead, I allowed the soothing song of the birds and the gentle balm of the breeze to seep into my soul. So peaceful did those gardens seem when contrasted with the dark mystery inside the house that I was startled when Holmes's voice invaded my reverie.

“Your gift of silence is invaluable to me, Watson,” said he, “and your presence by my side is always a comfort as well as an aid.”

“I did not like to interrupt your thoughts.”

“It is well you did not. My mind is now quite made up on the matter.”

“You have solved it?”

“The identity of the murderer was never in question. It was the verses which piqued my interest, for in their solution we hold the key to this crime and a serious error of justice.”

“I am afraid I do not follow you.”

“That is understandable, my dear fellow, and no cause for shame. Come, we must find Lestrade at once. It is time to bring this matter to a close.”

We made our way back to the house. Holmes sent at once for Jacobs and requested that the butler find Dr. Lomax and bring him to the study. The request made, Holmes made his way to that very room, where we found Lestrade, collating his reports of his investigation. Holmes sat on the corner of the desk and peered at his professional colleague. “I wonder, Lestrade, whether you may wish to amend those reports in due course. I must advise you that Sebastian Wyke is innocent.”

“Why do you say so, Mr. Holmes?”

“The watch charm is a clear indication of his innocence.”

Lestrade scoffed. “It is the clearest indication of his guilt!”

Holmes shook his head. “And yet, you gave me the proof that the charm cleared the son yourself.”

“How so?”

“In your statement to us in Baker Street, you said that Sebastian Wyke asked Dr. Lomax for the hour as he wished to go to bed. Now, why should he need to ask the time if he was wearing his own watch with the very same ruby watch charm attached to it? Furthermore, is it not inconceivable that he would put his watch on before he stepped out to murder his father? Why on earth should he do such a thing?”

“But the charm was found in the dead man's grasp,” protested Lestrade.

Holmes waved aside the objection with an impatient gesture. “Then it was placed there. That much is also evident by the lack of damage to it. If it had been wrenched off, as you claim, the link attaching it to the watch chain would surely be bent out of shape. No, Lestrade, the charm was removed from the chain and purposefully put in the dead man's hand. “

“But who could have placed it there?”