“It’s in his left jacket pocket.”
“What? Are you certain?” Holmes cried. He then rifled Sylvius’s pockets for the barest moment before raising aloft a gleaming yellow diamond, dripping with oily goo.
“Oh, happy day!” Holmes exclaimed.
“Really?”
“Find some bread, Watson! We must try the stone!”
“No, Holmes, enjoy it with my regards,” I told him, looking about for something to wrap my pistol in so I wouldn’t get blood all over my doctor’s bag. “As for my part, I’m going to do my best to be well clear of this rather singular murder scene before any of Scotland Yard’s newer inspectors happens by and gets the mystery of his life.”
I don’t think Warlock Holmes heard me. Or at least, he did not mark me. He was already in the corner, fussing over his toast racks with wide, eager eyes. I took a few moments to make sure I was presentable, then gave him a nod and walked out onto the stairs. As I stepped back into the familiar light of a Baker Street afternoon, I happened to overhear the final denouement of ‘The Adventure of the Margarine Stone’.
“Eugh!” came Holmes’s horrified voice. “You call that butter?”
THE ADVENTURE OF THE TRUE GARRIDEB
I HAVE SAID BEFORE THAT I OFTEN FELT TOWARDS VICTIMS of magical mischief the same way I felt towards my medical patients: that they had suffered an unfairness. That they must be aided and comforted. That—even if it was a battle that could not be won—I must do my utmost to put things right for them. Never, I think, has that feeling been more in evidence than in the curious case of Garrideb Grub.
He came to my attention through my wife. As I have reported, Mary had made us host to a number of diverse gatherings. These were necessary to sustain her social standing, but it was rare for her to show personal interest in them. It therefore struck me as odd that she glowed with anticipation when she announced she would be needing the drawing room one Thursday night, for she had at last convinced Old Garrideb to come and lecture on his antiquities. The malicious smile she wore when she said it had nothing—I was certain—to do with antiquities. There was motive behind that smile.
“Oh?” I asked her. “What kind of antiquities?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, ancient paintings? Ancient sculpture? Ancient politics?”
But she cut me off. “Just antiquities, John!”
“Very well.”
My regular habit was to make myself scarce before Mary’s festivities began, spiriting away to my private chambers to read or plan my patients’ care. Yet, on this occasion I made sure to tarry long enough to catch a glimpse of my wife’s mysterious guest. By God, the man was practically a ghoul. Garrideb Grub must once have been very tall, but age and the practice of bending over his curios had stooped him grotesquely forward. He had the pallid, anemic complexion of a man to whom exercise was utterly foreign and yet the gaunt, bony-jointed frame of one to whom food was a stranger, too. His hair and beard were long and feral—gray streaked with brown. The only effort he had made to govern them was to pull his hair back and tie it with a ribbon—in abeyance to what style, I could not say. The man’s eyes burned with fanatical zeal, as a disturbing preacher’s might. As he entered, he decreed in a high, wavering voice that he would begin by teaching Mary’s assembled cretins the finer points of Japanese vases of the Edo period. This, despite the fact that the object he waved about at them was actually a teapot of recent manufacture. Said cretins thrilled with pleasure at the announcement, though I could not fathom why. It seemed to me the lecture they were about to endure could be either boorish or maniacal, but nothing else.
I’d seen enough. I retreated to my chambers to read Herodotus. If I must spend my evening in contemplation of antique studies, let my teacher at least be the father of history, rather than one of London’s more loquacious madmen. And yet… I could not concentrate. For all of Herodotus’s flash—and he certainly knew how to bait an audience—I could not help but notice that something was very wrong downstairs.
They were laughing. Everybody. Just laughing and laughing and clearly having a grand old time. Was Mr. Grub really such an accomplished speaker? I tried to push it from my mind—tried to cast myself as one of Herodotus’s noble Athenians, charging the superior Persian force at Marathon. What must it have felt like, to run down at that wall of wicker shields and spears?
And why was everybody down there laughing so hard? Egads, from the hooting that drifted up through my floorboards, it was easy to imagine three or four of Mary’s guests must be actually rolling about on the floor.
In went the bookmark. The father of history found himself plunked unceremoniously onto my end table. And I, John Watson—presumably master of the house—crept silently to the top of my own stairs to peep down at the festivities below. No good. I had to get closer. I slipped down the steps as casually as I could—as if I needed nothing more than a biscuit to go with my tea, but had not wanted to trouble any of the servants for it. Not that they’d have heard me. Mary’s gathering had reached a fever pitch. Peeping at last through the double doors into our sitting room, I saw why.
Wild-eyed Garrideb Grub stood amid a circle of laughing celebrants, displaying a tarnished coin in his upturned palm. “Syracusan—of the best period. They degenerated greatly towards the end. At their best, I hold them superior to the Alexandrian.”
“Superior?” scoffed one of Mary’s regulars. Artie Arthurs was his name and he seemed to have been given a seat of honor on the dais with Grub. At first, I could not guess why. “Superior in that you can get one for tuppence?”
Mary’s gang of idiots roared with laughter.
“But, no. Look at the quality of the die!” Grub retorted. “Such standardization was not accomplished again until—”
“Do you know, I think I’ve got an Alexandrian you might have borrowed,” Artie mused. “Funny story how I got it. Word got around that Sotheby’s was to offer a pristine Alexandrian coin of the first Egyptian striking. And not just any old auction house, mind you, but Sotheby’s! So, of course, a dozen of England’s richest collectors came out to try each other’s mettle, to see who would carry off the prize. A dozen men of means and—and—one penniless old pensioner, who rather thought that if he stopped eating for a week, the money he saved on groceries might just be enough to win the day!”
Artie Arthurs struck a heroic pose as he said it, waving his wine glass above his head like a sword and slopping a little sherry down onto my rug. As the crowd howled their appreciation, Arthurs added, “I say, Grub… that wasn’t you, was it?”
Garrideb Grub colored with fury and embarrassment. “My collection may not boast many items of particularly high monetary value—”
“We like your dirty old teapot, though!” one of the attendees interjected.
“—but I shall be the Hans Sloane of my age!”
“Who’s that?” asked one of Mary’s rabble. “The man who empties the rubbish bins?”
And that was it; I’d had enough. I knew there to be an unspoken rule that I was never to interfere in Mary’s events, but I simply could not stand there and watch that poor old collector be pilloried in that manner. Thrusting my way past a few giggling philistines, I reached Garrideb Grub and declared, “Yes, well, thank you, Mr. Grub, for your insights this evening—”
A fresh wave of laughter.
“—but I fear your words have fallen on unworthy ears.”
“Ooooooooh,” said a few of Mary’s friends, in that mocking oh-dear-it-sounds-as-if-father’s-displeased-with-us tone.
“Oh look,” came Mary’s scornful voice, “here comes my noble husband to save Mr. Grub. He’s very good at saving people, you know. Why, the next time any of us lays eyes on Garrideb Grub, I shouldn’t wonder that he’ll be thirty years younger and have a collection to rival the British Museum.”
Another wave of laughter.
“And maybe even a haircut,” Mary added.
I tried to ignore her. “Here, let me h
elp you gather your things,” I told Grub. “Have you a carriage waiting?”
The idea that this shabby gent might have a carriage drew fresh hoots and I inwardly cursed myself that I had thrown more fuel on the fire of this man’s public shaming.
“No, no, of course,” I said. “A cab, then. Let me secure you a cab, sir.”
As I dragged him from the room, he shouted, “You may laugh at me now—”
“All right!” somebody shot back, and they all did.
“—but the True Garrideb will be here soon! Days! Days only! And the rewards he brings will be vast, I am told! Why, by this time next year, my collection will be a thing of wonder!”
The neighborhood wags seemed to doubt that very much. I continued pushing him towards the door, saying, “Is this your bag, Mr. Grub? Yes, it must be, of course. Come along now. I shall see you out. Oh, are you… are you owed anything for tonight’s presentation?”
“No, that’s the thing,” Artie Arthurs crowed. “He agreed to do this for free!”
As I shoved Garrideb Grub clear of the latest tide of ribald laughter, there did seem to be some mild disappointment that I had robbed the gathering of the evening’s entertainment. But what did it matter, really? Were there not several dozen bottles that needed emptying, while everybody savoringly repeated every foolish thing to have left their lecturer’s lips?
Twenty seconds later I was in the street with my hand in the air for a cab while my honored guest gathered himself on the walk behind me, trying—I was certain—to keep from crying. Fortunately, cabs were never far off on the nights of Mary’s revels, for they knew there would be no shortage of foolish, rich drunks to cart home. I had one in a moment and—though I suppose I could simply have loaded the old fellow in and paid the fare—I found myself climbing guiltily up beside Mr. Grub. Was it not the least I could do, to see him safely home? As the cab pulled away, I found myself stammering, “Now, Mr. Grub, are you… um… sure you are not owed anything for this evening’s presentation?”
“No!” he shouted, with wounded pride. “I came, sir, I came because I care for learning, and for art! I came to speak of this world’s wonders! But those people are cretins, sir! Cretins, imbeciles and fools!”
“Well, yes. Obviously. I could have told you that,” I said, then mumbled, “By God, I wish I’d had the chance to tell you that.”
He gave me a queer sort of look. “Who are you, sir?”
“My name is John Watson. The host—Mary—she’s my wife.”
A look of fresh fury broke across Garrideb Grub’s face, so I quickly raised one finger and added, “Which is not my fault! It’s all to do with black magic, so let’s not go thinking that I had anything to do with what happened tonight. I would never. Really, Mr. Grub, I feel terrible. Are you sure there is no way I can compensate you for tonight’s misuse?”
With a defiant sniff, he said, “Quite unnecessary.”
“But perhaps… some item you’ve had your eye on, for your collection?”
“Unnecessary, I tell you!” he said, pounding the seat of the cab beside him. “I was in earnest when I said that my fortunes are about to reverse themselves. That damned Mr. Arthurs is not wrong when he says I’ve been known to spend my grocery money at Sotheby’s or Christie’s. And what is the result? Perhaps I have not the means to compete with some, but I have built an expertise, sir, a knowledge of true quality—both in items of great expense and of small! And when the True Garrideb brings my reward, I shall be able to build a collection of unimpeachable renown!”
Something about the way he said it made me deeply uncomfortable. “Yes, I believe you mentioned him before. The… er… the True Garrideb?”
Garrideb Grub only nodded.
So I continued, “I cannot help but reflect… that’s a rather strange name, isn’t it—the True Garrideb? Whatever can it mean, do you think?”
“Well, I don’t know,” he harrumphed. “I’ve never met him.”
“And yet, you feel he’s bringing you a treasure of some sort?” I pressed. Four years previously, I would have dismissed such claims as the rambling of an unfortunate old madman. And I wasn’t sure that might not be wisest. But my time in Holmes’s company had taught me to have a care with such things. I could not help but feel a tug of genuine worry.
“That’s what Mr. Winter says.”
“Mr. Winter? Who is he?”
“James Winter—an American gentleman. I only just met him. Funniest thing…” for a moment, Mr. Grub hesitated, wondering if he should confide in a stranger. And yet, why not? It was not as if I could interfere with his fortunes, was it? It was not as if I was a Garrideb. “He came and found me in my rooms on Little Ryder Street—I am always in my rooms. I seldom like to leave them. My doctor chides me for never going out, but why should I when I have so much there to occupy me? When we arrive, I could show you a single cabinet of artifacts, the adequate cataloguing of which would take me three good months! Ha! Go out, indeed! For no reason?”
“Mr. James Winter?” I reminded him.
“Ah, yes! Well, he came and found me in my rooms, cleaning off a Cro-Magnon skull—quite the specimen, nearly complete! He said he was very glad to have tracked me down, for I was the last of the Garridebs he required. I, of course, asked him why he required Garridebs. He said a certain individual had come to his attention—the True Garrideb. This fellow was willing to come share a great deal of wealth, but he could only be coaxed out of his dwelling when the three men he wished to meet were present. I well understood that, for I don’t like to leave my own rooms. I don’t know if I mentioned.”
“You did.”
“In fact, I expressed my trepidation about leaving to meet the other two Garridebs he had found. It is a rare name, you know, but Mr. Winter had located a man named Garrideb Treat in his home country of America and a Chinese fellow—now living in France—by the name of Garrideb Chow.”
My eyebrows went up. “Grub, Treat and Chow? So, in effect, each of you is named ‘Garrideb Food’?”
Garrideb Grub spluttered out a little laugh. “Oh! I hadn’t realized! Are you sure?”
“Quite.”
“Hmmph! Ha! Amusing! I shall have to relate that to the others when I see them. For, you see, I was in luck. After looking about my quarters for a few moments, Mr. Winter was of the opinion that I needn’t leave my rooms at all. He said he thought I was residing at the focal point and that the other Garridebs must be brought to me. So I didn’t have to go out. I do not care to be far from my rooms, you know. Happily, Mr. Winter is now on a steamer with Mr. Treat, on their way to France to collect Mr. Chow. When all are gathered, we shall meet in my chambers and be joined by the True Garrideb! Come to think of it, they must be almost on their way back by now! Oh, I can hardly wait!”
The zeal with which the old man said it left me in no doubt that he was convinced. Myself, far less so. Yet care for his feelings dictated that I choose my next words carefully.
“Mr. Grub, your story sounds… well… does it not seem perhaps a bit far-fetched?”
“Noooooooo,” he protested in a high-pitched, meek sort of whine. “I mean… there may be aspects of Mr. Winter’s story that seem… unlikely…”
“Then why on earth are you trusting him?” I wondered.
“Because it feels right,” he said. “It feels like this has always been my purpose—hidden just out of sight for all my life—and that it has finally been revealed to me. Just as it feels natural for me never, ever to stray far from the ancient sigils carved into my floor.”
“Pardon me, I thought you just said ancient sigils?”
“Hmm. One of the many artifacts under my curation.”
“All right. I would very much like to see those.”
“I don’t see why not,” said Grub, with a shrug. “We’re nearly there, after all.”
And so we were, though that is not to say the way was clear. Mr. Grub seemed to have misplaced his keys—whether at my house, or whether he had simply forgotten
to pick them up before he left his own, he could not say. We had to wake up the old lady who ran the place to let us in. Though it was only rarely that Mr. Grub went out, this seemed to correspond exactly to the number of times he forgot his keys. The frizzy-haired matron spared no lack of colorful language expressing just how pleased she was with the phenomenon. Garrideb Grub countered that the modern, self-latching door handle was a burdensome monstrosity. I tried to placate the two of them, stating that the keys could well have been left at my home during the confusion. But the landlady told me she knew perfectly well where they’d be—a little pedestal she’d placed beside Mr. Grub’s door to keep his keys on, so he’d never forget. That’s where they were. Every time.
As the harangue continued, Garrideb Grub became visibly distressed. Yet not by her words—I could tell he was not listening to her. He clenched and unclenched his hands and shifted his weight back and forth on his feet, desperate to return to his rooms. The instant his landlady had the door open, he barged past her, past his keys (which, yes, were just on the pedestal by the door), ran to the center of the room, and heaved a deep sigh of relief.
Well, I say the center of the room. What I mean is: the center of the sigils. Mr. Grub lived in the cellar room. It was unusually tall, or should I say deep, as the room was cut down into London’s bedrock. Two small, rectangular windows looked out at street level and during the day must have let some light in. By night, this was accomplished by four spluttering gas lamps that looked as if they weren’t overly pleased by the career path they had selected and were putting in the absolute minimum effort. By their flickering light, I could make out the innumerable cabinets and shelves that held Mr. Grub’s precious collection. Carved into the floor were a number of lines and symbols. There were three bowl-like depressions, linked by shallow channels through the stone. These, in turn, were linked to words, in some language of utterly foreign provenance. The area emerged in an arch shape out of the rough-hewn wall.
The Finality Problem Page 20
