“How do you make that out?”
“Look, sir. We were told he was absentminded and didn’t take care of himself. One of his shoelaces was untied. He tripped over, fell and hit his head on the fireplace. He tried to crawl across to the telephone, reached for it, but passed out and expired.”
DI Hammond nodded with satisfaction. “I think you may be right. Come on. Let’s rescue that poor woman before Barclay has her locked in a cell.”
Clare was lying in bed that night, thinking with satisfaction about the outcome of the day. She had been praised for her powers of observation and deduction, and yet something was worrying her. Suddenly she remembered what the old sergeant had told her—that real coppers watch faces and learn to read expressions . . . and that cocky criminals give themselves away. Dr. Heathcliff’s face when Clare had taken her fingerprints. As Clare had put away the kit and Dr. Heathcliff had thought Clare wasn’t looking she had grinned. A momentary, fleeting grin.
What if Sherlock had been right after all?
A STUDY IN ABSENCE
by Reed Farrel Coleman
Holmes was in one of his peculiar phases or, more accurately, one of his particularly peculiar phases. Most souls, I suspect, would judge his usual state of being, as it were, bordering somewhere between certifiable madness on the one hand and quaint eccentricity on the other. I, of course, knew him to be both of these and neither. He was, simply, Holmes. What I suppose I’m saying is that between cases, Holmes could turn his considerable intellect and powers of observation and deduction outward like a weapon to fairly torture those of us who chose to remain in close proximity to him—or turn them inward on himself. Although I must confess a distinct preference for the latter, as it removed the proverbial bull’s-eye from the rear of my dressing gown, the former was still a cause of great consternation. For one never knew with Holmes if he would reemerge from these introversions.
So it was with little fuss that I passed Holmes gazing into the hallway mirror at Baker Street on my way to the breakfast of toast, eggs, and tea provided by Mrs. Hudson. Ninety minutes later, after having dispatched my breakfast and a second pot of tea, I spotted Holmes still gazing into the mirror. I was concerned. If I did not know that it was anatomically impossible, I would have sworn that the man hadn’t blinked or moved in all that time.
“Holmes,” I said to him, “what are you up to?”
“Am I here, Watson?”
“Holmes!”
“Answer the question.”
“Are you here? Of course you are.”
“But how can you be certain of that?”
I placed my hand around his right biceps. “Because I can feel you, see you, hear you, and, frankly, I can smell you. Do freshen up. Just how long have you been at this . . . whatever this is?”
“Yes, John, you can detect a physical presence, but can you be certain that it is mine?”
“Holmes, you are in one of your moods. Go play the violin or do something to occupy your mind until you have another case. Anything to deal with your boredom—except your cocaine.”
That’s when Holmes smiled, or what passed for a smile from Holmes.
“Do I seem bored to you, John? On the contrary, I do have a case and the client should be arriving at ten. If you had been paying careful attention, you would have noticed I’ve been at work on the case all morning.”
“By staring into the looking glass?”
He made that face of his, the one that let you know he knew he was the smartest fellow in the room. It was most annoying when I was the only other person present.
“The very point of my questions, John. You judge the physical presence before you by observing the exterior, but what can you know of the internal processes or of the essence of the being?”
“Holmes, you are the keenest of observers and have often drawn wild extrapolations about such things from twitches and idiosyncrasies, some so slight as to be nearly imperceptible.”
“We are not talking about me.” His smile vanished. “But please do answer my query. How can you be certain the person before you is me?”
“I am well acquainted with your physical appearance, your voice, your quirks and tics.”
“For argument’s sake, I will grant you that the physical presence before you seems to meet all of those aspects and expectations you have for the person you know as Sherlock Holmes, but how can you know that within this physical vessel the being you know as Holmes resides?”
“For heaven’s sake, Holmes, I am a medical doctor. I will leave the metaphysics and discussions of essence and souls to philosophers and the clergy.”
“So then you do admit this is not an issue of body, but of spirit?”
“I said no such thing.”
“Of course you did, John. I’ve no time for idle chatter now. I must, as you suggest, freshen up.” And with that, Holmes was gone.
The doorbell sounded promptly at ten. Less than a minute later, Mrs. Hudson appeared at the top of the stairs with a handsome and smartly dressed woman of indeterminate age who clutched a neatly brown-papered-and-tied bundle to her chest. The woman’s porcelain skin and white smile suggested youth. The traces of faint lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth spoke of age. The sparkle in her flecked blue eyes hinted at sagacity and experience. All that, however, was overwhelmed by the crushed flowers and citrus scent of her perfume that, like fine wine, became more complex with exposure to it. After the initial burst of flora and citrus, I noticed the earthier harmonic notes of sandalwood and patchouli. I, too, possessed the power of observation. An indispensable asset for a medical man.
“Miss Rosetta Sebastian for Mr. Holmes,” Mrs. Hudson said before withdrawing.
Miss Sebastian eyed me with suspicion. Understandable, as I was not whom she had come to see.
I stood, gently taking her hand in mine. “Dr. John Watson, an associate of Mr. Holmes.”
“Of course, Dr. Watson.” Relief displaced the suspicion in her eyes. “How thick of me not to recognize you. I have read your accounts of Mr. Holmes’s exploits . . . and yours.”
For reasons known only to Holmes, it seemed he was determined to make an entrance. Ten minutes on, both of us straining the limits of polite chatter, Holmes had failed to appear. Miss Sebastian removed a small pocket watch on a fob hidden in a tiny slit pocket on her dress and checked it.
“Mr. Holmes is aware of our appointment?” Her voice was strained with concern and the seeds of anger.
I stood. “I do apologize, Miss Sebastian. Holmes can be . . . unpredictable. Let me—”
“No call for you to make apologies on my part, John,” Holmes said, stepping out from behind the thick draperies of the drawing room.
“Holmes. Were you standing there this whole time?”
“I was.” He strode directly to where Miss Sebastian was seated. “Forgive me, but surely you see the point I was attempting to make.”
She shook her head. “Frankly, Mr. Holmes, it escapes me.”
“Very well,” he said, barely able to mask his impatience and disappointment in her intellect. “I was showing you, by example, that it is possible to hide oneself in very close proximity to those who might wish to find you. It is often simply a matter of will.”
That youthful white smile broke across her face. “I see, Mr. Holmes.”
I had had enough of Holmes’s cryptic questions and queer behavior. “Well, I don’t, and I would very much appreciate someone giving me a notion of what is going on.”
Miss Sebastian turned to me. “Forgive me, Dr. Watson, I wrongly assumed that Mr. Holmes had discussed the details of my problem with you.”
“No need for apologies. Holmes sometimes delights in keeping me in the dark.”
“You do such a fine job of that yourself, John. It is only on rare occasions that you require my assistance in that endeavor.”
I ignored Holmes. “Please do continue, Miss Sebastian.”
“I am an editor at Partridge House and—”
&nb
sp; I interrupted. “An editor! Isn’t that an unusual position for a woman to hold?”
“Nevertheless, Dr. Watson, it is my title, and one, I assure you, that was hard-earned.”
Holmes laughed. “John can be rather provincial, Miss Sebastian. Please excuse him. Do go on.”
“Several months ago I received a manuscript for a crime drama, but not at all the usual fare. It is a most dark tale of a former mercenary soldier who, through acts of selflessness, seeks a redemption that remains beyond his grasp. Dr. Watson, this is something of superior quality, featuring the finest, most well-drawn characters that have ever lived on the page.”
“Finer than Dickens’s characters?”
Miss Sebastian blushed. “I must confess to you, Doctor, I am not a great enthusiast for Dickens. While his talent is undeniable, I find his characters too often to be just one thing, and representing some moral virtue or deficit. I also find the dreadfully unlikely coincidences on which his tales often turn beyond the limits of credulity. I am afraid I enjoy more realistic works, for I have encountered no person to be one thing or representative of anything but him or herself.”
Holmes, growing impatient with our literary banter, cleared his throat. Miss Sebastian heeded his prompt.
“As I was saying, I received a manuscript for a novel entitled The Absent Man, a copy of which is on the table, there. You may read it at your leisure. The work is by a gentleman named Isaac Masters Knott.”
I happened to look at Holmes at that precise moment and saw him rolling his eyes. Sometimes, as earlier during his mirror gazing, he was unreadable. At other times, as with the clearing of his throat, he was exasperatingly obvious.
I pushed ahead. “And the reason you have come to see Mr. Holmes this day is . . . ?”
Holmes could no longer contain himself. “The Absent Man by I. M. Knott . . . John, really. Clearly, Miss Sebastian cannot get in touch with the author because Isaac Masters Knott is a nom de plume, and a rather ham-fisted one at that.”
“Don’t be too distressed, Doctor,” Miss Sebastian said, blushing again. “It was not until I failed in all of my efforts to contact the author that I came to the realization about the title and his name. Of course, when I put it together, I felt so much the fool. But Mr. Holmes is quite right.
“Partridge House is most excited to enter into negotiations with the writer of the manuscript, whoever he may be, in order that we might publish it this coming autumn. To this point, all of our efforts to locate the author have led to naught. We have tried ourselves and have gone so far as to hire an expatriate American, a former Pinkerton detective. He, too, has made no progress.”
Holmes got that familiar glint in his eye. For Sherlock Holmes, this was ideal. Not only was he taking on a new case, but in competition. Whether it was a vestige of his childhood relationship with Mycroft or simply an integral part of his nature, Holmes derived a particular delight in competition.
“Very well, Miss Sebastian,” Holmes said, sounding as if he had a hundred better things to do, “I’ll locate this absent man for you. Have you the name and address of this American?”
She reached into her small bag and handed Holmes a slip of paper and a calling card. Miss Sebastian stood. “Thank you, Mr. Holmes. I cannot express how pleased I am to know you and Dr. Watson are on the case.”
Holmes and I escorted her to the stairs.
“Thank you, Dr. Watson, for making me feel so at ease. When this affair is over with, I would very much enjoy a continuation of our discussion on Dickens, and other writers on whom we might share more commonality of opinion.”
“I would enjoy that very much.”
I can’t say what it was that drove me to do it, but I took the opportunity to kiss her hand in the continental manner. In spite of her attractiveness, it wasn’t a matter of carnal desire or flirtation. That much I can say.
“Mr. Holmes, I’m afraid I misspoke when I said that the detective we hired had made no progress. Please do consult with him.”
“I shall, of course. I am, after all, a consulting detective.”
I was stunned at Holmes’s attempt at low humor. It seemed Miss Sebastian’s presence had affected the both of us.
When she had gone, I turned to Holmes. “There is something about that woman.”
“She is indeed very lovely and her perfume is made for her and her alone.”
“But it isn’t that. There is an air about her that I cannot adequately describe.”
“Tragedy.”
I wasn’t having it. “Don’t be ridiculous, Holmes.”
“I am never ridiculous.”
Now it was my turn to roll my eyes. “We shan’t argue the point, but I was not thinking of tragedy when discussing her je ne sais quoi.”
“Yet it is there, John, like the richer and more elusive aspects of her perfume, lingering in the air just beneath the obvious and perceptible.”
“But on what basis can you proffer such a judgment? She is distressed by the circumstance of the manuscript and its author, certainly. Still, I heard no words from her that indicated a tragic situation. There was nothing in her tone that hinted at it. Nothing in her actions.”
“It was not in her actions that I became sure of my judgment.”
“Blast, Holmes, make some sense.”
“It was not in her actions, but in our reactions to her as males of the species. Not even I am immune to the allure of a woman and tragedy. Our urge to rescue is primal.”
I considered asking him to explain further, but whether I understood how he had arrived at his conclusion or not, I knew he was correct.
The American’s garret was above a Hebrew’s tailor shop and family flat, down a grubby little street in Deptford, only several hundred yards from the spot on which Christopher Marlowe was mortally wounded. I nodded at the Hebrew as we passed the window of his establishment. He nodded in return, lowering his spectacles to the tip of his nose, following our progress.
After hearing our unsuccessful attempts at getting the American to come to the door, the tailor stopped pumping the foot pedal of his machine and came out of his shop to inquire as to our purpose.
“May I be of assistance?”
I answered, “We would very much like to speak to the gentleman who rents the upper-level flat.”
The Hebrew laughed a joyless laugh. “This American is no gentleman. He is a shiker like you shouldn’t know from it,” said the bent man, nodding upward, holding his skullcap against the wind. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he was dead up there.”
I was confused. “Shiker?”
“A sot,” Holmes said.
“Yes, yes, a drinker. Still, he pays his rent and makes no trouble. There is a great sadness in him, this fellow. He is scarred. Do you mind me asking who you gentlemen are and why you are wishing to see him?”
“My name is Dr. John Watson and this is Sherlock Holmes. We have business with him.”
The Hebrew’s eyes widened and he extended his right hand. “Such an honour to make your acquaintance, gentlemen. I am Chaim Rosenbaum and I have read about your—”
Holmes interrupted. “You say there is a great sadness in him and he bears scars. Has he ever discussed these subjects with you?”
“Mr. Holmes, my people know from sadness and scars. Our history is more sadness and scars than almost anything else. Some of this man’s scars are plain to see. Some, not so much. He is not a Jew, but he is a fellow traveler. Of this, you can be certain.”
The tailor then reached into his pocket, removed a small keyring, found the correct key, and unlatched the door. When that was done, he retreated to his shop.
Although Rosenbaum’s remark about the American being dead was, I suppose, meant to be facetious, it was, unfortunately, correct. We found the American supine in bed, barely clothed, his unseeing eyes open. The skin of his neck was still warm to the touch. A cloying, bitter odor in the air cut through the stench of fresh death and the ambient tang of raw alcohol. Holmes and I immediate
ly and simultaneously recognized the scent of laudanum.
“The tailor may not have had this man’s addictions diagnosed perfectly well. He was, however, spot on about his scars.” I stepped back from the bed, pointing at the corpse. “Prominent scarring on both legs. Observe the type and placement of the scar tissue on his upper right arm. I would venture to say the wound there was caused by a large diameter bullet. Those suture scars on the far left side of his abdomen are from the repair of puncture wounds. This chap’s body tells a sad history.”
“Curious.”
“How so, Holmes?”
“How old would you estimate him to have been?”
“Forty at most.”
“I concur. At first blush one might be tempted to attribute all of his scarring to his having participated in the American Civil War.”
“That would be wrong.”
“Precisely, John. Some of the scarring, like that from the wounds, is aged and faded and is indicative of hasty, slipshod battlefield surgery. The bullet wound, while not recent, is fresher. The suture scarring of puncture wounds even more so.”
“He must have been in constant pain, hence that tincture of opium. A curse in itself that killed him in the end.”
“I’m not at all certain of that.” Holmes approached the body, knelt down beside the bed, and removed a small magnifying glass from the pocket of his waistcoat. “As I suspected. An opiate may well be the cause of his demise, but not from the laudanum. See for yourself.”
He handed me the glass and pressed his index finger to a spot on the inside of the dead man’s forearm.
“Yes, Holmes, I see it, a tiny puncture wound. But what’s to say this wasn’t self-inflicted?”
Holmes laughed. “Did you stumble upon a syringe?”
“Point taken.”
“A theme emerges, John.”
“A theme?”
“Another absent man. Another man who is not.”
“Is it safe to assume the author is this man’s killer?”
“Nothing is safe. What we need to understand is our part in this.”
For the Sake of the Game Page 12
