by June Thomson
However, Holmes adroitly avoided my questions and we spent the journey discussing his most recent interest, the identification of human remains by means of their teeth which he considered could be put to considerable use in scientific detection.*
It is not my habit to force a confidence and I was therefore no better informed of Holmes’ designs for The Magpie at the end of the journey than at the beginning.
Once arrived at Barton Halt, we took the station fly for the eight-mile drive to Maplestead Hall, a large residence, built only in the past thirty years or so but designed in the once-fashionable Gothic style and surmounted by so many turrets and battlemented towers, covered with heavy ivy, that it appeared of much more ancient construction and might have been lifted bodily from some Rhenish escarpment to be deposited in the quiet Sussex countryside.
Instructing the driver of the fly to wait, Holmes alighted and I followed him up the steps to the massive front door where he rang the bell.
The summons was answered by an elderly butler who, after taking my old friend’s card, inspected it solemnly and then handed it back.
‘Mr Parker does not receive visitors,’ he informed us.
‘I believe he will see us,’ Holmes replied.
Turning the card over, he wrote a few words on the back and returned it to the butler who again examined it before inviting us into a large hall, hung with tapestries, where we were confronted on all sides by suits of armour, standing guard like grim sentinels. Here we were told to wait.
‘What did you write on it?’ I asked curiously when the butler had departed.
‘Only three words,’ Holmes replied, ‘but enough, I think, to lure our bird down into the open from whatever solitary nest he occupies. They were Vanderbilt, Smith and Wesson.’
On the butler’s return, we were conducted down several corridors, guarded by more suits of armour, and finally into a large drawing-room furnished with the most splendid antique furniture that I had ever seen, the walls so thickly hung with paintings that it resembled more an art gallery than part of a private residence. Even my untutored eyes could discern among the collection work by Rembrandt, Velasquez and Titian. At a modest estimate, the paintings alone must have been worth a fortune and that was not to take into account the many pieces of sculpture, porcelain and silver which also adorned the room.
In the midst of this display of exquisite objects, the very pinnacle of man’s artistic achievements, the figure of The Magpie seemed an aberration of Nature and, on seeing him, my first sensation was of enormous relief for he was not the master-criminal I had imagined.
He was seated in an invalid-chair before the fire, a small, twisted, grotesque shape, his hands resting like white claws on the rug which covered his knees, his head as bony as a skull. He was wearing tinted spectacles which heightened this effect, making his eyes appear as black, empty sockets.
‘Mr Holmes, Dr Watson, pray be seated,’ he said, his voice nothing more than a harsh whisper. ‘I am suffering from a wasting disease which makes it impossible for me to rise to greet you.’
There was no self-pity in either his tone or his manner. He was merely stating a fact and, as Holmes and I sat down facing him, I could not help feeling, as a medical practitioner, a surge of belated compassion for this man for whom death could not be far away.
Neither could I think of him as anything other than The Magpie, an apt sobriquet for he had about him the look of some gaunt, wasted bird, reduced by age and disease to a few brittle bones.
‘Ever since the arrest of Vanderbilt, I have expected your arrival, Mr Holmes,’ he continued. ‘Even so, I fell into your trap. But the bait was so tempting, I persuaded myself there was no danger. A Bedminster family miniature and a Cooper, too! It was irresistible. I have longed for many years to own a Bedminster heirloom. I assume that, since you are here, you will wish to examine my collection? Very well, Mr Holmes. You and Dr Watson shall have that privilege although no one, not even Vanderbilt, has seen it in its entirety.’ One of the claw-like hands was raised to point to the far side of the room. ‘If you care to propel me over to that door, I shall open my Aladdin’s Cave for your inspection.’
While I took charge of the invalid-chair, Holmes went ahead to hold back a tapestry curtain which hung in front of the door. Here we paused while The Magpie took a large key from his pocket, inserted it into the lock and turned it. There was no handle and the door swung silently open on oiled hinges, revealing the chamber which lay beyond.
I use the word ‘chamber’ although it is an inappropriate term to describe the room for it more closely resembled a temple. Stone pillars supported a groined ceiling, painted with reclining figures of gods and goddesses, the shafts forming large, arched niches which extended on either side. It was unfurnished apart from a sumptuous Persian carpet on the marble floor and the huge, glass-fronted cabinets which filled every recess.
The Magpie had spoken of his Aladdin’s Cave and it was a suitable epithet for the first impression was of entering a treasure trove of ivory, crystal, porcelain, precious metals and jewels.
Each cabinet was full of small, exquisite objets d’art, from jewelled snuff-boxes to painted fans and from silver goblets to gold caskets.
At a gesture from The Magpie, we halted in front of one of these cabinets where, in pride of place on the central shelf, stood the miniature which only the day before, to my enormous chagrin, Wesson had put in his pocket before walking out of the drawing-room at Claridge’s Hotel.
Opening the door of the cabinet, The Magpie took it out, looking round at us over his shoulder, his mouth stretched into a ghastly parody of a smile.
‘Beautiful, is it not?’ he asked. ‘Such superb workmanship! I have always loved small objects, more especially since I have started to lose my sight and now cannot see anything unless I can hold it close up to my face, like this.’ Clutching the miniature in one emaciated hand, he carried it to within a few inches of his eyes and scanned it eagerly. ‘Look at her smile and the soft curls of the hair! I was starved of beauty as a child. I was a foundling, abandoned when only a few days old in a churchyard and brought up in a workhouse where I was surrounded by ugliness and poverty, a deprivation which bred in me a deep hunger for beautiful things which I have spent a lifetime trying to satisfy. There was only one item of beauty which brought a little joy to that cheerless upbringing. You will smile, gentlemen, when I tell you what it was. It was a tiny gold locket with a seed pearl in its centre which was worn by the workhouse matron on Sundays, a trivial enough ornament but to me it seemed to glitter like the sun. I vowed then that one day I would be rich enough to own such an exquisite object.’
‘And you have more than succeeded,’ Holmes remarked, indicating the cabinets full of treasures which surrounded us on all sides.
‘Through my own efforts,’ The Magpie retorted, a flush of faint colour staining the white, hollow cheeks. ‘At twelve, I was put to work for a chemist, sweeping the floors of his shop and washing his galley-pots, and I might have risen no higher. But because I was industrious and eager to learn, my master began to instruct me in the skills of mixing medicines and potions. It was then that I learnt the trade which later was to make my fortune and it was also then that I began to indulge my hobby of collecting which, as the years passed and I became more wealthy, has meant more to me than family or friends. Look at them!’ he interjected, pointing a quivering finger about him. ‘There they all are! The friends I never made, the women I never married, the children I never had! But far more precious to me than flesh and blood because they are perfect and incorruptible.
‘I should explain, Mr Holmes,’ he continued, turning his black spectacles in my old friend’s direction, ‘that not all these objects are stolen. Most of them have been acquired legitimately at sales and auctions or through dealers. It was at an auction that I met the man you know as Vanderbilt. He impressed me at once with his expert knowledge of art, particularly of the type I was interested in buying. He began by advising me on w
hat to purchase and then, as my health began to fail, by acting as my agent and bidding on my behalf. Like many of those associated with the art world, not all his transactions were strictly legal. During his career as a dealer, he had handled both stolen and forged works of art. It was he who suggested there were other means of acquiring what I so much desired to own by less lawful means. Pray do not misunderstand me. Although I left the arrangements of such acquisitions entirely to him, I was not unaware of the methods he used.’
‘Such as burglary and theft?’ Holmes suggested pleasantly.
‘Oh, yes, indeed,’ The Magpie conceded. ‘I do not wish to gloss over the unpleasant truth for which I accept full responsibility. As you so rightly say, it was nothing less than burglary and theft.’
‘It was Vanderbilt, I assume, who introduced you to Arty Tucker, alias K. Wesson?’ Holmes interposed. ‘Were you also aware that he is a notorious dealer in stolen antiquities and works of art?’
‘Yes, Mr Holmes. I do not deny that either. I have made many strange acquaintances during my career as a collector, not all of them honest. Tucker may be a criminal but he is as knowledgeable about objets d’art as any expert you will find at any of the great auction houses and the commission he charges for his advice is considerably less. And now, Mr Holmes, what action do you propose taking? I am not foolish enough to suppose that you have come here merely to inspect my collection. I assume you have informed the police and that I can expect their arrival at any moment?’
Instead of replying to The Magpie, Holmes turned to me.
‘Watson,’ said he, ‘would you please be good enough to find the butler and ask him if he would let you have two strong cardboard boxes, a roll of cotton wadding and some tissue paper?’
When I returned with these items, I found Holmes had carried in a table from the drawing-room which he had placed in the centre of the treasure chamber and on which were displayed those heirlooms which had been stolen by Vanderbilt and his accomplice over the past three years. Holmes was in the act of ticking each one off against the list he held in his hand while The Magpie sat watching silently from his invalid-chair, his hands resting quietly on the rug, his expression inscrutable.
‘… and the jewelled prayer book, once owned by Mary Queen of Scots and the property of Sir Edgar Maxwell-Browne,’ he concluded, putting the sheet of paper away in his pocket. ‘That is the last heirloom accounted for. Ah, Watson! I see you have the boxes and the other items I requested. If you would assist me in packing up these treasures, then we shall take our leave.’
There was no sign from The Magpie until we had almost completed the task. I was in the act of wrapping up the Cooper miniature of Lady Amelia Bedminster and placing it in the last box when Holmes crossed the chamber to where The Magpie was sitting in order to return the money which Arty Tucker had paid for it. It was only then that we were aware of The Magpie’s response to our actions.
As Holmes placed the banknotes in his hand, he gave a strange, harsh cry, similar to the croak of the bird after which he was named, and, letting the money fall to the floor, covered his face with his two claw-like hands.
‘Come, Watson,’ said Holmes quietly. ‘It is time we left. On the way out, we must find the butler and alert him.’
The last glimpse I had of The Magpie was of him sitting there alone in his Aladdin’s Cave, the open doors of the cabinets indicating where Holmes had removed part of their contents, the floor about his invalid-chair scattered with the fallen banknotes like so many dead leaves.
‘Will you inform the police, Holmes?’ I asked, once we were in the fly on our way back to Barton Halt, the boxes at our feet.
‘I think not, Watson,’ Holmes replied. ‘What good would it serve? The man is clearly dying and would not long survive a prison sentence. On some occasions, justice is better served than the law, as I believe is so in this case. The owners will regain their stolen possessions while The Magpie will be punished by losing them. You, too, I am afraid, will also suffer, my dear fellow, in consequence.’
‘How is that?’ I asked.
‘By being deprived of the opportunity to publish an account of the case. Not one word of it must ever appear in print. Certain of The Magpie’s victims might insist on charges being brought against him if they knew his true identity and that I cannot allow.’
I have given him my promise and have kept to it even though, only a month after our visit, a notice appeared in the obituary columns in all the London newspapers announcing the death of Joseph Parker, the millionaire, at his home in Maplestead Hall.
There was, however, a sequel to the story. When his will was published, it was discovered that the whole of his valuable art collection, thereafter known as the Parker collection, was left to the nation, and that large premises had been acquired in Kensington in which it was to be placed on permanent display, free of charge to the general public.
I occasionally visit it when I am in that part of London and have an hour or so free to wander through the galleries of paintings and sculptures. But it is always in the rooms set aside for the cabinets containing the objets d’art that I pause the longest to examine those tiny, exquisite treasures of gold and silver, ivory and crystal, once so beloved of The Magpie for his exclusive delight and now enjoyed by so many.
Seeing them there on public display, I feel that he has at last paid his debt to society.
* Dr John H. Watson published an account of the case under the title of ‘The Adventure of Black Peter’. (Dr John F. Watson)
† These two adventures, which were claimed to have been written by Dr John H. Watson, were published in The Secret Files of Sherlock Holmes under the titles of ‘The Case of the Notorious Canary Trainer’ and ‘The Case of the Itinerant Yeggman’. (Aubrey B. Watson)
(See above footnote.)
* Mr Sherlock Holmes disguised himself as Mr P. Smith, a dealer in curios, in ‘The Case of the Exalted Client’. Vide The Secret Files of Sherlock Holmes. (Aubrey B. Watson)
* Dr John H. Watson’s inability to remember dates may explain the discrepancy in the dating within the published canon of certain events and investigations, quite apart from the theory put forward by my late uncle, Dr John F Watson, which is printed in the Appendix. (Aubrey B. Watson)
* A gasogene was an apparatus for use in the home, consisting usually of two glass globes, connected by a tube, which contained water and chemicals. It was used to produce aerated or soda water. Vide ‘The Adventure of the Mazarin Stone’ and ‘A Scandal in Bohemia’. (Dr John F. Watson)
* As an orthodontist, I find Mr Sherlock Holmes’ insight into the potential usefulness of this particular branch of detection quite remarkable. Forensic odontology is now an important part of forensic medicine, employed in the identification of dead bodies as well as in providing evidence for the successful prosecution of criminals who have left their teeth-marks at the scene of a crime. (Aubrey B. Watson)
THE CASE OF THE HARLEY STREET SPECIALIST
In my account of the adventure of the Devil’s Foot which took place in 1897, I described how the health of my old friend, Sherlock Holmes, began to suffer from the heavy load of investigations he had undertaken and how his specialist, Dr Moore Agar of Harley Street, recommended that he should lay aside all his cases and seek a complete rest.
I also briefly referred to the dramatic manner in which the eminent doctor was first introduced to Sherlock Holmes, adding that I might one day publish a full account of it.
As so many members of my reading public have pressed for further details of the case, I was tempted to put pen to paper and consequently I have written the following narrative. However, while Holmes, who has read it, has no objections to its publication, apart from his usual criticism that I have placed too much emphasis on description and not enough on facts, Dr Moore Agar has refused to give his permission for professional reasons.
I can understand his prohibition. As a well-known Harley Street specialist, he has his reputation to consider and, while the c
ase casts no stigma on his good name as a highly regarded medical practitioner, the very fact that details concerning himself and, in particular, one of his patients should be made public has caused him to withhold his consent.
Although I have offered to change the names and to make any other alterations to the manuscript that he might see fit, he has remained adamant.
Naturally, I am disappointed. The case has several unusual features and illustrates, I believe, not only Holmes’ great deductive skills but also his tenacity in following an inquiry through to the end. However, in the face of Dr Moore Agar’s obduracy, I have no other alternative than to place this narrative in my dispatch box, among my other confidential records, in the hope that one day, possibly on the death of the protagonists, the full account of the adventure may be published.
It began one September morning, about eighteen months after Sherlock Holmes had returned to London after an absence of three years, following his extraordinary escape from death at the hands of Moriarty at the Reichenbach Falls. My wife having died in the mean time, I had moved back to my old lodgings in Baker Street.
We had not long finished breakfast when Dr Moore Agar was shown upstairs. He was a tall, portly gentleman with a fine brow and a magnificent head of grey hair; very dignified in his bearing and forthright in his manner.
No sooner had he presented his card than he came straight to the point.
‘It is not my custom, Mr Holmes, to consult private detective agents. However, I wish to retain your services regarding a matter which is causing me considerable unease.’
‘Pray, be seated, sir,’ Holmes said. He had lit his after-breakfast pipe but, on seeing Dr Moore Agar’s expression of disapprobation, he knocked it out into the coal-scuttle before sitting down opposite his client. ‘I take it,’ he continued, ‘that, while you dislike the smell of tobacco, you will have no objection to my old friend and colleague, Dr Watson, being present at the interview?’
