The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories, Part VI

by David Marcum

  “What will you do now that he’d dead?” I asked.

  Bonnet smiled. “Gordon’s son Macintosh, no lover of bees, has agreed to sell me the rights to his father’s apiary in full. The paperwork is being filed by my lawyers this morning. Because of this boy’s generosity, my work here will continue.”

  “Mrs. Dalley offered no resistance to this plan?” Holmes asked.

  “Not at all, Mr. Holmes,” Bonnet answered. “In fact, it was her idea that I ask Macintosh to sell.”

  Holmes offered a brief congratulations. I wondered, as Bonnet was explaining it, if he knew he was giving Holmes a motive for his murdering Gordon Dalley.

  In his private study, Bonnet took off his hat and jacket, and then rolled up his right shirt sleeve as he sat down in a red velvet cushioned chair next to a large black oak table. There was one of those mechanical fans sitting on the table, spinning its blades furiously in our direction. The relief from the heat was immediate and welcome, and I could have sat in front of it all afternoon. To make the experience even more pleasurable, Bonnet had placed a brass medical atomizer on the table in front of the fan, and when he squeezed the bulb, a fine mist of cool, fruit-scented water sprayed out from the nozzle, caught in the breeze coming from the fan, and deposited itself on Holmes’s and my face. It was like being encased in ice as the water evaporated.

  I must have made a noise because Bonnet sat up in his chair and smiled at me. “Feels wonderful, doesn’t it, Doctor?” he asked.

  “I must get one of those fans for our flat on Baker Street,” I said.

  “Indeed,” Holmes agreed. “May we have another dose of relief, sir?”

  “Of course, of course, Mr. Holmes,” Bonnet said happily, then filled the fan full of cool mist again.

  It was then that a well-dressed, medium-built gentleman, whose red hair had gone light orange with the onset of old age, came into the study. He was carrying a glass box in one hand and a pair of tweezers in the other.

  “This is Marsh, my butler, gentlemen,” Bonnet said. “He administers the therapy for me every week.”

  Marsh stopped in front of us, nodded politely, turned, and then sat down in a chair opposite Bonnet. He placed the glass box on the table, then gently took hold of Bonnet’s exposed right arm, placing it on the table. The toll arthritis had taken on Bonnet’s body was severe. His elbow and knuckle joints were grotesquely swollen, looking as if large stones had been surgically implanted underneath the skin. If this therapy actually eased the symptoms of Bonnet’s arthritis, I was fully prepared to support further medical research on the subject.

  “What’s in the glass box, Mr. Bonnet?” I asked.

  “The bees, Doctor,” he replied.

  Marsh reach over with his free hand and cracked the lid on top of the glass box, I saw dark, winged things crawling around inside. Marsh took the tip of the tweezers, stuck them into the crack, and came out with a living creature stuck between the tines, its tiny black legs twitched and convulsed. Quickly, Marsh shut the lid.

  “Where shall we start, sir,” Marsh asked.

  “The elbow, Marsh,” Bonnet replied. “So that my visitors can see clearly.”

  Marsh brought the tweezers forward, placing the bee directly on to the skin of the swollen elbow. The bee struggled for a moment, as if confused at what was happening, then, sufficiently maddened, its legs took grip and it thrust its stinger into the skin. Marsh waited a moment, letting the barbs of the stinger work its way deep into the epidermis, then he skillfully pulled the bee away, tearing the bee’s innards out and leaving the stinger and the poison sack behind to do its job. Marsh crushed the bee in the tweezers then dropped its carcass into a nearby ashtray.

  I grimaced at the unpleasantness.

  “I agree, Doctor,” Bonnet said, his arm remaining still. “The death of a bee is an unfortunate result of this new form of therapy, but necessary until I can find out what makes its venom work.”

  “Do you not find the pain of the sting intolerable?” I asked.

  “I’ve been stung so many times that I don’t even feel it any longer. You must understand, Doctor, as an apiarist it’s good to be stung. It creates a resistance of some sort in the blood that makes one immune to the effects of the venom. It’s the same for all apiarists, including Gordon Dalley. Which makes the reason for his death so much more perplexing.”

  Holmes and I sat and watched as Marsh continued the sting therapy, moving down to the knuckles. In only a few minutes, I counted no less than thirty dead bees in the ashtray. Bonnet’s elbow and knuckles looked like pincushions. After a while, Marsh produced a magnifying glass from his pocket, and he inspected each of the pumping poison sacks. When the last one stopped its convulsions, Marsh took the tweezers again and pulled each sting from its root in Bonnet’s skin, putting them also into the ashtray.

  “This has been very educational, Mr. Bonnet,” Holmes said suddenly. “But I’m afraid Watson and I must be leaving. Thank you so much for your time.”

  “Not at all, Mr. Holmes,” Bonnet said. “Before you leave, have another mist, for the road.”

  As Reginald took the four-wheeler down the drive, I noticed Holmes sitting deathly still in the seat next to me. “Be ready, Watson.” His eyes were energetic with life, glancing from my open window to his, repeatedly. Something was terribly wrong.

  “Dear God, what is it, Holmes?” I asked.

  He lifted a finger to quiet me, and then pounded on the roof. Suddenly the growler stopped. Through the window I saw Reginald running away, towards the forest. I sat back in my seat, the glare of my eyes dancing from window to window. Then something flew into the cab, something large, dark and buzzing. It landed on Holmes’s forehead. It was a bee, flexing its wings and angrily wriggling its abdomen. Holmes cursed bitterly then swatted the bee away. Without hesitation, he brought his window up and locked it.

  “Close your window, Watson, quickly!”

  “But, Holmes, it’ll be like an oven in here if we do that!”

  “If you want to live through another hot day, close your window!”

  I did as he said and as soon as I brought up the window, bees were clicking off the glass like rubber bullets. It was the same with Holmes’s window.

  “What’s happening, Holmes?” I asked in a panic. Another glance through Holmes’s window showed it was completely covered with a living mass of bees. I was afraid to look through my window again.

  “We’ve been contaminated, Watson,” Holmes said.

  “Contaminated? How and by what?”

  “Bonnet has marked us, the same way he killed Dalley!”

  It had become very dark in the cab and I watched the mass of bees go at the window with their stingers in an effort to get to us.

  “What’ll we do?”

  Rubbing at the single reddened sting on his forehead, he sat back, and then turned his fingers together on his lap. “We wait, my friend,” he said. “I expected something like this - thus, our journey here in this specially prepared ‘bee-proof’ cab. Early this morning before you awoke, I arranged with Reginald to obtain this growler, normally used in cold-weather, and built to be sealed up especially tight. I had to let the killer act to obtain proof.” There was a confidence in his voice, as if this had all been part of a master plan. Trusting in Holmes’s wisdom, I sat back and waited, hoping that no bees would penetrate into the cab.

  A few moments later, I heard voices outside, but the thick layer of bees that still covered the window blocked me from seeing who it was. The voices were muffled yet desperately excited. Someone was barking orders. Then I smelled smoke laced with pine and oil.

  “We’re rescued, Watson,” Holmes said. “You can relax now.”

  “Rescued by who?” I asked.

  The answer came as one by one, the bees fell from Holmes’s window, replaced by a thick cl
oud of white smoke. When the window was free of bees and the smoke cleared, I saw Lestrade’s familiar rodent-like face looking at us through the glass.

  “What’s the meaning of this intrusion, Mr. Holmes? Inspector Lestrade?” cried Bonnet, in the middle of having his left knee treated by Marsh and the bees. “I thought our business was finished.”

  A detachment of constables followed us into the study, covering all the doors. I heard heavy rushing footsteps peppering the floor above us, as apparently another detachment of constables was searching for something up there. I had to admit that I was struck utterly flabbergasted. At this point, I was merely watching as events revealed themselves.

  “We’re here to arrest you, sir,” Holmes said.

  Shock registered all over Bonnet’s face. The news affected Marsh even more, as he dropped the tweezers to the floor, still with a bee locked in its grip.

  “Arrest me?” shouted Bonnet. “What new foolishness is this?”

  “For the murder of Gordon Dalley, and the attempted murder of myself and Doctor Watson.”

  “This is madness! Why would I murder my best friend and business associate - or you, for that matter?”

  The answer came through the double doors of the entrance to the study. Between two constables and held by her wrists was Mrs. Dalley, her face was crimson with anger.

  “You were right, Mr. Holmes,” one of the constables said. “We found her hiding in the closet of the master suite.”

  “Yes, I noticed the Dalley carriage parked out front when we first arrived,” Holmes said. “I knew she was here, but didn’t know where.”

  Mrs. Dalley struggled like a wolverine in a trap. Then, realizing the futility of her actions, she calmed down and stared at Holmes.

  “How did you find out about Thomas and me?” she spat.

  “Your husband told me,” Holmes answered, which confused everyone in the room.

  “My - my husband told you? Is he still alive?”

  Holmes let out a vicious snort. “Of course not, Mrs. Dalley. Unfortunately, your lover, Mr. Bonnet, made sure of his work. No. One of the first things I noticed while inspecting your husband’s corpse was the lack of a wedding ring on his ring finger. In a desperate attempt to leave investigators any clue of what had really happened before he died, he took his ring off and threw it at one of the doors leading to the apiary, leaving a tiny nick in the glass.”

  I remembered that peculiar damage to the door, but had completely missed the absent ring on the finger.

  “The ring rolled away, I found it under one of the bee hives.” Holmes reached into his jacket pocket and produced the ring, holding it between his fingertips for everyone to see. Then he handed it to Lestrade.

  Mrs. Dalley cursed under her breath.

  “So from the beginning, I knew you were involved in your husband’s death, and that your breakfast with Macintosh was just a diversion to establish an alibi and throw the police off your trail. But I only suspected Mr. Bonnet was involved. When I interviewed you and your son, I knew then for certain. I noticed how close to you he remained, and how he tended to your every need, much more than just a friend. The hints were subtle but clear to see for someone who was looking for them. I don’t even think young, innocent Macintosh suspected your love affair with Bonnet.” Holmes turned and faced Bonnet. “And then, during our tour of the grounds this morning, you, Mr. Bonnet, let it slip that you had just purchased Gordon Dalley’s shares in his urban apiary from his son, making you full owner. And incredibly, you told me that the purchase of Gordon Dalley’s shares was Mrs. Dalley’s idea. As so often is the case when solving a crime, always follow the money trail.” Holmes nodded at Lestrade. “There are your motives, Inspector... love and money.”

  “The oldest motives in the book, I must say, Mr. Holmes,” Lestrade said.

  “I couldn’t stand it anymore!” Mrs. Dalley shouted. “The way Gordon had to circle the dinner table seven times before sitting down to eat, even in a restaurant. The way he traipsed naked around the neighborhood harassing our neighbors. It was all too much, too embarrassing for me after so many years. Thomas promised me a different life... a properly normal life... it wasn’t long before we fell in love and-”

  “Shut up, Abigail!” Bonnet erupted, and then his glare landed upon Holmes. “All of what you say may be true, Mr. Holmes, but you’ve no evidence that I killed Gordon. He was attacked by a swarm of bees. Every court in the land will see this.”

  “Yes,” Holmes said through a grin. He locked his fingers behind his back. “They’ll also see how the scientists in your laboratory had made much greater strides in isolating elements in bee venom then you let on. In fact, they’d managed to successfully recreate, in concentrated form, the specific scent that drives bees mad, didn’t they?”

  “Preposterous!”

  “Inspector Lestrade, I implore you to take possession of that brass medical atomizer, sitting on the table!”

  “No!” cried Bonnet as he reached over and grabbed up the atomizer, but Lestrade was swift in his reaction to Holmes’s order and wrestled it away from the desperate apiarist.

  “Inside that atomizer is a synthesized version of a previously undiscovered chemical,” Holmes explained. “Honeybees will attack anything laced with it, even docile honeybees such as Apis Mellifera. When Bonnet arrived for his meeting with Gordon Dalley, he sprayed it on him in the same way he sprayed it on Doctor Watson and me, by making sure the mechanical fan was trained on him, and then misting the fluid into the forced breeze. Then, it was only a matter of somehow tricking Dalley into going out to the apiary so that Bonnet could lock the door behind him and let the honeybees do the dirty work. That accounts for the rather defined sting pattern found only above Gordon Dalley’s chest and the distinctly concentrated odor of bananas with which we were met when we first approached his corpse.”

  “Why, that’s devilishly clever, Mr. Holmes,” Lestrade scowled, holding the atomizer close to his abdomen.

  “But not clever enough, eh, Mr. Bonnet? It would have been the perfect murder, except for the fact that you weren’t aware of my past experience with apiculture.”

  The apiarist grunted something, but I couldn’t make sense of it.

  “Inspector Lestrade, I suggest you interview all the scientists in Bonnet’s laboratory with great enthusiasm. They’ll furnish you with the details and later on, the proper evidence, needed to convict Bonnet. In the meantime, allow Doctor Watson and me to wash our faces, for there is still evidence of Mr. Bonnet’s murderous plan to remove us from the equation on our faces, and it is still quite potent.”

  The Adventure of the Returned Captain

  by Hugh Ashton

  The events I am about to describe took place in 1887. The bare facts of this dramatic incident were published in the newspapers, but the full circumstances leading to the loss of the barque commanded by Captain Winslow were not generally known, thanks to the efforts of the Government of the day to keep them from the public eye, in an attempt to prevent similar incidents from occurring.

  As the world knows, the barque Sophy Anderson (often mistakenly reported in the Press as Sophie Anderson or Andersen) (Captain James Winslow), was observed off Beachy Head one summer afternoon by a number of residents of the area, among whom was a retired Naval officer, Rear-Admiral Lionel Stokesey-Bradwell, whose testimony was most often quoted in the newspaper reports, presumably on account of his expertise in matters nautical, as well as his seniority and position in society.

  According to the Admiral, the Sophy Anderson appeared to be making about five knots, beating upwind against a westerly breeze. She had just come about to starboard, when the Admiral observed a bright flash and a cloud of smoke, followed, some fifteen seconds later, by the sound of an explosion. From the time between observing the explosion and hearing it, he judged the barque to be some three miles distant. W
hen the smoke cleared, a few seconds after the sound was audible on land, there was no sign of the Sophy Anderson visible to the naked eye, and even using the most powerful binoculars at his disposal, the Admiral was unable to discern more than a few shards of wreckage.

  The Eastbourne lifeboat was launched as soon as possible, and headed straight to the last position where the barque had been seen, but all that was to be seen were some planks of wood, and some clothing, including a captain’s cap (subsequently identified as that of Captain Winslow by his widow). The ship’s boat was discovered a little way off, overturned, but there were no members of the crew, or their bodies, to be seen. A French trawler was already on the spot, the crew having witnessed the explosion, but they too had sought in vain for survivors. No trace of the Captain himself, other than his cap, or of any of the twenty crew members who were listed as being on board, was ever discovered.

  The Sophy Anderson, bound for Cadiz and then for Malta, was listed as carrying a cargo of assorted muslins and other fabrics. There appeared to be nothing in the cargo manifest that would account for such an explosion that had caused the ship to disintegrate so completely. The loss of the barque was a nine days’ wonder, whose place in the public eye was soon taken by some proposed changes to the laws of cricket by the County Cricket Council.

  It was some months following the incident just described that Sherlock Holmes and I were in the rooms at Baker Street. I was engrossed in the details of some financial investments that had been recommended to me by a friend, and Holmes was engaged on some chemical research which he pronounced to have no practical application, but was of great interest for its own sake.

  “Aha! A knock at the door, if I am not mistaken,” he pronounced without looking up from the table that served him as a laboratory bench. “Mrs. Hudson has admitted him, and he is mounting the stairs. A nautical man, if I am not mistaken.”

  “How - ?” I began, but was cut short by the sound of rapping at the door of our room. I opened it to disclose a near-giant of a man, dressed in mourning black. The face appeared somewhat familiar to me, but I was unable to place it.