The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories, Part VI

by David Marcum

Dr. Watson seems to have figured out what they want and how they want it. I should ask him for some tips now that marriage isn’t keeping him so occupied. It didn’t last, just as Mr. Holmes said. But then, I’m sure he couldn’t have deduced why it wouldn’t last. Sad, really.

  I expect I know what his first tip to me will be.

  “Wiggins,” he’ll say, “don’t end your story on such a dour note or the readers will never come back for more.”

  I’ll try to remember that for next time.

  The Grave Message

  by Stephen Wade

  There were times in the relentlessly energetic life of Sherlock Holmes when his apparently tireless body was stretched to the very limits, urged on by his indomitable will. But of course, as every medical man would insist, with such exertions come penalties, often in the form of an absolute exhaustion of the cerebral faculties. I feared that such was the case with Holmes when he insisted on pursuing a matter which may only be described as being astoundingly odd. However, nothing lay outside his interests, even affairs of the supernatural, and such was the business at Linscombe.

  The outcome of the case was something of a landmark in criminal law, I would say, as the actions related to the affair were hard to define.

  It was perhaps only a week after the affair at Boscombe when Holmes received a letter from Harry Donner, son of the outstanding historian Sir Percival Donner. It was in fact a cry for help. Harry, a Guards officer, had written something which clearly unsettled my friend, who, after perusing the missive, walked across the room in such an agitated frame of mind that I could no longer concentrate on The Times, which on that occasion featured an account of some exciting discoveries being made at the Liverpool School of Tropical Medicine which quite rekindled my curiosity about certain deadly beetles I had previously encountered in my army days.

  “What on earth is troubling you Holmes? Is it a death threat?”

  “No, Watson, nothing of the kind. You are familiar with Sir Percival Donner?”

  “Donner? Yes of course, I have read his work on the Far East. Solid scholarship! In fact, he has been in the news of late, as I recall he is a fancied recipient of the Maupel Prize.”

  “Scholarship indeed. I would dare to venture that he should in fact win the Maupel Prize, being streets ahead of the others. He has the reputation of being arguably the most rational mind in Britain.” Holmes finally sat down, glanced at the letter again, and began to explain further. “This is from his son, Harry, of The Blues - a fine young man. He is concerned about, of all things, his father’s sanity! I have seldom been so shocked. That a man such as Donner, who had aligned himself with the rationalists and secularists, should be afraid of anything allegedly from the other world is astounding!”

  Holmes referred to the “other world” as if we were suddenly switching our topic of conversation from natural science to the ectoplasm used in the chicanery of the spiritual frauds which I had been reading about at the time. I almost laughed at his use of the phrase, as surely he could see the irony of his statement with reference to rationality. Holmes was the very epitome of the rational faculty in man, believing implicitly in the dominance and reliability of a soundly argued approach to the explanation of anything life might offer to his cerebral faculties as a “mystery”.

  “Watson, young Harry writes of occurrences which appear to have unsettled his father’s mind to a remarkable and worrying degree. It appears that he has had some kind of communication from beyond the grave!” Holmes still kept complete control of his facial expression and there was no hint of sarcasm in his words. But then he added a comment which was rather more in keeping with the Holmes I knew. “In effect, if we read between the lines, Watson, Sir Percival is a victim of some species of human devilment. Deceased people do not, as far I am aware, write on the first page of books... what was it now...?” He looked again at the letter and then read out the words, “All my work has been futile. I am no more for this world. P. A. D.”

  “What? Are we discussing felo de se, Holmes?” I asked, trying to understand the words.

  Holmes folded the paper and looked towards the window, in one of his most intensely pensive moods, an expression on his thin face I had seen many times previously. “It appears, Watson, that in his study, an old tome has fallen from a shelf, and when poor Donner opened the book, this short but disconcerting communication was written inside. Young Harry notes that his father saw, without a shred of doubt, that the hand of that message was his own. We must help the man. He is, according to his son, at his wit’s end. This appears to be the third such unexplained incident at Linscombe in the last month.”

  I had not substantially remembered Donner, but when Holmes mentioned Linscombe, Donner’s impressive mansion near Oxford, my memory at once envisaged the place, for I had been there many years before when Holmes had invited me to a lecture given by a French professor on aspects of female hysteria and criminality.

  On the journey to Oxford, Holmes reminded me of the lecture. “Of course you have visited Linscombe, Watson. We did attend the lecture by Coutier, and Donner was with us. We stayed the night at the mansion. I recall that Donner demolished Coutier’s argument on hysteria with considerable knowledge, as well as notable dash and esprit!” I reflected for some time on Donner after that, and I asked my friend if the scholar had made a habit of demolishing arguments, for if he did, then perhaps he had made some enemies. I am aware that academic vanity, when wounded, may be a dangerous thing. Holmes pointed out that the two men had once been friends. “As younger men they were often sharing interests in their research, and I believe they exchanged information. It makes a split so much worse.

  “I bring to mind the case of Dr. Berring, whose papers on entomological studies in Java were ridiculed and abused by Senger, the Cambridge emeritus professor. Oh my word! Berring assaulted Senger in the street and left him seriously injured, though the aggressor in this case was never prosecuted, as it happened in the cloak of night. Everyone knew the culprit was Berring, but nothing could be proved. Oh yes, offend a scholar by denigrating his work, and heaven help you!” Between Reading and Didcot, he expounded on the rigours of the studious life. The impression he gave me was that he was on the one hand rather jealous of the don’s life, tethered daily to books, libraries, and tutorial rooms; yet on the other hand, I concluded that such a regime would have been far too dull for his restless mind.

  We were taken to Linscombe in the carriage sent for us by Harry, who, when we arrived, rattling down an extremely long drive, greeted us at the door with smile and a handshake, in spite of his being under some duress. Harry was very tall and slim, as befits a Guards officer, and he had a slight limp which was, we were told, the result of a too enthusiastic rugger match, and was nothing so noble as a battlefield injury. Holmes commented how much the young man had grown since their last meeting, and there was a light, pleasant atmosphere until Harry led us into an ante-room by his father’s study. There he spoke in hushed tones. “Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson, beyond this door you will see the mere ghost of the man who was, until such a short time ago, a sturdy though ageing man of letters. Why, barely six weeks ago, he was taking his daily walk of two miles before his mid-day repast. Now he stares into the air beyond me, as I try in vain to speak with him.

  “I am a medical man, Harry. I know of these things, and I perceive that the greatest delicacy and tact are required in his company.” This seemed to reassure the young man, and we were shown in.

  There was Dr. Donner, sitting by the fire in a comfortable armchair by a roaring fire. Behind him were bookshelves, and again, at the other side of the hearth, there were more books and shelves, exactly the same design. The old man did not respond when his son called out our names. He was indeed almost emaciated, his face having a skeletal look about it, and his frock-coat hung loosely about him as he stood up, assisted by his son, to greet us. He was of middle height, and had lost most of hi
s hair. His clothes suggested another age - the working suit of a man from a generation past - and I noticed that he wore gloves and a cravat. He was trying to fend off the cold, I fancied. Even with the fire so heartening, his frail frame was feeling a chill.

  “Father, Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson are here to make sense of things...” Harry said.

  “Make sense of things! Why, there is no reason to matter any longer! I have tested and enquired. I have essayed every conceivable approach fired by my intense rational faculty, and I can see no acceptable solution. The book fell from the shelf and...”

  Holmes asked the old scholar to sit, and Harry waved Holmes and myself to other armchairs, before ordering some tea.

  “Dr. Donner, nothing is beyond rational enquiry. I would like you to tell me exactly what happened when the book fell. Your son has provided a general account.”

  “Oh, oh, well you see, I used to think that the scientific mind, the great product of this century of wonders... of the Great Exhibition, of our friend Darwin... of... well...” Suddenly he seemed to fix his eyes on Holmes and he spoke differently. “Oh, you are Sherlock Holmes! Of course you are! I see now! You came here. That is... you have been here... you are the criminal enquirer! Do you follow Bertillon’s methods of identification? Such a staggeringly impressive system I think... that a murderer could have distinct facial traits. Oh, you asked about the book.

  “Well, I was sitting here in this chair, reading, and someone was sitting opposite - I fell asleep I’m afraid, though I recall that Grashon, Professor of Renaissance History, was there when we sat down - and all was tranquil. Then whoosh! This infernal tome dropped onto my lap! I - I opened it and, and you see... there were those sentences, in my very hand.... All my work has been futile. I am no more for this world P. A. D.” As he began to sob, his son took hold of him and led him from the room.

  “It was my hand, Holmes,” he called as he departed, “and I always write P.A.D. My own flourishes were in the strokes of the pen, I say!”

  The tea arrived and Holmes took his cup, had a sip, maintaining a thoughtful expression, and then asked, “Watson, you are familiar with the scholar’s melancholy? “

  “Well, I haven’t spent time among men of learning, to say true. Military men, out on service, say very little about melancholy. If such feelings assail them, I would wager they reach for the brandy bottle, old fellow!”

  “Well, for many centuries writers have commented on this particular species of mental anguish. Too long studying learned volumes, my friend, may turn the mind from sanity and certainty to... why, to a sort on inner cerebral anarchy! The poor soul is tormented because he has encountered, for the very first time, an occurrence which defies explanation.”

  Harry returned, took some tea, and explained that his father was lying down, and that a servant was observing him. Holmes took the opportunity to enquire further on the recent inexplicable events. “Harry, I wish to know what other things have happened here - the unnerving events you hinted at previously.”

  The young man stood by the fire, took the poker, and shifted a log closer to the flames. Then he warmed himself, standing with his back to the heat. “Mr. Holmes, first we had the uncanny rattling of a tin in the kitchen. It was the fishing weekend when Grashon, his friend Gloser, myself, some local anglers, and my father had one of their little competitive Saturdays. Who could land the weightiest haul of fish, and of course, could anyone catch Old Dapple, the famous pike! Yes, he’s the Linscombe Pike to all the locals. Old Dapple, old as Methuselah they say! Anyway, we were all in here, and suddenly there was such a rattling and cracking from the kitchen. Grashon’s friend, Gloser, ran out and then came back with an empty biscuit tin. Huntley and Palmers, of course. But by Jove, there was nothing in it at all. He said he had seen the tin jump and pitch about as if some hand was moving it!”

  “Interesting. Go on, Harry. Something else, I believe?” Holmes was now in his most intent, mentally fixed, mood.

  “Well this will appear so outlandish to you, sir, but I swear I saw this with my own eyes. The next time we had father’s friends here, a month ago I would say, a cake had been made for father, to celebrate his invention of the new fly - for fly-fishing you understand?” Holmes’s face made it clear that he knew as much about angling as I did about medieval paintings. He asked Harry to continue.

  “Well, now, Mr. Holmes, we had this cake, and all the friends were gathered. Father had been looking for one of the flies in his study all afternoon, but with no success. He had used it in the morning, and it had been cut on its wing by a pen-knife. I remember the meal very well, because someone had commented that he has seen mouse-droppings on the kitchen floor and everyone made very critical remarks about Mrs. Badcock, our cook. Later, at the meal, he cut the cake and there in the centre was one of his flies - the very one he had seen earlier!”

  “Harry, surely this was a prank! This is such a student’s trick, my young friend!” Holmes said, after finishing his tea and standing up to pace the room, as he did when inducing some deeper thought. He stood in the light of the window and lectured us on the matter. “You must see how simple a matter it would be for someone - one of the guests - to drop the fly into the cake-mix during the period when it was being made in your kitchens?”

  “Well of course, but the cake was made in father’s college the day before, and it had the distinctive cut in the feather - the green wing was nicked almost in half - as father’s was which had been handled that afternoon!”

  Holmes stroked his chin, frowned intently, and then asked, “You are familiar with M. Coutier?” The young man shook his head. “Your father shall we say... disparaged the man’s academic work on a notable occasion. Are you aware of any contact being made by this Coutier to your father?”

  “None whatsoever.”

  “Then I believe we have two possibilities. Watson, we need to know something from the college. This is your task in the morning.” He told Harry to attend to his father, and leave us to fend for ourselves.

  Holmes and I went back to the study and Holmes began a thorough inspection of the whole room. “Watson, at Donner’s college, I want you to access to a list of those scholars contending for the Maupel Prize. I want their names. In the meantime, look at the shelves there on the left. See the dust?” He took out his magnifying glass and moved closer to the books and shelves. When he seemed to be satisfied with his minute search, he produced a sound which implied a modicum of satisfaction, though why I could not say at the time. I have never questioned my friend’s methods and eccentricities. I learned with time that he had always to be left to follow his bizarre procedures.

  The next day after a good breakfast I went on my quest, taking a cart into Oxford, along with a servant. There was no difficulty in obtaining the list. The librarian was only too happy to talk about the calibre of the candidates and to inform me as to their distinction. He appeared to know everything about them. Of course, I assumed that Holmes was expecting to find the name Grashon on the list. As I copied down the list of names, my eyes scanned the document, hoping to find that name. The librarian provided me with a commentary: “Of course, we have some outstanding characters being considered this year - you will have heard of Dr. Slimm, the American explorer and historian? He stayed with the Tchuktchis in the frozen north. Then there’s Dr. Norbert Greig, who looks somewhat like a Viking, and his area of expertise is indeed in Scandinavian studies.”

  When I had my list, I took the opportunity to enjoy the city a little, wandering around, relishing the cultural attractions, and in particular the wonderful architecture. There was so much to interest a man such as myself in the Natural History Museum that I was quite indifferent to the passing of time, and it was time for dinner when I returned to Linscombe.

  There was quite a large group of guests there. There was the Mr. Grashon who had been mentioned earlier, and he nodded as we were introduced to each other.
There was also a man whom Harry introduced as Captain Frobisher, a friend from the Guards. Apparently Holmes had asked Harry to invite an army colleague. Everyone was happy to indulge in a little desultory talk, and I was asked about my time as an army doctor. I was only too pleased to detail a few choice adventures.

  Holmes had been waiting for me when I first arrived, already in his seat, and Harry had brought his weak father down and sat by him. The old man only drank a little water, and a small bowl of soup set before him. His loving son helped him to sip from the spoon.

  “Watson - the list if you please!” Holmes said, sotto voce.

  He read it, and as his attention seized on something, he said, aloud, “The name Gloser is on this list. Harry, you mentioned him, in the angling party?”

  “Ah yes, the Frenchie. Didn’t I tell you about him, Mr. Holmes?”

  “No, you did not. You recall I asked about the man, Coutier?”

  Harry was utterly nonplussed. “Mr. Holmes, I fail to see - We have never had the man Coutier under this roof!”

  Holmes then turned his attention to Mr. Grashon. “Sir, I am sure you will bring to mind that evening when the book with the strange communication tumbled down and fell on the knees of our good Dr. Donner?”

  Grashon, who had been regaling the company with stories about Old Dapple, the pike, was a solid, square-shaped, and heavy man, with a few double chins. Clearly he enjoyed the culinary arts, and relished consuming the choicest comestibles, in addition to taking string drink, as he was doing at that moment, swigging red wine as if it were water. “Oh yes, I do remember that night. Very unsettling. Quite, quite inexplicable, I think.”

  “Perhaps not, Mr. Grashon. Tell me, can you recall whether you were actually there when that book fell from the shelf?”

  “I can recall. No, I was not. I was in the kitchen. I know that when I went back into the room, after hearing Percy shout, I saw Gloser there, in the chair where I had been earlier.”