by David Marcum
“Mr. Blackheath then rapidly hatched the plan with the dog. Each day he lured away Charlie and sent his own dog back with you, Mrs. Rees. Each night he climbed to the roof and dropped into Miss Garner’s room through the skylight. On the first two occasions she was still too muddled by the opium to escape with him, so he whistled for the trained dog to leap up and knock the bar away. Thus he left - rebarring the door to keep the plot secret, for fear that Miss Garner’s aunt would take a desperate risk while the girl was still vulnerable. Those were the footsteps on the rooftop you could hear, Miss Darrow.”
Miss Darrow’s lip curled.
“Blackheath with his dog then let himself out into the street, where a confederate waited in a carriage with Charlie, kept quiet I expect through mildly drugged meat. Blackheath restored Charlie to the household and left to try again another day.”
“Why didn’t he just leave through the roof again?” I asked.
“Mr. Blackheath is a nimble climber, Watson, but he must have something to climb. Once at the skylight, there is a drop to the bed below but no way to regain the height of the ceiling. The furniture within the attic is too heavy to easily move, and Miss Garner was too unwell to assist him. Once they realised the food was being tampered with, Miss Garner left it untouched by the door. It seems at least once a dose in a pot of tea was spilled there...”
“I tried to make her drink it,” Miss Darrow confessed wearily, her own dose of Black Drop loosening her tongue, “She threw it at me. Broke my second best teapot on the door.”
“That explains the strong smell of it up there.” I frowned at Miss Darrow. “You’ve been very lucky.”
“How is it ‘lucky’?” she sneered.
“You might have been hanged for murder,” said Sherlock Holmes crisply.
Miss Darrow pressed both hands to her eyes and wept, but she gained no sympathy from her audience.
The whole unpleasant adventure reached a kinder conclusion some weeks later, we learned, when Mrs. Rees met Mrs. Hudson for their ritual exchange of tattle on the steps. Charlie gave us all a baleful eye, as usual, but Mrs. Rees was in good humour.
“You’ll never guess what Miss Nancy did,” she told Holmes as he and I passed on our way to see Lestrade at Scotland Yard.
“She got married to Mr. Blackheath,” said Holmes.
Mrs. Rees laughed at his stealing the wind from her sails. “That she did, Mr. Holmes, and what’s more, she sent her aunt a piece of wedding cake!”
“Miss Garner is a sharp young lady,” observed Mrs. Hudson.
“She has spirit and I like her,” said Mrs. Rees firmly, “And she’s kinder than you think, because she also sent her aunt a necklace. Belonged to her grandmother, it did. A golden locket, with little paintings of Miss Darrow’s parents, Mr. and Mrs. Darrow, inside. Miss Nancy - Mrs. Blackheath, I should say - sent it with the cake and a note that said ‘in payment for lodgings and your inconvenience’. And she sent a pretty new collar for Charlie.” He was indeed sporting a new collar of wide red leather that was handsome against his white hair.
“I’d say it was less kindness than triumph,” said Holmes later, “Though considering how near her aunt came to committing a tragedy, it still may be better than Miss Darrow deserves. It’s certainly more than Charlie deserves.”
“You’re just bitter that the dreadful Charlie destroyed your coat,” I observed.
“You could be right,” he conceded.
The Adventure of the Frightened Architect
by Arthur Hall
It has to be remembered that some of the cases undertaken by my friend Sherlock Holmes have never reached the general public. This is usually because of his reluctance to reveal some element therein, to avoid embarrassment to someone concerned in the events that transpired, or for less obvious reasons of his own. The following account is one that I was at first forbidden to relate, but on repeating my request recently, it was met with an indifferent shrug. I therefore now set it before the reader, with Holmes’s approval.
One cool spring morning, I stood looking down onto the bustle of Baker Street, lighting my first pipe of the day after what had been a rather silent breakfast.
“What do you see that is so amusing, Watson?” asked Holmes suddenly. I heard him replace his coffee cup, and in a moment he stood beside me.
“How did you know I was amused?”
“My dear fellow, when I see your smiling face reflected in the window, it is not a difficult conclusion at which to arrive.”
I pointed with my smouldering pipe. “I was observing those three Greek priests, shuffling along across the street. I was reminded of the Three Wise Men.”
“Three Wise Men?”
“Those in the Christmas story.”
“Not so, old fellow. That is a common misconception. The Bible does not, in fact, mention the number of Wise Men, kings, or whatever the visitors were. Their number is purely a tradition of the church. Furthermore, the descriptive word in the original Greek translation was the equivalent of astrologers, rather than Wise Men, and these are strongly disapproved of elsewhere in the Scriptures, since they practised the forbidden foretelling of the future.”
“Good heavens!” I exclaimed. “Are you sure of this, Holmes?”
“You have only to stretch out your hand and pick up the Bible, which stands next to my Bradshaw on the bookshelf, to confirm it.” I was about to do this, feeling slightly ashamed for doubting my friend’s accuracy, yet outraged at his apparent disregard for tradition, when we were both distracted by the clang of the doorbell. We glanced at each other and stood in silence as Mrs. Hudson admitted our visitor and brought him up the stairs. A moment later the door opened and she announced, “Mr. Fortesque Collins, gentlemen,” before withdrawing. The man who entered was of a truly formidable appearance. A huge, hulking figure, his expression was one of sadness, yet there was also an air of suppressed anger about him. He wore a waistcoat ill-matched to his other attire, and I noticed that, although he had no beard, his moustache had been allowed to become straggling and unkempt. “Come in, sir,” Holmes said by way of welcome, “I am Sherlock Holmes, and this is my friend and associate, Doctor John Watson.” Mr. Collins hung up his hat and joined us around the fire. He shook both our hands and lowered himself into an armchair at Holmes’s indication. I thought that he looked neglected and distinctly uncomfortable as he rubbed his hands together against the chill that had persisted into early May. This did not escape Holmes’s notice. “Perhaps some tea, or coffee if you prefer?”
“No, no, thank you, sir,” our visitor replied rather breathlessly. “I have come to consult you on a rather unusual matter.”
“Pray continue,” Holmes smiled. “We are accustomed here to much that is out of the ordinary.”
Mr. Collins produced a crumpled sheet of paper, which he unfolded and passed to my friend. Holmes held it towards me so that, by leaning sideways, I could read it also:
Mr. Fortesque Collins. Your loss has been felt, even as far away as the Hereafter. If you will attend the Langham Hotel, at 7:30 p.m. on May the third, it may be that your grief will be eased.
“There is no signature,” Holmes observed. “Do you already know the identity of the sender?”
“I do not!” Mr. Collins said emphatically. “I received this in the early post this morning. It is a clear reference to my late wife, whom I lost a year ago. I have already enquired at the hotel, to ascertain the meaning of this outrage.”
“And what did you discover?”
“I was told that a meetings room had indeed been reserved, for tomorrow evening.”
“For what purpose, to be so outrageous?” I began, but Holmes held up a hand to silence me.
“To conduct a séance! I tell you, sirs, I do not believe in such things, and consider them an insult to the dead. I do not want my poor late wife’s mem
ory tarnished by some side-show performance.”
“You have my sympathy,” said Holmes. “I, too, do not believe in supernatural experiences, though several past cases have been represented to me as such. Nevertheless, you have decided to attend this gathering, for why would you be here otherwise? In what way can we assist you?”
“I would like you gentlemen to accompany me to expose this, for a crime is what this is. The object of these performances is always to extract money from a gullible audience. They cause heartbreak compounded by fraud. I know your reputation, Mr. Holmes, and I believe you to be the man to save and enlighten the victims, if we may call them such.”
Holmes said nothing, and we both waited.
“Mr. Collins,” he asked presently, “are you a rich man?”
“I am a grocer. There is enough profit to feed and clothe me, but little more.”
“Then does it not strike you as strange, that someone who knows something of your affairs, your address, the passing of your wife, should set up a scheme to defraud you? The sender of this letter must surely be aware that you are in no position to pay out a large sum.”
Our visitor looked puzzled, and then shrugged. “I suppose you are right. That is curious, but on the other hand we do not know whom we are dealing with. It could be my barber, or the man living above the shop next to mine, in Stepney.”
“Indeed. There is clearly some mystery here. Very well. Doctor Watson - ” He glanced in my direction and I nodded my assent, “and I will meet you at the Langham Hotel, and between the three of us we will see if we can reveal this little circus for what it truly is.”
“You have surprised me, Holmes,” I remarked after Mr. Collins had left. “I expected you to dismiss this case.”
He gave a short laugh. “Ha! You must have noticed the shortage of problems to come my way recently. I feel a restlessness coming on that I would at one time have dispelled with the cocaine bottle, but you have barred me from that escape. In any event, Mr. Collins’s situation appears to have some unusual aspects. This would not be the first case to surprise us with its development.”
The following evening found us alighting from a hansom in Langham Place. Waning sunlight glinted on the many windows of the hotel as we crossed the street to where Mr. Collins stood waiting. Despite his disbelief in the forthcoming proceedings, he showed some nervousness, pacing the short distance from the hotel entrance to the nearest lamp standard and back repeatedly. He came to an abrupt halt as he saw us, and I noticed that he was dressed exactly as before. This indicated to me, as it would have already to Holmes, that our client no longer had a good woman looking after him.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” Mr. Collins said rather grimly. “I have observed that a mixed party has already gone before us. Unless I am mistaken, the room to the left of the entrance hall is our destination.”
“You have already enquired?” Holmes asked.
“Not at all, but the more expensively-dressed guests are those that proceed straight ahead, into the foyer.”
“Your use of your powers of observation is admirable,” Holmes remarked with a trace of surprise.
We quickly discovered that Mr. Collins was correct. In a semi-darkened room, we found ourselves seated with six others around a circular table. We could see little of our surroundings, but I gained the impression that they lacked some of the luxury that I had glimpsed as we entered. This was a room reserved for such meetings as this, or perhaps of merchants or tradesmen. There was a coolness about the air here, and a deadly hush had settled upon everyone except Holmes, who I felt was already struggling to restrain his mirth.
A small man, surely a midget, appeared from behind the thick curtain before us, and walked around the room to the door, which he locked with the explanation: “We must not be disturbed.” I sensed that Holmes had seen some significance in this, but before I could ask, the room darkened further with the unseen extinguishing of the remaining gas mantles. A murmur passed through the assembly. From behind the curtain, the same voice announced: “You are now in the presence of Madam Myra, your bridge to the world to come.”
I distinctly felt Holmes, sitting in the chair beside me, quiver. That he was enjoying this charade, I had no doubt. A woman, bearing a single candle that was held to light up her face, seemed to glide across the curtain. She stopped near its centre and turned to us, placing the candle on a pedestal that I had failed to notice.
“Welcome,” she intoned in a husky voice, “to all you who grieve for the departed. Tonight I will attempt to re-unite you with your loved ones, if only briefly. But there are always other occasions. The spirits are always near if we truly search for them.”
The curtain behind her parted slightly, to reveal a candelabrum of gas jets that immediately burst into life. She was not a young woman, but her face was well rouged and her eyebrows trimmed to give her an almost Oriental appearance. Her lustrous black hair, probably false I thought, hung to the shoulders of her theatrical costume. In the shadow of the background light, she did indeed appear mystical. She raised her arms, in a gesture to encompass everyone in the room. “Let us begin.”
For some moments there was absolute silence, as she appeared to enter a deep trance. Then, though it may have been that I imagined it, an icy cold spread among us. Madam Myra spoke in a language that was unknown to me in a pleading entreaty that made me more aware of Holmes, whose stifled laughter had begun to escape him. A frantic rapping began from beneath us. “Welcome!” Madam Myra cried. “Who is it that has joined our circle?”
“In my earthly form, I was Rose Traherne,” an echoing voice replied.
A woman stood up quickly from a seat near the front of the room. “My Rose!” she wailed. “How I miss you, my love.”
“Do not grieve for me, mother. All is good here, and I am happy.”
“Will you show yourself to us?” Madam Myra interrupted.
“It is permitted to cross the Divide, but briefly.” The words had hardly died away before a blue shape materialised above us. It shimmered like disturbed water and became the head and shoulders of a young girl.
Mrs. Traherne was close to tears. “Rose, is it really you? Are you with your father?”
The apparition hesitated, and then spoke for the last time after fading from our sight. “Father is here. He is happy also and misses you. But I am being called. I must go now, mother.”
The figure disappeared and Holmes seemed to be having difficulty breathing, as a ripple of astonished chatter broke out among the audience.
Mr. Collins got to his feet, his huge frame looming in the semi-darkness, and appealed to Madam Myra. “I beg of you, summon my departed wife, so that I can say the farewell that I was denied when she was taken from me.”
I sensed a change in Holmes. He was wondering, as I was, whether Mr. Collins had been convinced by the demonstration, or if his intention was to reveal the falseness of it.
Madam Myra considered. “Very well,” she said at last, “I will try to make contact.”
The hush returned, as Madam Myra again became still. After a moment her body shuddered, as if she were attempting to break loose from something that gripped her in a harsh embrace.
“She is coming,” she gasped. “She is using me to speak to you.”
Mr. Collins resumed his seat, his anticipation evident.
“My dear Fortesque,” Madam Myra said in a quite different voice. “How sorry I was, that we were separated so soon.”
“Tell me again,” Mr. Collins replied in a desperate croak, “in that eloquent French you used to so often, how much you cared for me.”
Madam Myra did not reply for long moments, and then the strange voice continued. “There are no languages here, my love. I have no need of my former French, or of the one we shared. Only the tongue of compassion and tolerance is spoken. Do not despair, you will join me on
e day and...”
“Liar!” Mr. Collins shouted loudly. Everyone turned towards him as he rose again. “My wife knew no other language than that that was her native tongue.”
He ran headlong towards Madam Myra, and would have seized her by the throat had she not disappeared behind the curtain. As he searched frantically among its folds, Holmes raced past him to the corner of the room and disappeared.
Now total confusion surrounded me. Most of the others were aghast and had risen from their seats to move about aimlessly. Two women, one of them Mrs. Traherne, were crying, while the men wore expressions of astonishment that their beliefs and hopes should be so shattered.
Sherlock Holmes reappeared, brushing aside the curtain and ushering Madam Myra, the midget, and a girl of about twelve before him. Mr. Collins looked on furiously.
“Allow me to introduce Mr. and Mrs. Marmion Kester, and their daughter Anna,” my friend began. “Their profession is the operating of fraudulent exhibitions such as you have witnessed tonight, though they had not yet reached the point of demanding or begging for money. “
“And who are you, sir?” asked one of the men.
“My name is Sherlock Holmes. I am well versed in criminal activity, and this swindle was brought to my attention.”
“But how was it done?” the third woman, an obvious spinster, asked.
“Mrs. Kester is adept at altering her voice, I would wager that her repertoire extends from a fishwife to a countess, and her daughter provided that of Miss Rose Traherne. The tapping from beneath the floor was the work of Mr. Kester, using a broom-handle in the cellar. It was all rather unconvincing, and I confess to being disappointed.”
“But the image?” A thin man, shy-looking and visibly shaken by the proceedings, asked in a trembling voice.
“That is very easily explained,” Holmes replied. “Above our heads you will see that a large mirror was lowered in the darkness, by means of a rope thrown over a beam. That was the screen to which the image was directed through the lenses of a device similar to that known as a ‘magic lantern’.” He looked directly at me. “We have come across this sort of trickery before, have we not, Watson?”
