The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories, Part VI

by David Marcum

  We hurried from the Chapel Arms with nary a backwards glance. It was difficult to locate any sort of cab at such an ungodly hour, but eventually we managed and began the long journey back to Baker Street. It was passed in silence, neither of us much interested in conversation.

  An intensely anxious Mrs. Hudson awaited us, accompanied by a constable. After assuring them that all was well, we settled into the welcome comfort of our quarters. Both of us seemed afflicted with a sort of nervous exhaustion, so that our vitality was depleted but our minds remained active, despite the lateness of the hour. Perhaps thoughts of Carmela’s final slumber made our beds unappealing. We kindled a fire and sat in contemplation.

  I inattentively pawed through the evening edition set down when Thorn had first arrived. But my mind was elsewhere. I tossed the paper aside, noticing that Holmes had withdrawn Carmela’s diary from his pocket and was staring at it intently.

  “Holmes?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Why did you not reveal to Gutterman what Thorn was doing?”

  He gave a long sigh. “Our lives were tied to that of Thorn’s. It was not murder, but if I had revealed the truth of Thorn’s affair and interrogations, Gutterman would certainly have done away with him all the same, and might have included us in the bargain. I decided not to tempt fate.”

  “Yet you tempted it a great deal in wagering with Gutterman,” said I. “What if you had never uncovered Carmela’s diary?”

  “I never counted on such a fortunate eventuality. It was alleged to be murder, and the murder of a beautiful woman is almost always a crime of passion. Such crimes tend to be of the moment - the desperate act, and the even more desperate attempts at concealment. The evidence for such is typically ample and so, when making my wager, I simply trusted in my own abilities. And indeed, the moment I uncovered the empty glass of milk I knew what had transpired. Carmela’s last testament only served to fill up the blanks.” At the mention of her diary, his focus drifted to the small volume once more.

  “This business was a tiring one. I would be alone a while, if you would, Watson.”

  “Of course, my friend. I think I shall retire. Good-night.”

  I left him by the fire, leafing through a dead woman’s thoughts.

  The Tempest of Lyme

  by David Ruffle

  Early summer in Lyme Regis, a town I have come to know so well, has brought many pleasures, some incidental, but the majority arising from the very essence of the town, for Lyme Regis understands well how to cater for its visitors with the minimum of fuss, but with the greatest of pleasure to all.

  The occasion today was the marriage of Nathaniel, the son of Mrs. Beatrice Heidler of Lyme to Elizabeth Hill. Their romance had not been without its problems, not least Elizabeth’s kidnapping several years ago. Nathaniel had been her rescuer then in an incredibly brave act amongst much violence, which saw three deaths and an encounter with true evil which almost cost me my reason as well as my life. It is an incident that I feel unable to lay before the public, the memory still painful and the solution beyond what anyone would believe. As painful as that time it was, paradoxically it was also a time of firm friendships made.

  The wedding ceremony was a sweet and touching affair that took place in St Michael’s Church. Among the attendees was Sherlock Holmes, who had been especially invited by the happy couple to share their day. Holmes had been extremely busy of late, undertaking investigations for the highest in the land upon matters of state: The affair of the Government minister, the European spy, and the deserted zoo had been on everyone’s lips in recent months, so I will not dwell on the matter, suffice to say it was yet another triumph for Holmes, who seemed to be at the peak of his powers.

  After the ceremony, we had retired to the home that was formerly the boarding-house which Nathaniel’s mother had owned, where I had stayed with Holmes on that initial visit to Lyme. This she had now gifted to her son and daughter-in-law, hopefully to live in complete rapture. The gathering was small, but our content was enough for a much larger assembly. In addition to myself, there was Mrs. Heidler, and of course Nathaniel and Elizabeth. Also Miss Lydia Hutchings, Joe Street, the local sergeant, and his wife, Belinda, John Legg and his wife Beth, Godfrey Jacobs, a local doctor, with Sarah, his wife, and Holmes. The wine and conversation had flowed freely as befits friends who had been through much together, and the food prepared by the ladies was nothing short of divine.

  The hubbub of chatter caused all of us - bar Holmes - to miss the knocking at the door. He responded before we had a chance to react - uncharitably, I thought, his swiftness somehow indicative of his not altogether enjoying our gathering, or at least, not as much as the rest of us.

  He returned to the room with a young woman, perhaps of five-and-twenty years or so, with a burden of some great worry etched onto her features. Her words came in a rush.

  “Sergeant Street, I was informed you were here. You must help me. I have lost my Miranda!”

  “A pet, my dear lady?”

  Holmes laughed. “Hardly, Watson. I believe Miss Reynolds is referring to an actress who is playing the part of Miranda.”

  “You know me, then? For you have the advantage of me. I do not know you at all.”

  “I assure you I know nothing about you whatsoever, beyond the obvious fact that you are a stage director, you studied in Bristol yet hail from Surrey, and are currently staging a production of The Tempest. There are one or two other deductions I could expound upon, but these will suffice.” Holmes paused and looked at several expectant faces. “Oh, come now, there is no mystery here. I noticed earlier a playbill at the rotunda next to the Assembly Rooms advertising a production of The Tempest, to be performed by local players at the Marine Theatre under the direction of a Miss Reynolds. When I am informed by a young lady that she has lost ‘her Miranda’, then it is no great leap of imagination to state that the young lady must be Miss Reynolds. Miranda is...”

  “Prospero’s daughter.”

  “Thank you, Lydia, precisely so. There is a hint of the marked Bristol accent in Miss Reynolds’s voice, suggesting a familiarity with the city. It seemed more than likely that she had studied there, for the city possesses a famed drama school. At the same time, there are the flat vowel sounds present more associated with rural Surrey. I am Sherlock Holmes. Please tell us about your missing Miranda.”

  “It is exactly as you say, Mr. Holmes. We are due to open in a few days. It has been hard work enough to get to this point, but now the disappearance of our Miranda, or I should say, Miss Amelia Wallace, the actress portraying her, puts all that work in jeopardy.”

  “Have you had no contact with her?” Holmes asked.

  “Her father, who is distraught, brought me a note that was dropped through his letter box at some point overnight, he thinks. Miss Wallace explains in it that she feels the need to go away for a short while, and urges her parents not to worry on her account. I have the note here.”

  Holmes snatched it away from her and studied it intently, murmuring to himself as he examined each word, each line. “Does Miss Wallace’s father believe this to be in his daughter’s hand?”

  “He is positive it is, yet bizarrely thinks it also somehow unlike it. He says he cannot explain the content at all. As far as he and his wife are concerned, Amelia seems very happy indeed, and she has been especially so because of appearing in the play.”

  Holmes duly passed the note to the two policemen. “You can see why the father is confused by the handwriting. People reveal much of their nature in how they write. The one or two deep indentations of the paper are quite persuasive when coupled with the curious lack of flow. I think we can make out a case that Miss Wallace has written the words dictated to her under a great deal of stress.”

  “Kidnapped, you mean?” Street asked.

  “There can be no other explanation.”

>   Miss Reynolds, who only just now seemed to be coming aware of the presence of so many people, let her gaze fall on Miss Hutchings.

  “Mr. Holmes called you Lydia. Are you Lydia Hutchings?”

  “Yes, Miss Reynolds.”

  “It is most opportune you are here, for the actor who is our Ferdinand recommended that you take over the part should Miss Wallace not be available. He thought you were away at drama school yourself.”

  “I returned for a few days to attend a wedding and visit my family. Would the actor playing Ferdinand be Joseph Conner?”

  “Yes, it is Joseph. Do you know him?”

  “Only too well. He has tried to woo me on many occasions, and I have rejected him each time. He has what I think Dr. Watson would describe as an obsession. It’s one of the reasons I moved away from here. I could not even consider sharing a stage with him. Besides, it seems as if Miss Wallace has been taken by force, and I cannot imagine that you will press on with the production if she is not found.”

  “But tickets have been sold! It is set to be the highlight of the summer,” Miss Reynolds retorted weakly.

  “Ladies!” interjected John Legg. “Arguments about the show can wait. We have a young lady to find. Poor Amelia. Where do we even start?”

  “Why don’t you go and see the parents, John? It may appear they know nothing of her disappearance, but there may be something that you can pick up on.” said Sergeant Street.

  “Perhaps there is a sweetheart involved. It could be that the kidnapping has been manufactured by herself in cohorts with someone,” I stated.

  “All things are possible, Watson,” said Holmes, “but that scenario seems very unlikely, given the evidence of the handwriting. Sergeant Street, you are wise to send young Legg to the Wallace family home. At this juncture, there appears to be little else to be done. Are you in the middle of a rehearsal now, Miss Reynolds?”

  “Yes, Mr. Holmes, and I really must be getting back. Before I know it, they will have re-written all their lines. Actors, eh? Are you sure you don’t want to come and take a brief look, Miss Hutchings?”

  “Oh, I am quite sure.”

  “Yet, I would be grateful for your presence, Lydia,” said Holmes. “I would welcome the chance to see this company at work, and your uncontested knowledge of the art of acting may well be invaluable to me.” I noted that Holmes didn’t mention is own past experience in that area.

  Lydia conceded defeat, as we all knew she would. Saying no to my friend was always a difficult thing to do. I intimated to Holmes that, should he require my presence, then I would be only too glad to tag along. It was settled along those lines, and the three of us accompanied Miss Reynolds back to the Marine Theatre.

  From outside, we could hear that rehearsals were continuing without the presence of Miss Reynolds, which pleased her enormously.

  “‘We are such stuff as dreams are made of - ’” we overheard.

  “On!”

  “What?”

  “It’s such stuff as dreams are made on, not of. Why can’t you ever get it right?”

  “But it doesn’t make sense.”

  “It’s Shakespeare, old boy. It doesn’t have to make sense.”

  “Where was I? Oh yes! ‘We are such stuff as dreams are made of.’ Oops - sorry.”

  “Argh...”

  “Two of the leading men, Mr. Holmes,” explained Miss Reynolds. “Always at each other’s throats. Nicholas Kathrens is our Prospero and Jedidiah Rattenbury is our Caliban.”

  The voices were further raised as we pulled open the door and entered the building.

  “Look, I did say sorry. It’s not as if you are the director. In fact - ”

  “Yes?”

  “I was going to add that having you playing a hag-born whelp is an inspired piece of casting by Miss Reynolds!”

  “Gentlemen, gentlemen! Enough! Please show a little decorum and respect for each other’s work,” announced Miss Reynolds as she breezed through the door, picking up the reins of her authority.

  Kathrens and Rattenbury immediately ceased their bickering, apologised to their director, and continued with their rehearsing. I had the distinct impression that Miss Reynolds possessed a steely resolve that was at odds with her mild mannered exterior.

  The whole auditorium was filled with small groups whispering, shouting, and exclaiming in a bewildering babble of voices. From one such group, a young man detached himself and fairly sprinted over to us.

  “Lydia! You have come! That makes me so happy! Shall we start rehearsing our scenes now?”

  “You run on ahead, Joe,” admonished Miss Reynolds. “Miss Hutchings is adamant she will not step into Miss Wallace’s shoes.” Lydia did seem distinctly uncomfortable.

  “But she has to. How else will the show go on?” Conner argued.

  “Amelia may yet be found, Joe,” argued back Miss Reynolds. “This is Sherlock Holmes, the famous detective and his colleague, Dr. Watson. They are of the opinion that Amelia has been kidnapped.”

  “Ridiculous,” opined Conner. “Who on earth would want to kidnap someone like her?

  “Someone like her?” queried Holmes. “What precisely does that mean, young man?”

  “It means nothing. It’s just words.”

  “Am I to understand you do not like her?”

  “What does it matter whether I like her or not? I do not understand all the fuss. She has probably gone off with that fancy man of hers.”

  Under questioning by Holmes, Conner revealed to us the existence of a man with whom Miss Wallace had formed a bond. All he knew was that he was an older man under whose spell she had fallen, and Amelia had confided in Conner that he had asked her to go to London. Although he could not be certain, Conner thought the gentleman in question lived or stayed in Axminster.

  Holmes thanked Joe Conner for his information, and with one last imploring look at Lydia, he returned to his group. Holmes reached inside his coat’s inner pocket and retrieved the note that he believed Miss Wallace had been forced to write. He held the paper to his nose and inhaled deeply.

  “Interesting.”

  “What is interesting, Holmes?”

  “All in good time, Watson,” he replied, before he swiftly moved away and began approaching cast members.

  I followed in his wake and we evinced from various people their views of Miss Amelia Wallace. The idea that she was involved in any kind of relationship was rejected out of hand, the consensus being that it was impossible. Of course, if she had formed such a bond as young Conner suggested, then she would hardly proclaim it to all and sundry. After gleaning a little more information, we said goodnight to Miss Reynolds and returned to Coombe Street.

  “When did you arrive in Lyme Regis, Lydia?” Holmes asked as we turned into the street.

  “It was the day before yesterday.”

  “Have you encountered Conner since arriving, excepting this evening of course?”

  “Yes. On that first day, soon after I arrived. I had great difficulty in shaking him off. He was full of talk about The Tempest, how he wished he were playing opposite me, and how he missed me. Ugh!”

  “Thank you.”

  On our return to Nathaniel’s house, we found that PC Legg was back from his visit to Amelia’s parents. From what he told us of her home life, it was difficult to see how she could have hidden anything from them, or indeed, how she would have had the time to meet anyone outside of her employment.

  “I know Amelia, Mr. Holmes, and this story you tell me from Joe Conner just doesn’t ring true,” Legg said.

  “But what reason would he have to lie?” I asked. “It is possible that because of being thrown together during rehearsals, she naturally confided her troubles to Conner.”

  “Quite so, Watson. It has long been an axiom of mine
that all things are possible, but we also have to take into account the balance of probability which, in this instance, points to this older mystery man as being a figment of an overactive imagination.”

  “You believe Conner invented the whole tale? But why? To make himself more important? He seems to exhibit all the signs of low self-esteem, after all. Perhaps he thought such a story would impress Lydia, as he is obviously sweet on her.”

  “Watson, you truly are the master of understatement. Lydia best described it herself earlier this evening: He is obsessed with her. And that, my friend, can make him very dangerous indeed. Couple his obsession with Lydia, his current obsession for The Tempest, and his need to have her play Miranda to his Ferdinand, and a picture becomes to form, does it not?”

  Sergeant Street, every bit the man of action as I, said, “If you are saying what I think you are saying, Mr. Holmes, then let’s go and lay our hands on the fellow.”

  “We have suspicion, but no proof. Misgivings, but no data. I do not believe he has done away with her, but once The Tempest is over, the picture may change. Where does Conner live?”

  “His parents own a large farm near Whitchurch Canonicorum,” said Lydia, “and when I say large, I mean very large.”

  “Surely he wouldn’t run the risk of hiding her on his own property, so to speak. Presumably there are farm workers, in addition to his family, present on the estate at all times.”

  “An excellent point, Watson. Where, then?” Holmes lit a pipe and leaned back in his chair. “I beg that no one speaks to me for thirty minutes while I ponder the matter.”

  I felt I should apologise to Mrs. Heidler’s family in particular for the spoiling of everyone’s evening on this special day. To a man and woman, they proved to very sweet and understanding and, of course, having encountered Holmes twice before, they knew that to a certain extent that it was Holmes rather than I who is the stormy petrel of crime. A few minutes after I made my apology, I heard the front door slam shut. I wandered back to the sitting-room where Miss Beth Markey was trying to persuade Legg that neither his sergeant nor Holmes had any further need of him when a breathless Holmes returned, clasping a book to his chest.