The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories, Part VI

by David Marcum

  “The Tempest, gentlemen,” he announced, flicking through its pages. “It may well hold a clue, if we know where to look.”

  “Of course, you are the detective,” said Lydia, “but personally I would look for clues in the scenes involving Ferdinand and Miranda.”

  “An excellent suggestion.”

  Holmes proceeded to read through all those scenes, beginning with Miranda’s initial wonderment at first seeing Ferdinand, his hopeless devotion to her in spite of the task set by Prospero, through to his being reunited with his father, King Alonso, and Alonso’s acceptance of Miranda. Upon reading the final scene, we all burst into spontaneous applause. Holmes merely shrugged his shoulders, but I knew how susceptible he was to flattery, and how much he would be enjoying that moment.

  “Gentlemen, Lydia. Was there anything there that caught your ear as having some bearing on our present predicament?”

  “Could you read again that part where Ferdinand is intent on his labours and Miranda is urging him to rest?”

  Holmes did exactly that and said, “I believe you are onto something there, Watson. Hmm... For you I am this patient log man. Log man, log man. Street, how many wooded areas are close by where logging may be going on?”

  “Four, but there is precious little logging going on at the moment.”

  “Would all four have cabins where logs would be stored?”

  “All of them I think, Mr. Holmes.”

  “Tomorrow at first light, we begin our search of those areas. Is Dr. Jacobs still here, Watson?”

  “No, he and Sarah have gone home. Do you want him to accompany us?”

  “Ideally, yes. That is not to denigrate your own medical skills, but Dr. Jacobs will have all his equipment to hand, which you have not.”

  “I understand. I’ll run across to him now. He’s only in Monmouth Street, as you know.”

  Consequently, the following morning, Holmes, Street, Legg, Godfrey Jacobs, and myself began our search of the local woods. It was close to three in the afternoon when we caught sight of a cabin deep into Sleech Wood. The door was padlocked, and there was no reason to think it other than a place of storage when we heard a movement from within, faint though it was. One or two hefty blows from Legg’s truncheon were enough to dispose of the padlock. Cowering from the light that now flooded into the cabin was indeed Miss Wallace, trussed and tied. Dr. Jacobs gave her a cursory examination and determined that, although she was weak, she appeared to be otherwise unhurt, apart from a nasty swelling on the back of the head.

  She was able to make her way unaided to Jacob’s surgery, which formed part of his house. She had said nothing of her ordeal as we walked towards the town, and Jacobs, although realising that Holmes would have questions for Miss Wallace, asked him to delay a while. Legg was dispatched to her parents with the good news.

  “You may have to postpone your questions for a few hours,” I said. “The poor girl is obviously in shock, and that head injury may well slow down her mental processes.

  “Very well.” Holmes took the note that Miss Wallace had written out of his pocket again. “Be so kind as to sniff that.”

  “I have it. It’s the same wood smell as in the cabin.”

  “I perceived it on Conner too. Not that we could construe it as evidence that would stand up in court.”

  “Irrelevant surely. We will have the testimony of Miss Wallace.”

  “Indeed, Watson. While we await that, I will go and see Miss Reynolds again.”

  Sergeant Street was left kicking his heels again, and expressed to me that he was more than inclined to go against Holmes’s wishes and clap young Conner in irons at the earliest opportunity. I understood his frustration perfectly - after all, such frustration with Holmes’s methods had been part-and-parcel of my life for some considerable time.

  On Holmes’s return, we walked across to Monmouth Street, hoping Miss Wallace was sufficiently recovered to tell us in detail what had befallen her. Jacobs was of the opinion that no harm could come to her if Holmes was brief. He was quite brief indeed, and before I had barely touched the tea and shortbread biscuit that Sarah had provided, he was back by my side.

  “Miss Wallace is a singularly brave girl. She tells me that she received a message at the milliners where she works. It purported to come from a friend of hers, asking that she meet her at the cabin where we found her. It seems that it used to be a regular meeting place when they were younger. She felt the blow on the back of the head and little more until she came to with a masked man standing over. He produced a note that he demanded she copied out by thrusting it in her face along with a pencil. When she refused, he struck her. Understandably, she acquiesced. A telling point is that he has not been back.”

  “He intended to leave her there?”

  “An obsessional man is entirely capable of such things, Watson. I dread to think how she could have suffered.”

  “Do you say then, that she is unable to identify him?”

  “Not in any meaningful way, no. But she has agreed to assist me in the taking of Conner, for I have persuaded her that he is the architect of her misfortune.”

  “How can she do that?”

  “By taking part in a special dress rehearsal of the scene where Ferdinand first sets eyes on Miranda.”

  “Holmes, I cannot allow it. She is not strong enough for such an ordeal.”

  “On the contrary, my dear fellow, I believe she is, and more importantly, so does Miss Wallace herself.”

  Holmes, as ever, was not to be argued with, and at six-thirty, we escorted her to the theatre and handed her over to the care of Miss Reynolds. The cast filtered in and headed for the dressing rooms, Joseph Conner amongst them. Some thirty minutes later, the call went out for Prospero, Miranda, Ferdinand, and the Ariels.

  “Miss Reynolds explained to me earlier that, quite innovatively, Ariel the Spirit is to be played by six young ladies, moving and speaking as one,” explained Holmes.

  As the actors trooped out, Conner called out to the director, “I don’t see the point of this if we have no Miranda.”

  “Don’t worry, Joe. I’ve persuaded someone to take on the role.”

  A smile spread over Conner’s face and he mouthed the word Lydia. The Ariels covered him in a free flowing silk-like material, spinning him around several times as they advanced him to the centre of the stage. The actor portraying Prospero also advanced with a masked Miranda. “The fringed curtains of thine eyes advance and tell me what you see.” At this instant, the Ariels shoved Ferdinand so hard he ended up sprawling at Miranda’s feet.

  “Hey, that isn’t how we’ve rehearsed it.”

  From his prone position he looked up at Miranda who removed her mask, “Hello, Joe.”

  “You! But how? I...” he stammered.

  Gathering his senses, he set off at full tilt for the rear exit, pushing cast members out of the way. Unfortunately for Conner, one Frederick Humphrey, who had been delayed squeezing into his costume for the part of Trinculo, heard the shouts of, “Stop that man!”, and duly stopped Conner with a right upper-cut that would have won many a prize fight.

  By the time a dazed Conner had got to his feet, the darbies were already on him. As he was led away, Miss Wallace stepped in front of him.

  “I am too much of a lady, but I would dearly love to deliver a well-aimed kick, you coward.”

  “Allow me,” said Lydia, who had appeared from nowhere and now kicked out at Conner with tremendous force.

  “Now, now, Miss. We don’t want to be taking you in under a charge of assault do we?” admonished Street.

  I led Lydia away before she could launch another assault on Conner, richly deserved though it would have been. Holmes escorted Miss Wallace home, where her parents were overjoyed to see her. Conner was destined to spend that night and many more in a prison
cell.

  A few weeks after we had returned to London, I received a letter from Miss Reynolds, stating how The Tempest had been a resounding success with Miss Wallace a triumphant Miranda opposite a local boy, William Urquhart, who stepped up from the chorus to be Ferdinand. There was even talk of a romance between them. Joseph Conner received twenty years hard labour, and I was left with the feeling that life in Lyme Regis could never, ever be dull.

  The Problem of the Holy Oil

  by David Marcum

  “Really, Sherlock, it’s time to put aside your petty puzzles from the police-court and turn your attention to more urgent matters.”

  My friend smiled tolerantly toward his brother Mycroft, who was awkwardly readjusting his position in the massive red leather chair. During the many occasions wherein I had visited the Stranger’s Room of the Diogenes Club, that chair had always seemed to be exclusively reserved for the use of the stout man. In fact, I could not credit that any other member of the club, in the unlikely event that they would entertain a visitor in this room, would have the temerity to trespass upon that particular piece of furniture.

  We had received a summons early that morning to Pall Mall, with the usual urgency and assumed compliance that all such communications from Mr. Mycroft Holmes contained. I had no doubt that the matter would be important - the man sometimes described as being the British government would be involved in nothing less. And I was also certain that, in spite of the festive atmosphere gripping the rest of the capital, we would find nothing like that frivolity within the reserved Diogenes. King Edward’s Coronation was just days away, and I had my suspicions that we were about to find ourselves involved in some behind-the-scenes machinations, rather as we had done in years past during both of our late Queen’s Jubilee ceremonies.

  Still, my own attention was distracted, as I had recently become engaged to marry for the third time, a fact that Holmes viewed with some wry amusement. I was in negotiations to purchase a practice in Queen Anne Street, thankful to have received a great inflow of funds the year before, in the amount of my share of £12,000 from the Duke of Holdernesse upon the recovery of his son. Following our return from Yorkshire, Holmes had generously - over my vociferous objections - insisted on splitting the amount with me, an act which was now making itself most useful.

  Watching Mycroft Holmes twist his bulk uncomfortably in the chair was a unique experience. I suspected that it had been specifically constructed for him, and his restlessness seemed to indicate something related to the nature of our summons. As he winced in displeasure, I was reminded of my own recent injury, a bullet wound from the American confidence man Evans, just a little over a month earlier. I consciously made an effort not to acknowledge the healing twinges, other than possibly allowing a slight tightening of my eyes before the pain faded. I have overcome worse wounds than this.

  Even as Mycroft settled, Holmes glanced at me, missing nothing of course, not even my temporary ache. Then he replied to his brother. “Surely you cannot be serious. Make some more of it. Use something else. No one will know.”

  “Personally, I might tend to agree,” grumbled Mycroft, “but word will get out - it always does, somehow. The legitimization of the coronation could well come into question. The King’s recent surgery has already caused too much disruption. And besides, there are some who believe in all this magical folderol.”

  “Excuse me,” I interrupted. “This isn’t the first time I’ve tried to catch this train.” Both brothers smiled. “Up until now, I’ve only been vaguely aware of ‘holy oil’. After all, there hasn’t been a British coronation in any of our lifetimes.”

  “1837,” murmured Mycroft.

  Sherlock Holmes picked up the small brandy resting on the table to his side - although the sun wasn’t quite over the yardarm just yet - and gestured toward his brother to elaborate. “I would know more of this enlightening oil as well, brother.”

  Mycroft gathered his thoughts for a moment. “The idea of a regent being anointed goes back to Old Testament times, as you will recall if you learned your Sunday lessons. Moses is given instructions as to how to prepare such oil. Samuel anointed David the shepherd with oil to indicate that he was the chosen king. Subsequent Hebrew kings of old were anointed by the priests, and early Christian baptisms were sometimes carried out with oil as well, instead of water.

  “In 493, Clovis of the Franks was anointed with the Holy Ampulla, a vial of oil supposedly sent from heaven, upon his conversion to Christianity. The act of anointing was referred to in Shakespeare’s Richard II. On several occasions - ”

  “I think we understand, Mycroft,” interrupted Holmes. “It is a part of the ceremony.”

  “It is more than that,” replied Mycroft. “In addition to being symbolic, the application of oil is held to change the anointed one. It elevates them, giving them special knowledge and understanding. Something conferred from God above, establishing their divine right to rule.”

  “And we British have bought and paid for this superstition as well?” scoffed Holmes.

  “Indeed. And since the coronation of King Charles I in 1626, the oil has become much more entrenched in both its necessity and tradition for the ceremony.”

  “I take it, then, that one cannot use simple salad oil for expediency’s sake.”

  “Heaven forfend,” said Mycroft, the turn of a smile about his lips. “The Bible describes several ways in which the oil must be prepared, and it contains a variety of ingredients. With variations, the anointing oil is still prepared according to these and other ancient, secret recipes to this very day. Like the transubstantiated wine, it supposedly changes through the process, becoming something more than its parts. And the gravity and ceremony that go with the preparation only add to the mystery of it all.”

  “And thus we move one step closer to last night’s crime.”

  “Indeed. The theft of the oil.”

  “Specially prepared for the King’s upcoming coronation. I ask again: Why not just make a new batch?”

  “It is possible, I suppose. The chemist who prepared it is from the same company that made the oil for Queen Victoria’s coronation in ’37. It supposedly contains elements from the previous batches, possibly stretching back into antiquity. Following its composition, according to a strict and traditional formula, it is then blessed by the Bishop of Gloucester at a ceremony held in the Chapel of Edward the Confessor at Westminster Abbey. Afterwards, it’s usually stored in the Deanery of the church. However, when the King’s coronation was delayed due to his appendicitis, it was felt for some reason or other that the oil, now consecrated and considered holy, would best be removed back to Squire and Sons, where it had been originally mixed.”

  “And it was there that the robbery occurred.”

  “Correct. Very prosaic, from what I understand. The back door was open, and nothing was taken but the urn with the oil. Sir Peter Squire, the appointed Chemist in Ordinary to the Court Pharmacy, is beside himself. He rightly notified the Palace instead of the police, understanding that word of the oil’s theft could not be made public. We could not even take a chance that the police might accidentally reveal the secret.”

  “I’m afraid I still don’t understand,” said Holmes. “It is just oil, for heaven’s sake.”

  “Exactly. For some people, it is ‘for heaven’s sake’.

  “I stated it that way intentionally.”

  “I’m aware of that fact. But don’t take this too lightly. Objects take on power, Sherlock. I shouldn’t have to remind you of that. You recall, for instance, the search for The Eye of Heka, and what would have been done if that ugly sculpture had been returned to those who sought it.”

  Holmes nodded, and I recalled it as well. I was still relieved that Holmes’s deception had not been uncovered in the years since.

  “Whom do you suspect?” he asked.

  “The ob
vious candidate, one that has been put forth by Sir Peter, is a Russian reporter for Iskra who was lurking around there yesterday.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Ostensibly, reporting. He claimed to have questions about the holy oil. Somehow during the conversation, before they could chase him away, he apparently learned that the oil was being stored on the premises. Now, less than twenty-four hours later, the oil is gone. It’s hard to argue against some sort of connection.”

  “Hmm. Anyone else?”

  “I suppose that the usual agents could be involved. Hugo Oberstein is now out of prison, unfortunately, and La Rothiere has been up to his old tricks.”

  “This isn’t their style.”

  “Agreed. But just now the capital is buzzing like a hive with espionage agents of every stripe. The coronation is just days away. It’s like a gathering of the clans for some of them.” He reached into his coat and withdrew a folded sheet of paper. “These are all the current known agents - including the fellow from Iskra who visited Squire’s yesterday.”

  My friend glanced over the sheet. “But you don’t think any of them are involved,” asked Holmes cannily.

  “No, and neither do you,” replied his brother.

  “Why?” I interrupted. “You said that this could call the legitimacy and validity of the coronation into question. Wouldn’t that suit an enemy agent down to the ground?”

  “Possibly,” answered Mycroft. “But to cause such unrest, there would be no need to actually steal the oil. Simple rumors that it was stolen, or perhaps not blessed or prepared properly, would be enough to discredit it. But the experienced agent understands that there is the danger of a quid pro quo. We are not the only nation to make use of such a ritual, and the same tactic used against us could be used by us at some point in the future. It is a can of worms that a professional agent would not want to open. They would comprehend the resulting moves and countermoves, and this Pandora’s Box, to change my metaphors midstream, would cause problems for their own masters as well as for us. No, mark my words, this is the work of a non-professional. Do you agree, Sherlock?”