Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine #6

by Marvin Kaye

  “I’ve missed you, you know,” she said, holding his gaze longer than necessary. He was afraid she was going to try to kiss him. But she just took his hand and pressed it between her own. Her hands were cold and smooth and dry, her grip surprisingly strong.

  He disentangled his hands from hers and opened the door for her.

  “I am sorry,” he said. “I think you should take the note you showed me to the police in Flemington.”

  She gave a quick shrug and looked away.

  “Well, I tried. If something happens to me —”

  “Take the note to the police,” he repeated, more firmly this time.

  She gave a little laugh, like the tinkling of bells.

  “Yeah — right.”

  And then she slipped out the door, leaving behind a trail of lilac perfume. He looked down at his hand and realized she had pressed a piece of paper into it containing her cell phone number. Hearing her quick, light step as she hurried down the stairs, he remembered from their days together in therapy that she always seemed to be in a hurry. He had a sharp, unexpected impulse to call after her — not because he was attracted to her, but because he was suddenly reluctant to let her venture out so unprotected into a wild and dangerous world.

  Later, he would regret not heeding that impulse.

  * * * *

  From Silent Victim. Copyright © 2010 C.E. Lawrence. All rights reserved. Reprinted by arrangement with Kensington Publishing Corp. www.kensingtonbooks.com

  The Book of Tobin, by Carla Coupe

  “

  It must be extraordinary news to have captured your attention so thoroughly, Watson. I have asked for the marmalade three times.”

  I lowered the newspaper and reached for the pot of marmalade amidst the detritus of the breakfast table. “I beg your pardon.”

  Holmes leaned back in his chair and waved away the pot. “Never mind, I’ve finished. But I am curious as to what you are reading.”

  It was early spring, only a few years into the new century. After my wife died the previous year, I returned to my former lodgings in Baker Street. Holmes welcomed me back as if I had never deserted him for matrimonial domesticity, and we resumed our bachelor habits.

  “Laugh at me if you will,” I replied, tapping the front page with my index finger. “I am intrigued by the story of Lady Diana Vennering — Jasmine LaFleur, as was.”

  “Vennering?” Holmes extracted a cigarette from his silver case. “Wasn’t he the bridegroom murdered on his wedding night?”

  “Yes, indeed.” Holmes’s pretense of disinterest did not deceive me. His eyes flashed with curiosity. “A Major Beckwith, Sir Wilfred Vennering’s cousin and apparently an admirer of Lady Vennering, was charged with his murder. The trial is nearing its conclusion.” I held up the newspaper. “Here is a picture of the bereaved widow. Beautiful woman.”

  Holmes stared at the engraving, then turned away. “I seem to recall that the lady had ill fortune with her first husband, as well.”

  “Quite so. She began in the music halls as a magician’s assistant. That is when she took the stage name Jasmine LaFleur.” I warmed to my topic, having perused every inch of type printed about her. “A remarkable woman. She married the magician with whom she worked, a Signore Rossoni. He was mysteriously stabbed to death on their wedding night.”

  “How terribly tragic,” murmured Holmes, his keen eyes fixed on the smoke rising to join the cloud already obscuring the ceiling. “She must indeed be remarkable to inspire such bloodlust.”

  Although I was accustomed to Holmes’s moods, his sarcasm stung. Having finished my breakfast, I rose from the table.

  “I am obviously boring you. I shall leave you to your tobacco.”

  “My dear fellow!” Holmes extinguished his cigarette on his plate and sprang to his feet. “You could never bore me. On the contrary, there are elements of this story I find quite intriguing.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes, indeed.” He donned his coat and looked at me expectantly. “In fact, I am eager to hear the closing arguments at Beckwith’s trial. Come. We must hurry.”

  * * * *

  T

  he late afternoon sun streamed through the windows, illuminating dust motes as well as the somber paneled walls, deserted jury box, and empty bench at the Old Bailey. The courtroom rang with the clamour of impatient voices, for the gallery reserved for spectators teemed with thrill-seekers, both male and female. Society matrons, young dandies, and respectable City men sat cheek by jowl with shabbily clad clerks and rumpled journalists.

  Shifting on the bench, I wished I had thought to bring a flask and a packet of sandwiches, in emulation of many of the spectators. Luncheon was but a dim memory. Someone in the crowd had brought pickles along with their bread and cheese, and the sharp smell of vinegar overpowered the scent of mildewed books and damp wool that permeated the courtrooms.

  “Holmes, the jury’s been out over eight hours. I suspect they cannot agree on a verdict and there will be a new trial.”

  “I think not.” Holmes appeared completely at ease on the hard, wooden bench, his long limbs stretched out before him. He glanced at the door leading into the jury box. “Look. Here they come now. You know, there is a strong probability of guilt, but I am certain the jury will agree that there is insufficient evidence to convict.”

  “Perhaps you are right.” I turned to the front of the room where spectators were finding their seats. “Just look at Lady Vennering. What a stunning woman.” The picture in the newspaper hardly did her justice. It showed the same dark hair and eyes, but did not convey the grace of her movements, nor the strength and resolution visible in her carriage and demeanour. She was past the first bloom of youth, but maturity rested easily upon her.

  “Yes. And a woman of great poise and courage.” Holmes’s gaze lingered on her.

  Lady Vennering turned and looked over the crowded courtroom. She glanced at me, then Holmes, her eyes widening for a moment before the entrance of the judge claimed her attention.

  The judge resumed his seat, and Major Beckwith appeared in the dock, flanked by his gaolers. In the jury box the foreman stood, a small man, his chest puffed out with an air of importance. An excited murmur rose around us.

  I leaned forward. “Here it comes.”

  “Gentlemen of the jury, have you arrived at a verdict?” The judge’s voice rang through the sudden hush.

  “We have, My Lord.”

  “How say you? Do you find the defendant guilty, or not guilty?”

  In the dock, Major Beckwith lifted his chin and stared resolutely ahead. Brilliantined black hair contrasted with his pale blue eyes, and he maintained a dignified military bearing. He hardly looked a man capable of such a gruesome murder. Yet Holmes and I had encountered cruel natures hiding beneath the most pleasing exteriors.

  The foreman paused, prolonging the suspense with the expertise of a showman. “Not guilty.”

  The room erupted.

  “Exactly.” Holmes uncrossed his legs and rose. “Come, Watson. Let us catch a breath of fresh air.”

  I stared at the gallant figure in widow’s weeds, surrounded by news-hounds like a rose choked by nettles. “I was wondering, perhaps, if we shouldn’t introduce ourselves and congratulate Lady Vennering?”

  “On what? The fact that her husband’s murderer has not been found?”

  “I suppose you are right.”

  I followed Holmes through the crush, glancing behind me for a final glimpse of Lady Vennering. We were well away from the Old Bailey before the pavement cleared enough for us to walk side by side.

  “Have you ever read the Book of Tobit, Watson?” said Holmes, swinging his stick and frowning in a thoughtful manner.

  “Tobit? I don’t think so. When was it published?”

  Holmes smiled briefly. “A little before our time. It’s an Old Testament story.”

  Although tolerably familiar with Holmes’s habit of indulging in precipitous leaps of logic, I could not help but a
sk: “What ever made you think of it at this moment?”

  “Well, it is so remarkably apposite for the case of Lady Vennering. It deals with a highly peculiar series of murders, seven of them, if I remember correctly.”

  Seven murders seemed bloodthirsty, even for the Old Testament.

  “Who was the murderer?”

  “A jealous demon by the name of Asmodeus, who strangled husbands on their wedding nights.” Holmes sounded quite pleased.

  “Well, judging by the verdict just now, Major Beckwith isn’t the Asmodeus, or whatever you call him, in this case.” I gestured toward a public house across the street. “Holmes, I am parched and famished. Do let us stop for a bit.”

  “Parched and famished? We certainly cannot permit that state of affairs to continue.” Holmes nodded, leading the way across the street.

  Our conversation took a more general turn as we refreshed ourselves, and it was only when we were ensconced in a hansom returning to Baker Street that we resumed the subject of Lady Vennering.

  “Do you suppose Lady Vennering will leave London now that Major Beckwith is acquitted?” I asked Holmes.

  “I suppose that is possible,” he replied. “However, the lady did not strike me as one who would choose the solitude of the countryside over the bustle and entertainments of Town.”

  We were traveling along the Strand when we heard a paperboy hawking his wares.

  “I wonder what the papers have to say about the trial,” I said.

  Holmes signaled the driver to stop and raised his walking stick.

  “Here we are, boy, here. I’ll have a paper.”

  The lad ran over, his gap-toothed grin broadening when Holmes dropped an additional penny into his outstretched hand. As we continued our journey, Holmes rapidly perused the broadsheet while I attempted to contain my impatience.

  “Well, Holmes, what does it say?”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Listen to this. ‘Lady Vennering, widow of the murdered man, says she will marry the suspect. Lady Vennering told newspaper reporters this afternoon that if Major Beckwith is acquitted, she will marry him before the year is out.’”

  I gazed at my companion. “Holmes, there is a positive sparkle in your eye as you read about her.”

  “I must admit the lady fascinates me.” He gave a deprecating shrug. “I hope before she becomes involved in any further tragedies, we may have the opportunity of meeting her. Something tells me we will.”

  * * * *

  I

  sat in the middle of a sea of newsprint and, setting aside a page, looked over at Holmes, who was gazing out the window. The day had dawned unseasonably chill, and I was glad of the fire.

  “The Sunday papers are certainly having a field day over the Vennering case, Holmes. Did you read them?”

  “No, I did not, Watson.”

  “There is a complete life history of Lady Vennering in one of them, with photographs. It’s rather interesting.”

  “Really?”

  He did not turn, and I wondered if my words had penetrated his abstraction. At times, lodging with Holmes resembled living in an insane asylum, where the inmates converse with empty air.

  “What are you doing over there?” I asked.

  “Looking out the window,” he murmured. Suddenly he straightened and peered through the glass, his actions resembling nothing so much as those of a hound on point. “Ah, yes.”

  I began to collect the papers bestrewing the sitting room. “Are you expecting a visitor?”

  “No.” He beckoned. “Come over here, old fellow.”

  I joined him at the window, and my gaze followed his gesture toward the pavement.

  A tall, well-dressed, ascetic-looking gentleman of the cloth stood near the kerb, indecision writ plainly on his features. He took half-a-dozen steps down the street, hesitated, then returned just as quickly.

  “Why, it’s a clergyman.”

  “Yes. A very nervous one,” said Holmes with a chuckle. “Look at the way he’s pacing up and down. And looking up at our window, too.”

  “By Jove. What eyes.”

  Large and luminous beneath dark brows, his eyes flashed the hot blue of a gas flame or coke furnace.

  “There is a fanatical look about him,” agreed Holmes, “which suggests either the martyr at the stake, or the inquisitor at the rack.”

  Having apparently made his decision, the mysterious clergyman strode up the steps and rang our bell. I could hear Mrs Hudson answer the door.

  “Well, I will be interested to know what he has come about.” I stepped into the corridor, nodding to our landlady and unexpected guest. “All right, thank you, Mrs Hudson,” I said, as the gentleman entered our chambers.

  She responded with a pleasant smile. I stepped inside and closed the door behind me, while the clergyman continued across the room to where Holmes stood before the fire.

  “You are Mr Sherlock Holmes?”

  “I am, sir, and this is my colleague, Dr Watson.”

  The clergyman glanced at me and inclined his head. “My name is Weyland, the Reverend Arthur Weyland.”

  “How do you do, sir,” I replied.

  Holmes collapsed into a chair and gestured toward the settee. “Sit down, won’t you, and tell me what I can do for you.”

  “Thank you.” He sat and spent a moment contemplating the fire before speaking. “Mr Holmes, this is a very difficult subject to broach. In fact, it is only after intense personal conflict that I have been able to force myself to come to you.”

  Holmes nodded encouragement. Mr Weyland was certainly not the first person consulting Holmes to voice these same concerns.

  Weyland’s gaze traveled from Holmes to me. “May I ask, are you familiar with the Book of Tobit?”

  “Tobit?” I said, surprised. “Good gracious me. You were talking about that yesterday, Holmes.”

  Holmes smiled and crossed his legs. “I see you have come to consult me about the Vennering case.”

  Weyland started, his expression of surprise almost comical. “But that is amazing. How did you know? Are you acquainted with Lady Vennering?”

  “No, sir. But I am familiar with the Book of Tobit. Lady Vennering’s case closely resembles that of the woman Sarah in the Old Testament story.”

  “More closely than you realize, Mr Holmes.” Weyland leaned forward, those piercing blue eyes focused on Holmes. “Did you know that before each one of Lady Vennering’s husbands was killed, they received a threatening note?”

  “Yes,” said Holmes. “I recall that from the trial.”

  I remembered the evidence of the note, and turned to Weyland. “Signed in some sort of gibberish, weren’t they, though?”

  “No, Doctor. Not at all,” said Weyland, gesturing expansively. “The apparent gibberish was, in reality, ancient Hebrew writing.”

  Holmes steepled his hands and leaned forward. “Indeed. How do you know this?”

  Although the room was not over-heated, Weyland drew out his handkerchief and wiped his brow. “Yesterday, I was permitted for the first time to examine one of these notes.”

  “Were you able to translate it?”

  “Yes, I was. As stated during the trial, the note itself said, ‘If you go through with this marriage, your hours are numbered.’ However, I discovered that, in ancient Hebrew, the signature spelt ‘Asmodeus.’”

  “Ah.” Holmes looked pleased. “The name of the jealous demon who strangled husbands in the Book of Tobit.”

  “Exactly.” Weyland nodded.

  Holmes rose and walked to the fire. He fixed Weyland with an intense look. “Just why have you come to me, sir?”

  Weyland met his gaze full on. “I want you to talk to Diana …” He paused, his colour rising, before continuing: “To Lady Vennering, that is, to tell her she must beware of matrimony.”

  At Holmes’s skeptical expression, Weyland uttered a cry and sprang to his feet. “Murder is stalking her, Mr Holmes. I have argued with her, prayed with her, implored her to realize her
danger, but she is adamant!”

  Holmes crossed his arms and leaned against the mantelpiece. “I’m afraid I should feel extremely presumptuous in offering her my advice.”

  “No, Mr Holmes. I have prepared the way for you.” Weyland clasped his hands together. “You could, I am certain, make her realize her danger.”

  “She is willing to see me, you say?” said Holmes.

  “Willing, and eager.”

  Holmes remained silent for a moment, then nodded. “Very well. But I would like to ask you a few questions first.”

  “Anything, Mr Holmes.” Weyland sighed, as if relieved of some terrible burden, and resumed his seat.

  “What is your interest in her?” His words snapped like a well-used whip.

  Weyland gaped for a long moment, then turned to face the fire. “She’s a member of my flock,” he said at last, his voice reedy and thin. “She needs my guidance.”

  “Nothing further? She is a beautiful woman, after all.”

  “I would never …” Weyland’s hands tightened on the chair arms. “My convictions … that is to say, I am of the opinion that clergy should remain unmarried.”

  “And what is your opinion of a widow remarrying?”

  “That —” Weyland clasped his hands together and frowned. “That depends upon the circumstances of her widowhood.”

  “Indeed,” said Holmes, returning to his seat. “Then you must approve of Lady Vennering’s circumstances, for I believe you performed the ceremony not only at her first wedding, but also at her marriage to Sir Wilfred.”

  How did he know that? Holmes did not meet my eyes, and my suspicions that he had indeed availed himself of the information contained in the newspaper articles regarding Lady Vennering were confirmed, although I had no idea why Holmes found it necessary to be so mysterious about it.

  “Yes, I did,” Weyland said, his frown deepening.

  “Are you proposing to officiate if she marries Major Beckwith?”

  Weyland hesitated. “You have posed a difficult question,” he finally replied. “One I cannot answer at present. However, the critical issue still exists; it is imperative Lady Vennering understands that matrimony is dangerous for her, Mr Holmes. Your assistance in conveying this warning would be invaluable.”