Caligari wrestled with the dilemma for several days. At one point he truly believed he would be unable to solve such a knotty problem and the whole scheme would have to be abandoned – and then the solution came to him.
Chapter Thirteen
From the journal of Dr. John H. Watson
There followed a period of great frustration for my friend. The dramatic events in which he had become involved had provided him with little that might enable him to progress. “One cannot make bricks without clay,” he groaned one morning as he shrugged on his overcoat, ready to venture out on some assignment.
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“Looking for clues. Seeking information. Trying to grasp some will o’ the wisp which may help me solve this case.”
I rose from my chair in an instant. “Then I shall come with you.”
He held up his hand in peremptory fashion, halting me in my tracks. “No, no. I am better on my own in this instance. It is at the time of action that I value your services most. Today’s must be a solitary venture. To be honest, my friend, I have no great hopes of success, but as things stand one must grasp at the most fragile of straws.”
So saying, he left me alone with my dismal thoughts. It was rare indeed to see Holmes so downcast regarding an investigation, and I felt as frustrated as he with not a notion of how to help. I tried to take my mind off the matter by perusing the morning papers but failed. The print blurred before my eyes. In the end I went for a long walk, which led me into St James’s Park by the lake, while my mind was filled with myriad thoughts concerning the Damury murder and its ramifications. I reached no satisfactory conclusion, however; indeed, no conclusion at all. Defeated, I returned to Baker Street as the gas lamps were being lit.
Holmes himself returned around nine that evening. As he entered I could tell from his grim expression and the downward slope of his shoulders that his day’s adventures had not borne fruit.
“Would you be kind enough to pour me a brandy, old friend,” he sighed, slumping into his chair by the fire. “I think I have earned it.”
“What have you been up to today?” I asked, doing as he requested.
Taking the brandy glass from me, he gave a dry sardonic chuckle. “You could say that I have adopted the role of a Scotland Yard policeman – indulging in basic detective work. Once again I visited the scene of the crime. This time I was able to examine the grounds of the house in daylight. Sadly I learned nothing new. I also interviewed the servants of the Damury household but they knew of nothing, and servants usually see and hear all. They were quite unable to vouchsafe me any relevant information about the period immediately around their mistress’s death, which of course was understandable, as none of them was on the premises when the murder was committed.” He paused and took a sip of brandy. “Then I sought out the cabby who was on call in the area on the night of the crime. In talking to him I was able to establish that the murderer did not use a cab to reach Carisbroke House.”
“He must have his own carriage, then,” I said.
Holmes nodded. “Yes, but that does not get us very far at present. I suppose it is a little nugget of information to store away, which in time may be of use – but at the moment it does not move matters along. I ended my day by talking with two members of Lord Damury’s club and a frightful woman from Lady Damury’s tea circle. Finally I spent some time studying the newspaper records at the London Library to see whether a similar murder had been committed within the last twelve months. Before I started I was aware that it was likely to prove a pointless search; for, as you know, I keep a very close eye on all reports of murders in the city for my own records, and such a crime would not have escaped my attention.”
My friend drained his glass and stared into the fire in our grate. “I fear we have reached a wretched state of affairs,” he said at last.
“What is that?”
“We have to wait for our murderer to make some mistake, some blunder, which will throw a light, however feeble, on his identity. One merely hopes that this will not involve the shedding of more blood.”
I retired early that night but found that sleep did not come easily to me. My mind was filled with forebodings. As I lay on my back in the early hours, in the darkness I could hear the gentle strains of Holmes’s violin floating through the house. I had a mental image of him sitting in the gloom by the dying embers of the fire, easing his mind with a melancholy melody while he searched desperately for a solution to this baffling business.
Chapter Fourteen
Alan Firbank read the article again. It was still a little rough, but that was usual after only the second attempt. By the time he had gone through it for a third time, giving the whole thing a thorough polish, it would be ready to hand in to his editor. But that process would have to wait until tomorrow. His brain was too weary for such a task now and besides, he needed to shave, change and prepare a small cold supper. Ruth would be here within the hour. He must be ready for her.
The thought of Ruth made his heart skip a beat and her face flipped into his mind. Her lovely face. He was happy to accept that he was, as his mother might say, utterly smitten with her. In truth, he felt that he was hardly worthy of her affections. She was a glamorous actress, obviously destined for great things, for fame and fortune and numerous admirers. He reckoned that she would soon grow tired of a commonplace journalist on a lowly publication. However, while he could, he would cherish their relationship and, indeed, think himself fortunate that, at the moment, she seemed perfectly happy with him as her lover.
With some alacrity, he put his article to one side, closed his desk and hurried to the bathroom to shave. He had just finished his ablutions when the doorbell rang. A visitor at this time of night? he thought, a frown wrinkling his forehead. He came downstairs and answered the door. There in the half-light stood a large man in a dark coat and a large hat, bewhiskered and wearing heavy-framed spectacles.
“Mr. Firbank?” the fellow croaked in a strange, hoarse manner.
“Yes.”
“I have an urgent message for you from a Miss Ruth Marshall.”
“From Ruth?” Her name sent his senses racing. “What message?” he asked, twisting his hands in anxiety.
“She says that something unexpected has happened and that she needs your help urgently. She wishes you to go to her house in Paddington as soon as possible.”
Firbank ran his fingers through his hair. “What in the devil’s name has happened? Is she hurt? Is she ill?”
The man shook his head. “I don’t know, sir. I’m only relaying this message as I was asked.”
“And who are you? How did you come by the message?”
The man touched his forelock with the index finger of his right hand. “I work at the theatre, sir. It was Mr. Sanders, the producer, that asked me to come to you.”
“What about Ruth? Did you see her?”
“I did not, sir.”
“I don’t understand,” said Firbank, shaking his head in frustration, a sense of foreboding growing within him.
“It’s best that you do as you are asked, I reckon, if you don’t mind me saying so, sir. There’s a cab outside waiting to take you to her.”
Firbank gazed past the fellow and observed the dark outline of a hansom cab standing in the road.
“I’m sure it can all be sorted out, if you do as she asks.”
Firbank realised that he had no option but to comply with the stranger’s suggestion. “Very well. I’ll get my jacket and overcoat.”
Moments later, he reappeared, his overcoat draped over his shoulders. “What about you?” he asked the man.
“Don’t worry about me, sir. You go see to your young lady. I’ll walk up to the high street and get myself a cab from there. Off you go and the best of luck, sir.”
Firbank hesitated an instant, then locked the door and hurried to the cab. The man followed him at a distance and stood quietly while the hansom set off down the darkened street, the horse’s ho
oves clip-clopping eerily on the cobbles. He waited until the cab had disappeared from view before extracting a small silver whistle from his pocket and blowing it. A fine shrill note, almost imperceptible to the human ear, reverberated in the air. After a while a dark shadow emerged from a clump of bushes on the far side of the avenue. Slowly, it made its way towards the man with the whistle.
Caligari smiled. It was all going beautifully to plan. He patted Robert’s arm. “Good man,” he said softly, as a father might address his son. “Now we must gain entry to the house from the rear. Follow me.”
Caligari led Robert down the side of the house. He knew the layout of the property well, having visited it twice during its owner’s absence. Passing through a wicket gate, they entered a small garden bathed in a pale ethereal light provided by the full moon. For a moment Caligari stared at his heavenly friend and smiled. It was as though it were a willing confederate in the venture. Then swiftly he made his way towards a French window and with the aid of a small stone broke the pane of glass nearest the interior handle. Slipping his hand through the jagged aperture, he reached inside and turned the key in the lock. He afforded himself another beatific smile before opening the door and entering.
“Come,” he called. Robert had been standing some feet away, staring ahead of him and yet barely aware of what was happening. He was in a state of mental repose, waiting for his next instructions. It was only on receiving these, hearing his master’s voice, that he began to function with a small degree of consciousness.
“You will wait in the house for the girl to arrive as I described to you,” said Caligari sombrely, standing close to Robert. “You do understand, don’t you?”
Robert nodded.
“When it is over, leave the house by the same route that you entered. I will be waiting in the shrubbery across the road ready to take you home.”
Robert’s face twitched at the mention of the word “home”. There was a faint, uncertain, unsettling resonance connected with that word. He did not know why, he had no power of reason left, to allow him to understand why “home” made him feel so very sad.
Caligari moved to the French windows and turned once more to his dark puppet. “Be swift, savage and cruel,” he said, before fading into the darkness.
* * *
Ruth Marshall sat back in the cab and sighed. She was tired and filled with a mix of emotions. After the initial thrill of gaining her first major role in a West End production, she had now begun to feel the strain of performing night after night. So much of the show’s success depended on her giving of her best every night, yet she was unused to having to summon up the stamina for such a demanding part. A sense of bored fatigue had set in. She had received good reviews in the press, establishing herself as an actress of note, so why should she go on repeating the role? She had given it all she could and had grown tired of it. The repetition was sapping her strength. She stifled a yawn.
It was, she had to admit, somewhat the same situation with Alan. Her romance with this handsome young fellow had begun only weeks before she had taken on the role of the disfigured girl in The Magic Rose but now it, too, had fallen into a routine. They would spend Sunday together, and several nights of the week after her performance, but the initial passion and novelty of the romance were beginning to pall – for her at least. The demands and constraints of their respective careers placed such restrictions on not only the time they spent together but the freedom of what they could do in the time they shared. Alan was, she reasoned ruefully, not quite so exciting, amusing or interesting as she had first imagined. Even their intensely intimate moments had taken on the air of a mechanical procedure.
As she mulled over these thoughts during the journey to Alan’s house, she came to the conclusion that it was time to bring down the curtain on the affair. The notion filled her with deep unease. She had no desire to be cruel, but she was also aware that if she did not end their involvement with a clean cut it would drag on in a most unsatisfactory manner. The romance had run its natural course and she needed to finish it and move on with her life. However, she was concerned about how Alan would react to such a situation. He still seemed completely besotted with her and she was reluctant to hurt him more than necessary. She was fond of the fellow, even if not so fond that she desired to carry on in the relationship. However, she realised that breaking the news to him would be difficult, maybe even dangerous. He was such a sensitive soul, and at the back of her mind she harboured the dark thought that, on hearing the news that she no longer wished to see him, he might become jealous, suspecting that there was someone else. He had given her no such signs, but after her previous experience of rejecting a suitor when she was working the music halls, she would need to handle this carefully.
She would simply have to be brave.
To her surprise Alan’s house appeared to be entirely in darkness. No light was visible at any window. This was strange, but she was not unduly worried. Perhaps he was about to spring some kind of surprise on her. Her heart sank. She hoped not. It was the last thing she wanted this evening. She walked up the path and noticed that the front door was ajar. It was all rather strange, and she began to feel apprehensive. She walked into the hallway, shutting the door behind her.
She called out Alan’s name, the sound of it echoing through the darkened building. There was no reply but she heard a movement emanating from the shadows.
“If this is some kind of game, Alan, I really am too tired tonight to take part. Please put on the lights, there’s a dear.”
There was no response, but again she sensed a movement near her. Suddenly a hand clamped itself across her mouth and she felt herself dragged backwards into a man’s embrace. She realised instantly from the height and shape of her assailant that this was not Alan. He was an intruder and his intention was to hurt her, or worse. The man swung her to face him and attempted to place his hands around her throat. She bit the long fingers of his right hand with great force, like an animal tearing at raw meat. Her attacker sprang back with a muffled cry of pain, releasing his hold on her. She rushed to the door and grabbed the handle, when she felt herself being hauled back into the main body of the hallway.
Once more the man tried to grasp her neck. His fingers latched on to the fine skin, pressing hard against her windpipe, the long nails scoring the flesh. A ferocious feeling of outrage flamed up inside her. She was not about to let this happen. She growled with indignant fury and struggled violently against the attack, her arms flailing wildly. In a grotesque dance, the two staggered about the hallway, Ruth managing alternatively to kick his shins and force his arms apart, keeping him from pressing too tightly on her throat. They crashed into a sideboard near the door to the sitting room and Ruth found the neck of a vase. Raising it in the air, she brought it down on her assailant’s head.
The vase splintered into fragments as it hit its target. The man groaned deeply and for a moment he froze, his body becoming rigid; then he staggered backwards before slumping to the ground. Ruth stared in amazement at the figure on the floor. He remained conscious but his eyes flickered wildly and his arms flapped erratically as though he were utterly disorientated. Then, as terror caught up with her again, she quickly stepped over him and ran for the door once more. This time she was able to pull it open and escape. She raced down the path, tears of shock, fear and distress streaming down her face. She ran into the street, ran and ran, she knew not where, her mind clouded with scenes of horror as the attack in the darkened house replayed itself over and over in her terrified mind.
Across the street from Firbank’s house, Caligari had witnessed the girl’s sudden and dramatic exit. He saw her as she ran wildly down the street and his first instinct was to go after her, to bring her back. But that would be too dangerous. The whole purpose of his deadly game was that he was not to be directly involved. The girl must never see him, even in disguise. There must never be anything that could possibly connect him with the crimes.
No, he told himself, as he eme
rged from the shrubbery, his main concern now was to find out what had happened in the house and make sure he and Robert were well away from the scene before they were discovered.
He found Robert sitting on the floor of the hallway, shaking his head as though trying to clear his vision. Caligari observed the shattered remains of a vase and the deep cut on Robert’s brow. The girl had been too quick and clever for him. A wave of anger swept over Caligari. “Get up,” he snarled. “Get up, now!” Robert gazed at his master with glassy eyes but, like an infant who had only recently learned to walk, he managed to scrabble in ungainly fashion to his feet, his body swaying uneasily.
“We must leave this place now. And swiftly. Come,” he cried, grabbing hold of Robert’s arm and dragging him towards the door.
* * *
Ruth kept on running, the fear increasing within her breast. What if this fiend were on her tail, just a few steps away, those long fingernails reaching out ready to close around her throat and squeeze the life out of her – to strangle her to death? As the thought rose in her mind, she emitted a silent scream of torment. Her vision was blurred with tears and she had no idea where she was, her only concern to put the greatest possible distance between herself and the house, and the demon that had attacked her there.
She failed to see the man in front of her, waving his arms to indicate that she should stop. As a result she ran straight into him.
“Whoah there, lady,” he said. “What’s all this, then?”
She looked up into the face of a moustachioed, red-faced man and screamed. She was not conscious that he was a police constable, someone whose intention was to help her. She merely saw that it was a man – maybe the man who had tried to kill her. She screamed again, loudly this time, and sank to her knees sobbing.
The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes--The Instrument of Death Page 8
