Again Holmes felt long nails digging into the muscles of his neck. As his vision blurred once more, he realised that this creature was a much more accomplished assassin than Watson. He must have had more practice, no doubt. Under Caligari’s orders, it was surely this fiend who had been responsible for the murders of the two women, and perhaps more. Holmes’s body swayed and sagged as his limbs began to lose their power. By now, the pair were leaning over the banister rail into the dark well of the staircase.
As the creature struggled with his victim, the weight of the two bodies moving back and forth placed an excess of pressure on the brittle construction. Suddenly there was a sharp crack as a section of woodwork snapped and gave way, crashing to the ground three floors below. The man gave a startled cry of horror and immediately released his hold of the detective. Both men tried to pull back from the yawning abyss but yet tottered on the edge of the landing, each in danger of losing his balance and plunging below. Their arms flailed, grasping for an invisible hold to prevent them from tumbling to certain death.
Holmes’s assailant was the first to slip over the edge. With a strangled cry, arms waving wildly, he dropped down swiftly into the maw of darkness. There was an ugly muffled thud as his body hit the floor, and Holmes too began to slide over the edge. He flung his arms out and managed to catch hold of the floorboards where the broken banister had been. His fingers barely managing to secure a tentative hold on a section of loose carpet, he hung there, swaying gently like a faulty pendulum.
He thought that if he could move his way round to grasp the remains of the banister, which were still in place, he would with its support be able to haul himself up to safety. With great effort, he stretched one hand six inches along and secured a hold, gripping the edge as tightly as he could. He was just about to reach out with the other hand when he sensed movement above him. It must be Caligari, he thought, and his whole body chilled at the notion. As he gazed up, he saw the hypnotist staring down at him. Although Caligari’s face was in shadowy relief, Holmes could see his manic smile and the eyes that blazed with a mixture of hatred and wild delight.
“Time to say goodbye, Mr. Holmes,” he said, in tones oozing with self-satisfaction. He stepped forward and placed his shoe on the fingers of Holmes’s right hand. With an obscene chuckle he pressed down, hard.
The pain was excruciating and Holmes was forced to pull his hand away, leaving him hanging by one arm in space. With slow deliberation, Caligari moved to the right and placed his foot on Holmes’s other hand. But before he was able to exert any pressure, his attention was diverted by a noise. He gazed over to the staircase and saw, to his great surprise, the figure of Dr. Watson, features wild and distraught, a strange zig-zag of red marking the left side of his temple where he had been wounded. “You infernal devil!” he cried and hurled a missile in the direction of Caligari. It was the desk paperweight that Holmes had used to stun him.
Watson’s aim was remarkably accurate. The glass globe struck Caligari in the middle of his forehead and with a loud, guttural croak of pain he fell backwards, hitting his head with great force on the wall as he fell. He lay still in a crumpled heap – unconscious.
Watson reached the top landing just as Holmes was trying to secure his hold again with his right hand.
“Don’t worry, old fellow,” cried Watson. “I have you.” So saying, he leaned over and, grabbing both of Holmes’s arms, pulled with all his might. It was no easy task but, gradually, he managed to haul his friend to safety, then sat down suddenly, shaking.
For a moment, Holmes lay on the landing, attempting to catch his breath. Having regained some equilibrium, he raised his head slowly, an expression of grim amusement on his face. He leaned forward and patted Watson on the back. “As I’ve said on many occasions, my dear Watson, I am lost without my Boswell.”
Chapter Thirty-two
From the journal of Dr. John H. Watson
Sherlock Holmes and I sat in silence for some ten minutes on the top landing of Caligari’s house, collecting our thoughts and attempting to revive our shattered spirits. At length, Holmes gazed over at the still-prone figure of Caligari and gave me a nod. “We had better tie this fellow up before he regains consciousness and causes further trouble.”
“Indeed,” I said in firm agreement as we both scrambled to our feet. My head still throbbed, and I have no doubt Holmes’s neck was raw from the assault by Caligari’s puppet. Nevertheless we set about our task with some purpose. Having managed to secure some curtain cords from one of the bedrooms, we trussed Caligari up like a goose at Christmas.
We had completed our task when the villain began to rouse from his enforced slumber. There was a loud bang downstairs and we peered over the landing to the hall below. What fresh horror was this? To my profound relief, Lestrade and two constables had burst in through the front door.
“Lestrade!” cried Holmes. “You have missed the excitement, I’m afraid.”
“You said to give you half an hour,” the policeman replied.
“Your watch is accurate, Inspector, but thank you. It is always reassuring to have you at my back.” He sighed heavily.
“Is everything all right, Mr. Holmes?”
“It is now,” Holmes replied wearily. “Let’s get this fellow to Scotland Yard and into a cell as quickly as possible. I shall not be content until he is behind bars.”
Without undue difficulty, we managed to deliver Caligari to the Yard. On leaving the house with our prisoner, we passed the crumpled remains of his accomplice, sprawled face down in the hall, a thick pool of blood collecting around his smashed skull.
“The poor devil,” said Holmes. “His eyes were completely blank – like yours, my dear Watson. It seems to me that he was merely Caligari’s pawn.”
“It is more like gothic fiction than real life,” I observed.
Caligari offered no resistance to our efforts and remained mute on the journey. Within an hour he was incarcerated in one of the cells at Scotland Yard and we were sitting in Inspector Lestrade’s office, drinking hot sweet tea as normality slowly began to seep into our tired bodies.
“Well, this is a bloomin’ turn-up for the books,” said Lestrade expansively, leaning back in his chair, hands behind his head. “Of course, I’ll take your word for it that this fellow is a villain, and the one responsible for the deaths of Lady Damury and that other poor girl.”
“And the attempted murder of Ruth Marshall… and Sherlock Holmes,” I added.
“Quite. But, with due respect, I’ll need more information and evidence other than your say-so. My superiors will need such stuff.”
“Of course,” said Holmes, somewhat wearily. “I will tell you all I know, but for a complete picture we shall have to interview the man himself. With luck, if he is malleable, he will be able to fill in the large gaps in our knowledge of this very dark affair. I suspect that he will be more than happy to regale you with all the details you need to secure his conviction. These egomaniacs are such very chatty fellows. No doubt if you search his premises you will find records of his experiments and machinations.”
Lestrade gave a nod of understanding.
“May I suggest we leave that until the morning?” said Holmes. “I am feeling a little fatigued at present. I am sure a good night’s sleep will help to restore my normal faculties.”
“Oh, course, Mr. Holmes. You have been through a great ordeal – both you and Dr. Watson.”
Holmes gave him a wintry smile. “Yes, it is not every day that your friend tries to strangle you and then saves your life.” He gave a brief chuckle. “In the meantime, might I suggest you send some officers down to Sedgwick Street in Kensington and pick up the corpse of Caligari’s accomplice?”
* * *
That evening Mrs. Hudson excelled herself, providing us with a hearty dinner in which a brace of pheasant proved to be the main event. However, in truth, neither Holmes nor I had much of an appetite and we did little justice to the fare on offer. We were still weary from ou
r aches and pains, our minds awhirl with the rush of events that had occurred in the last two days. My mind was still somewhat cobwebby regarding the period when I had been drugged and hypnotised. The red marks around my friend’s neck bore vivid witness to the physical traumas he had undergone.
“This has been a most unusual case,” observed Holmes, pushing away his plate and lighting his pipe. “The convoluted trail we have followed is unique in my detective career. Who would have thought that the investigation of a stolen gem would lead us to a series of murders committed by a madman who used a somnambulist as his instrument of death? It resembles something from the works of Mr. Edgar Allan Poe. More fiction than fact.”
“And yet it did all happen, and we have the physical scars to prove it,” I added ruefully.
“Indeed. But the scars will fade in time.”
“You are no doubt right,” I agreed, “although I am not so sure about the dark memories. The aspect of this terrible business that horrifies me is the power that this man could exert over the mind. I have always considered myself a fellow of strong, independent thought, and yet Caligari took control of my thinking, transformed it, corrupted it. He made me truly want to kill you. He changed my whole nature. I was no longer myself. I became his creature.”
“It certainly is a terrible power, but do not dwell on it, my dear Watson. You will know well from your own medical knowledge how fragile the brain is, and how events can affect one’s mental outlook. You will have experienced yourself how the traumas of battle change a man’s personality. Such sensitivity is what makes us human. Happily, in your case the effect was brought on by artificial means and was temporary. You must now wipe it from your memory.” He leaned forward and touched me on the shoulder. “It is so comforting and reassuring to me to see you sitting across from me, restored to your old self. Fear not, Caligari’s influence will not affect you again.”
I gave a bleak smile. “I trust you are right.”
“Neither of us must dwell on this most unsettling episode.” We sat for a few moments in silence, before Holmes pulled back the chair from the table and rubbed his hands together in a businesslike fashion. “However, I must say now I am eager to learn the full details behind this bizarre case. I pray that Caligari will be cooperative tomorrow and, like so many criminals when they are caught, will be more than happy to roll out all the facts in an act of self-aggrandisement.”
“Let us hope so.”
“Now, Watson, although the evening is young, I feel ready for my bed. A good night’s sleep beckons, with the promise of a calmer dawn tomorrow.”
* * *
To my chagrin, the following morning I felt worse than I had done the previous day. My energy level was very low and the pain in my head still throbbed viciously. All I wanted to do was return to my bed and sleep off my malaise.
“And so you should,” said Holmes, who with his usual remarkable resilience was at the breakfast table very much his old self, tucking into scrambled eggs and toast. His eyes were bright, as was his manner. Even the marks at his throat appeared largely to have faded.
“But I do not wish to miss the interview with Caligari. I really must write it up for my notes.”
“Are you really in a fit state for such a task? Is your brain functioning at its best?” He shook his head and I could not but agree. “Fear not, Watson, I shall be your eyes and ears on this occasion. Retire once more to your bed and rest, and this evening I shall recount in detail what transpired in the interview with Mr. Caligari. You may rely on me to provide you with a full record of the proceedings.”
I did not hesitate to accept his offer. I knew Holmes was right. My mind was sluggish and lacking the appropriate focus for such a task.
“Very well. A return to my bed is too tempting to resist,” I said.
“A wise decision, old fellow. All will be revealed to you this evening,” said Holmes brightly, buttering a second slice of toast.
I spent the rest of the day in bed, dosing myself with a strong powder for my thumping headache and crawling under the covers. It was late afternoon when I resurfaced and shook the sleep from my eyes. To my delight, I felt refreshed, and so much more alert than I had at breakfast. The onslaught of pain in my head had diminished to a minor irritation and my mind seemed clear and active. It was with some speed that I washed, dressed and made my way down to our sitting room where I found Holmes ensconced in his usual chair by the fire, puffing away on his black briar.
At my entrance he turned his head lazily in my direction. “Ah, Watson, good to see you up and about again. I refrained from waking you on my return. I thought a few more hours of slumber would do you the world of good. I can see from your flushed cheeks and bright eyes that I was right.”
I nodded. “I do feel much better. More my old self.”
“I am delighted. Now I am sure you are very anxious to hear my news.”
“Indeed I am.”
“Then if you will pour us both a small brandy, I shall give you a full recital of my adventures at Scotland Yard.”
I did as requested and then sat opposite my friend in readiness.
“Lestrade took us into an interview room where the prisoner was already in situ, handcuffed, of course, with a burly constable also in attendance. Caligari seemed cheerful and almost pleased to see me. As I took a seat opposite him, he threw me a cheery smile. Here was a man ready to tell us all, to relish in his villainy. All I had to do was ask him to tell me his story – and he did.”
As Holmes began his recital of his interview with Caligari, I grabbed my notebook in order to record an accurate account for my journal, which I now present here:
* * *
It was in a dank, windowless room in the basement at Scotland Yard that Holmes and Inspector Lestrade met with Caligari. He was handcuffed and accompanied by a burly, moustachioed constable.
“Welcome, gentlemen. I am so glad to see you,” Caligari said in smooth arrogant tones, his eyes sparkling with dark pleasure.
“Are you ready to confess? To tell us your tale?” asked Lestrade gruffly.
“Indeed, I am eager to do so – to tell you my tale, as you put it. I am Gustav Caligari. I am the most powerful hypnotist in the world,” he began. “I developed my God-given talent in my home city of Prague and when I knew that I had achieved the ultimate powers of my art, the ability to bring about death by using a subject to kill another human being, I was keen to travel to exercise my powers elsewhere. I was possessed of a long-held desire to visit Britain, and London in particular, that great progressive city swarming with a melting pot of many nationalities. Here I could build my base. Here I could kill and remain undiscovered.
“You no doubt think I am mad, or possessed by the Devil, to harbour such desires. But I tell you that you are mistaken. To have power over life and death as one wishes is surely one of mankind’s ultimate aims. There is nothing new about such a desire. Cain murdered Abel and so the process began. Death is part of our existence. We all live with death. We should not shun it. It is the distant rumble of thunder at life’s picnic. We ignore it at our peril. You see, I do not kill for gain, merely for the sake of scientific advancement, for pleasure, or in some instances for revenge. I wanted you dead, Mr. Holmes, because you interfered with my plans. You disturbed the smooth track of my schemes. For this I could not forgive you.”
“And the women?” Holmes asked.
“Lady Damury was rude to me. She dismissed my overtures. It was unforgivable. Literally unforgivable. On the other hand, Miss Ruth Marshall was a whim. I am allowed those, you know. I was in search of a victim and my eye fell on her. I had seen her performing on stage and she attracted me. I knew instinctively that she would reject any romantic advances I made to her, and so by proxy she had dismayed me and therefore was an ideal candidate. The other woman was not only compensation for the failure with Miss Marshall but to upset your little apple cart, Mr. Holmes. You thought you had been so smart in saving the Marshall girl. I showed you I was smarte
r.”
Holmes merely nodded. He was well aware that it would be futile to attempt to contradict this megalomaniac. Or, indeed, to interrupt him, for he was being so helpful in detailing his motives and actions that it would have been foolish to stop his flow. Instead he posed a question: “But you did not actually commit these murders yourself. You employed an accomplice.”
Caligari bristled at this. “Accomplice!” he sneered. “Robert was not my accomplice. He was merely my tool, my instrument of death. He had no conscious knowledge of what he did. I controlled his thoughts, his actions, his whole being. He was my slave, mentally reliant on me.”
“Who was he?” Holmes asked.
Caligari shrugged. “I have no idea. I have no notion of his history. When I first encountered him he was some kind of derelict, living on the streets. Where he came from, who he was, I have no idea. Those details did not interest me. He was vulnerable, in possession of an innate fury which had allowed him to take a life. And he was malleable.”
“You kidnapped him and warped his mind.”
“I trained him.”
“To kill.”
Caligari grinned. “Yes. To kill. To kill at my command.”
“But he was not to kill Dr. Watson once you had him in your grasp,” Holmes prompted.
Caligari gave another smile. “Watson was to die in due course, but in truth he was merely a pawn to snare you. And it nearly worked. What a wonderful achievement it would have been to destroy the famous Sherlock Holmes and his biographer in one fell swoop. Well, maybe next time.”
At this point Lestrade leaned forward, wagging his finger. “There won’t be a next time for you, my lad. It’s the gallows for you.” It was then that Caligari’s smile faded and the interview came to an end. At the mention of the gallows, he refused to say any more. Caligari’s testimony was complete.
The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes--The Instrument of Death Page 17
