* * *
Holmes stretched in his armchair. “Well, there you have it, Watson. It provides us with a little insight into the mind of this very disturbed man.”
“Thank you, Holmes,” I said. “The fellow sounds like a candidate for Bedlam rather than the noose.”
“You are probably right, but I am sure that he will put up such an assured performance in the dock that the judge will have no option but to don the black cap. We shall see for ourselves, for no doubt we shall be called as witnesses. The trial will not take place for a few months, so for the moment our friend has been taken to Pentonville Prison, where a comfortable cell awaits him.”
“I must say I was never more relieved to reach the conclusion of a case,” I said with a heavy sigh. “Thank Heavens it is all over.”
But I was wrong.
Chapter Thirty-three
Two months later
“Here he comes again,” thought prison officer Arthur Brough, as he saw the now-familiar figure of Father Francis Smyth approach with that characteristic hobbling gait down the corridor. The long black cloak and large wide-brimmed hat were easily identifiable, even if the priest’s rubicund features were somewhat masked by his headgear.
“Hello, my son,” Father Smyth addressed Arthur, the voice a rich Irish brogue. “It seems it’s always you on sentry duty when I come here to see my repentant sinner.”
“So it does, Father. And you seem to be here nearly every day now.”
“I do. I do. The poor man has little time left on God’s earth and he needs all my help to make sure he has eased away all his blackest sins before he goes to meet his Maker. Never have I met a more contrite individual.”
“If you say so, Father.” Brough’s voice was heavy with scepticism.
“So, my friend, if you’ll open up the cell, I shall be about my ministry.”
Brough nodded, retrieved a large key from the belt about his waist and unlocked the thick oak door to cell 31. The priest gave a nod of thanks and entered.
Brough closed the door and locked it, turning over in his mind as he did so certain phrases the priest had used: “repentant sinner”, “contrite individual”.
“My arse!” he muttered and spat vehemently onto the stone floor.
* * *
“And how are you today, my son?” asked Father Smyth of the prisoner.
Gustav Caligari gave a shrug. “I am coping, because I knew that you would visit me today. The time I spend with you gives me comfort and hope – hope of a peaceful end to my wretched life.”
“It is not my doing, but God’s comfort that gives you this ease.”
Caligari nodded.
“Shall we pray together, my son?”
“That would please me tremendously.”
The two men knelt on the floor of the cell and both intoned the Lord’s Prayer. Then, taking Caligari’s hands in his, Father Smyth said, “Do you remember the words of the prayer I taught you?”
Caligari nodded. “I have learned it by heart.”
“Then let God hear it, my son.”
Caligari lowered his head and spoke in a harsh whisper: “O Lord, Jesus Christ, Redeemer and Saviour, forgive my sins, just as You forgave Peter’s denial and those who crucified You. Count not my transgressions, but, rather my tears of repentance. Remember not my iniquities, but, more especially, my sorrow for the offences I have committed against You. I long to be true to Your Word, and pray that You will love me and come to make Your dwelling place within me. I promise to give You praise and glory in love and in service all the days of my life.”
The priest patted the prisoner on the back. “Words from the heart will be heard by the Almighty.”
“That gives me comfort, despite the fact that there are so few days in my life remaining to me.”
“But you will be safe in the knowledge that, as a true repentant sinner, you will be welcomed into the Kingdom of Heaven. Believe in the power of God’s forgiveness and a great feeling of serenity will seep into your soul, my son.”
“I am finding my situation easier to bear with each visit, but there is still a dark corner of my mind where the remembrance of my sins haunts and tortures me. I know I shall die soon, but I should like that dark corner to be eradicated before I do.”
“Keeping praying and believing, and it will be so.”
“You are a great comfort to me, Father. And there is little comfort in this lonely cell. I am allowed neither books nor writing materials. The only visitor I receive is you.”
“How do you occupy your time, my son?”
Caligari gave a weak smile. “By using my imagination. By pretending that I am not in a dismal cell but elsewhere. I am on a hilltop overlooking green meadows, or in a fine house enjoying good company or dining in a splendid restaurant. With this latter thought in mind, I have used all my energies to shine the spoon they have provided me with to sup my gruel. See.”
Caligari’s hand reached into the thin straw of his mattress and produced a shiny spoon.
“It has taken me hours to get rid of the stains and grime. I have spat upon it, rubbed it with grit from the floor and polished it with the hem of my jacket. See now how it glimmers and shines in the light.” Caligari held up the utensil before the priest’s face, moving it gently from side to side.
“Wonderful, is it not, Father? So very, very wonderful. Bright, shiny and wonderful. Do you not think it is wonderful? So bright.”
“Yes, yes,” the priest responded slowly. “It is bright.”
“See how it catches the dim light so that it sparkles – shines so brightly.”
Caligari brought the spoon even closer to Father Smyth’s face.
“See how it shines so brightly,” he said softly.
“Yes,” replied the priest dreamily, “it… does… shine… brightly… brightly.”
* * *
Some fifteen minutes later Arthur Brough heard a loud knock at the door of cell 31.
“Hello there. We have finished in here,” came the familiar Irish brogue.
Brough unlocked the door and released the cleric. “Another beneficial session, eh, Father?” he said sarcastically.
“Very beneficial indeed,” replied the priest, pulling his hat even further down over his face and hobbling down the corridor on his way to the main door of the prison.
Chapter Thirty-four
From the journal of Dr. John H. Watson
Following the arrest of Caligari, I had the pleasure of informing Miss Ruth Marshall that she was no longer in danger and could resume her normal life. Holmes left me to deal with the matter. He was never very good at coping with emotional issues and avoided becoming involved in them whenever he could.
Her joy and delight at the news I was able to impart was dissipated by the revelation that her friend and fellow lodger, Blanche Andrews, had been murdered by the very creature who had attacked her.
“Oh, poor Blanche. That should have been me. She is dead because of me,” she said, tears springing readily to her eyes.
“It is a tragedy,” I agreed, “but at least you now know that you are no longer in any danger. The monster who carried out these heinous acts is on his way to the gallows. Any threat to your life has been removed.”
She braved a smile. “And that is thanks to you and Mr. Holmes. Without your help and wise counsel – and of course Mrs. Hudson’s kindness and hospitality – I don’t know what would have happened.”
I handed her into the care of Alan Firbank, who was equally delighted that Miss Marshall was free to resume a normal, unfettered life once more. We learned later, however, that her experiences in this dark affair had affected her more profoundly than she at first realised. She never did return to the stage. Her romance with Firbank faltered and shortly afterwards, she left London to find employment in the north of England.
* * *
About a month later, Holmes and I were passing a quiet evening in our Baker Street rooms, he cataloguing some new material in his criminal fi
les and I leafing through the latest edition of The Lancet, when we were visited by Inspector Lestrade. He made another of his dramatic entrances. After one sharp knock at our door, he burst in upon us, red-faced and wild-eyed.
Holmes looked up languidly from his journal. “What news on the Rialto, Inspector? Something of a sensational nature, I deduce from the manner of your entrance.”
“He’s escaped. He’s free. Caligari!”
“What!” exclaimed Holmes, papers slipping from his lap onto the floor. “How on earth did this happen?”
“The cunning devil,” said Lestrade, mopping his damp brow with a lurid handkerchief. “Somehow he managed to hypnotise a priest who visited him in his cell and then escaped wearing his clothes.”
Holmes gave a short, derisive laugh. “I warned you he was a devious cove, Lestrade, and needed more than the usual surveillance.”
“We managed to trace him as far as Newhaven, where we lost him.”
“No doubt he caught the ferry and has reached the Continent by now,” I said.
“You almost have to admire him,” observed Holmes. “The devil has remarkable qualities of ingenuity and resilience. It is a pity he employs them on the distaff of the law. Well, at least he is now out of your hair, Inspector. He is the concern of your European colleagues. We have played our part in this grim melodrama and now our revels are ended. I doubt he will return to these shores.”
“You really think so, Holmes?” I said.
“I do. Why should he, when Europe offers such extensive hunting grounds? As I have observed on previous occasions, I am not the law; I merely represent justice as far as my feeble powers go. I shall keep in contact with my Continental colleagues; but, for the moment, I suspect that the fellow will have gone to earth. Nevertheless, I feel sure the world has not heard the last of Dr. Caligari and his murders.”
Epilogue
From the journal of Dr. John H. Watson
Sherlock Holmes was correct in the assumption that we had not heard the last of Gustav Caligari. As my friend asserted, the villain never returned to England. Instead, however, he roamed Europe leaving behind him a trail of victims – unexplained, motiveless deaths in towns and villages across the Continent. Holmes believed that he had learned an important lesson while in this country. Given the nature of his murderous activities, it was dangerous to attempt to set up a permanent base in a single location, as Caligari had done in London. Remaining in one place made him vulnerable to suspicion and detection.
“It would be best if he were to adopt a gypsy life, never staying still for very long,” observed my friend.
As usual, Holmes was correct. It was eventually established that Caligari had turned his hypnotist’s talents into a travelling show, moving from fairground to fairground. Holmes kept a close watch on events and, with the assistance of information he provided, the authorities finally caught up with the villain at a fair in Holstenwall, Germany, where he was running a sideshow with his latest somnambulist, a fellow called Cesare. Here he was arrested at last and incarcerated in a mental asylum; there, I believe, after falling into complete madness, he eventually perished.
Note
In order for a full account of the Caligari affair to be presented to the reader, the details of this narrative taken from Dr. Watson’s journal have been supplemented by chapters based on interviews and records from the Holstenwall police bureau, medical notes recovered from the archives of the Brandt sanatorium for the insane in Düsseldorf and details from Caligari’s diaries.
About the Author
David Stuart Davies is one of Britain’s leading Sherlockian writers. He was editor of Sherlock Holmes The Detective Magazine, authored several Holmes novels, hit play Sherlock Holmes: The Last Act, Titan’s Starring Sherlock Holmes and a biography of Jeremy Brett. He is advisor to the Sherlock Holmes museum, and contributed commentaries to DVDs of the Basil Rathbone Holmes films.
THE FURTHER ADVENTURES
OF SHERLOCK HOLMES
THE SCROLL OF THE DEAD
David Stuart Davies
In this fast-paced adventure, Sherlock Holmes attends a séance to
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THE VEILED DETECTIVE
David Stuart Davies
It is 1880, and a young Sherlock Holmes arrives in London to pursue a
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THE TITANIC TRAGEDY
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Holmes and Watson board the Titanic in 1912, where Holmes is to carry
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THE STAR OF INDIA
Carole Buggé
Holmes and Watson find themselves caught up in a complex chessboard
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THE FURTHER ADVENTURES
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THE ANGEL OF THE OPERA
Sam Siciliano
Paris, 1890. Sherlock Holmes is summoned across the English Channel
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The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes--The Instrument of Death Page 18
