Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine #12

by Marvin Kaye

  When Frazier reached the boathouse, the sun was making one last magnanimous gesture. Rays of golden light burst forth through the clouds and floated momentarily on the placid water. Then it was gone and all that was left was orange and purple residue.

  There were three doors into the boathouse—two large doors by which the boat left and returned, and the usual one for pedestrian traffic. It was that door which was slightly ajar. Suddenly, the hairs stood up on his arms. Frazier removed his gloves and took out his gun. He leaned against the door and listened. He heard nothing. Not even a breeze crackling the dry wood. Years of instinct suddenly gathered forces, but he had no inkling as to what was wrong. Was Holzer inside waiting for him, gun ready?

  He called out. The only sound was the rushing of the wind through the pines. He pushed the door open, then crouched against it as he looked inside. The boat loomed in the foreground, a dark silhouette against a black background. As he quickly surveyed the room, in the fading light he thought he saw something on the wooden floor near the boat. He lowered himself to the floor and crawled inside. The door closed silently behind him, leaving the barest sliver of light to cut the darkness. Frazier remained motionless. The only sound was the water slapping against the floor’s opening.

  Finally, convinced he was alone, he turned on the flashlight. Almost directly ahead of him was a dark-haired man laying face down, one leg on the wooden plank, one leg hanging over the edge, his head barely elevated above the darkened water of the boat ramp. He crawled closer and saw that blood had coagulated from the bullet wound in the back of his head. Frazier reached over and touched his wrist. The skin and hand were still flexible, so Holzer hadn’t been dead very long. Judging by the drink that was left on the end table and the glowing embers, he was willing to bet perhaps less than a half hour. Just before he arrived. He glanced at his watch. It was nearly six.

  Frazier started to stand when he felt the presence of someone behind him. Suddenly, it all became very clear. How could he have been so dumb? He knew someone didn’t want Holzer telling what he knew and had been waiting for the right time to get him. If only he had been quicker. Better. He criticized himself for not anticipating this, for losing the edge that made the difference between life and death. The only question that lingered now was would he be able to get off at least one shot? Or would he die as lamely as Holzer?

  Survival techniques long out of use quickly passed through his brain. He pulled into play what he remembered. Without turning around, he listened and looked directly ahead toward Holzer’s body. From the way the remaining light fell into the boathouse, he knew that the person behind him was a little to the left against the opened door. He had only another couple of seconds of life left while the intruder waited for him to react. Make a guess, he thought. And it better be a good one. Without warning, he shifted his weight to the right, spun around and fired as he dropped to the floor.

  The intruder’s bullet missed him. He didn’t know if his found its mark but the door clanged shut and for what seemed like an eternity Frazier remained next to the inert body of Frank Holzer. Then he got up and moved cautiously across the floor. He leaned against the door jamb and listened. There were no sounds. Was his assailant still out there? He turned on his flashlight and found a large stone on the floor. He threw it out the partially-opened doorway and as it hit the ground, he heard the soft pop of a silencer. He had his answer.

  Seeing no choice, Frazier settled on the floor to wait. He thought back to this morning and his weekend plans. This was not what he had in mind.

  About ten minutes later, he heard the nearby sound of a car engine. Taking a chance, he opened the door and slipped outside. The soft purple of evening dusted everything. There was just enough light left for Frazier to find his way through the woods to the dirt road.

  He reached it just as the dark profile of the car pulled out from behind a group of trees, heading away from him toward the highway. Even in the fading light he recognized the car. He hated knowing his instincts were right. Being alone here wasn’t safe. The driver could return. The breeze whispered, telling him to go.

  For a fleeting moment he thought of reporting Holzer’s death, then decided nothing could be gained from it. It would open a can of worms of gargantuan proportions. Besides, there was nothing he could do for him, anyway. The time for that was yesterday or the day before. Or never.

  Unless someone had taken down his license plate number when he stopped at the gas station, which he doubted, no one except Holzer’s killer knew he had made the journey to Big Indian. He walked to where he had parked his car and began the long drive back to New York.

  If there was any consolation in what happened, it was that Meg Worth would not get her story. And that no doubt she needed to take at least partial responsibility for Holzer’s death. It reminded him of Benjamin Franklin’s saying: ‘three can keep a secret if two are dead’. Thatcher and Holzer were. Only the third man was left and Frazier intended to go after him. How could he not have seen it. Army buddies. Years of working together. Why? He only wished it hadn’t been Jim Regan.

  COLONEL WARBURTON’S MADNESS, by Sasscer Hill

  In the summer of 1890, not long after my marriage, I had returned to private practice, leaving Sherlock Holmes alone in our old Baker Street rooms. I had been exceptionally busy that summer and consequently felt rather nervy and rundown. So much so that Mary, my wife, persuaded me to take a fortnight’s holiday in the charming little village of Taplow on the lower reaches of the Thames.

  I had left Holmes in a bad state in London. With no puzzle or case to occupy his mind, he had once again turned to artificial stimulants, which inevitably brought on a black moodiness. Had I not been concerned for my own health and my wife’s happiness, I would have been reluctant to leave him.

  However, a most peculiar event occurred that allowed me to write to Holmes asking for his advice after we had been in Taplow only a few days.

  Mary and I had been enjoying a walk as the day was particularly balmy. Birds were singing, and the sun shone on the park by the river where we strolled. We had just skirted a flock of geese when Mary noticed a figure heading in our direction.

  “Oh, John, look,” she said. “Do you see that woman walking across the fields toward us?”

  “What is it, dear? Do you know her?”

  “I’m not certain, but I think it is Ellen Warburton. I believe she does live somewhere near here.”

  “And who is Ellen Warburton?” I asked.

  “An old friend of mine. She is frightfully clever and advanced, and believes in women’s suffrage and all sorts of progressive things.”

  “Most interesting,” I said.

  As Mary’s friend drew closer, I made out the features and figure of a woman about thirty, with light chestnut hair, unremarkable eyes, and a rather small mouth.

  “It is Ellen,” Mary said eagerly. Waving, she stepped forward. “Ellen!”

  Miss Warburton reached us, and after making introductions, she and Mary chatted amiably, catching up on events since they had last met. A brief study of Miss Warburton’s face led me to believe some worry or fear plagued her. But these thoughts were interrupted by Mary.

  With a glow I can only describe as pride, she said, “Imagine, I am Mary Watson now.”

  “I heard you’d married.” Miss Warburton said, her eyes lingering on me a moment. “And you are a medical detective or something, Doctor Watson?”

  Mary giggled. “Not quite, Ellen.”

  I said, “I hold a degree of Doctor of Medicine from the University of London, madam.”

  Mary’s fingers brushed my forearm a moment. “But John has helped the great Sherlock Holmes on many of his cases.”

  “Ah, that’s how I have heard of you, then. But you are back in private practice now?”

  “Yes,” I replied. “The work keeps me busy, and I don�
��t see so much of Holmes these days.”

  Miss Warburton nodded. “Do you mind if I walk with you a little way?”

  “Of course not, Ellen, come along.” Mary linked her arm through Miss Warburton’s.

  “Do you live near here, Miss Warburton?” I asked.

  “Yes, about four miles away, at Chevy Grange.” Miss Warburton’s gaze moved beyond us, to the river.

  An excursion steamboat worked its way up the Thames. A number of people on the vessel’s deck sat or stood beneath an awning. The breeze carried the faint sound of their laughter.

  “I keep house for my uncle,” Miss Warburton said.

  “The uncle who went to Africa?” Mary asked.

  “Yes, Colonel Warburton. He’s recently returned to England, and I have moved to Chevy Grange.” Miss Warburton’s voice faltered. “I don’t want to burden you…”

  “What’s the matter?” Mary stopped abruptly.

  “My uncle…” She paused, then seemed to gather herself. “He is going mad before my eyes, and I can do nothing to help him.” Miss Warburton’s voice carried a desperate note. “That’s why I asked if I might walk with you.”

  “Surely you exaggerate? Mad?” Mary’s kind eyes filled with compassion.

  “What are the symptoms, Miss Warburton?” I asked, trying to keep my own doubt from my voice.

  “Doctor, I am not an hysterical girl. In fact, I regard myself as something of a scientist. Uncle encouraged me to study under Professor Thompson at University College, Bristol. Among other things, I studied physics. I tell you my uncle is going insane.”

  Miss Warburton had worked herself into quite a state. “Why don’t we sit for a moment?” I gestured at a painted bench deep in the shade of a tall oak. “I should like to hear more about his condition, Miss Warburton.”

  After we were seated, Miss Warburton turned to me. “Most of the time he is perfectly normal, but when these attacks are upon him, he falls into frightful rages and says the strangest things. He has even complained of some shrill, painful sound that he says comes out of nowhere. I cannot hear it, nor can anyone else.” Miss Warburton clasped her hands together, and her face tightened in distress.

  “Curious,” I murmured.

  “Uncle gets into the most dreadful state. I wonder, would you have a look at him for me, Doctor Watson?”

  “Well, I don’t know…”

  “Of course, John will do everything he can.” Mary delivered a meaningful look in my direction.

  “Oh, thank you so much.” Miss Warburton pressed her slender hands together.

  “I’m sure Uncle would be happy to have company for dinner. Perhaps you both would call on us this evening?”

  * * * *

  And so, we found ourselves approaching Chevy Grange at seven that evening. I must confess, I was not entirely pleased with the idea, nor with the appearance of Colonel Warburton’s home.

  Though the house stood on a pleasant enough rise, the sun had dropped low on the horizon behind it. Tall crooked chimneys and a towering slate roof cast long grey shadows into which we walked. Ancient stone blocks appeared dark and damp, and the windows were oddly narrow. Glancing around the grounds, I found the woodlands grew too close for my liking.

  “Gloomy looking place, isn’t it?” I said to Mary.

  “It is a bit foreboding.” She looked about uneasily as we climbed cold stone steps to the solid entry door.

  I raised the brass knocker and let it fall several times. A hollow sound echoed from within. Then a peculiar, repetitive singing or wailing reached us from beyond a small stand of trees to our right.

  “What is that?” Mary asked.

  “Sounds like drums, and someone singing a weird chant. Seems to be coming from the building over there, probably the carriage house.”

  “Yes,” agreed Mary. “I see the stable beyond it. But who would be beating drums?”

  Through the trees, a faint light flickered from a window in the carriage house.

  “Doesn’t seem quite appropriate, does it?” Mary said. “Especially in the heart of Buckinghamshire. Should you knock again, John?”

  “Perhaps they did not hear us,” I said, rapping with more energy.

  The sudden sound of bolts sliding back startled me. The door swung open to reveal a short manservant with stumpy legs, a long, pointed nose, and grey hair in need of a barber’s attention.

  “Who is it?” his voice rasped. “Ow, guests, is it?”

  “I am Dr John H Watson, and this is my wife.”

  “Ah…you are expected, sir.”

  Though the man bobbed his head, I found his attitude somehow insulting.

  He continued, “The Colonel is in the library. This way, if you please.”

  As we followed the manservant down a dark stone hall, I said, “Just now, as we were waiting outside the front door, we heard a strange chant. It sounded as if someone was beating drums.”

  “Oh, that would be Miss Nada, sir.” He seemed disinclined to elaborate as he led us through the hall.

  He showed us into the library, and Colonel Warburton rose from his chair to greet us. He looked well enough, and I would have known him for a military man without his title. His ramrod posture and air of confidence were unmistakable evidence of a career in service.

  I glanced around. African spears, leopard skins, and other trophies lined the wall behind him. Bookcases filled with leather-bound volumes filled two walls, and oil paintings flanking a large fireplace made up the last.

  “May I offer you a sherry, Mrs Watson?” he asked.

  Mary readily accepted, and as I agreed to a whisky, I noticed a small table with a brandy decanter and a half-filled glass placed next to the Colonel’s chair.

  After Mary and I were seated in a pair of damask-covered armchairs, the manservant brought our drinks.

  “I was a military governor in a Zulu district,” Colonel Warburton explained. “And Hacker,” he gestured at his servant, “was my batsman. He still serves me now.”

  Hacker’s longtime position with the Colonel explained what had seemed mere impertinence.

  Looking at the Colonel’s weathered face, I was not surprised to hear he had spent much of his career in Africa. Though lines etched his face, his colour was excellent. His eyes shone with intelligence, but were slightly clouded, perhaps by too much brandy.

  As the Colonel refilled his leaded-glass, I admired a set of ivory tusks and ebony carvings of wild animals displayed on a long trestle table near his chair. Books on Africa and military campaigns lined the bookshelf on the wall closest to me. I made out one on Cecil Rhodes. Most prominently displayed was the title, Shaka, King of the Zulus: Zulu Dominance in Africa.

  “You see,” Colonel Warburton was saying, “I intercepted an African drum message, and I doubt there was another Englishman in the world who could have heard the sound, the drumbeats were so far away.” He took a generous swallow of brandy.

  “Oh, I don’t doubt that, Colonel.” I nodded, suspecting the liquor embellished his story.

  He continued, “I spent a good number of years studying the native customs, and I spotted the meaning right away. An uprising was planned to start throughout the whole district at noon the next day. Of course I…”

  The Colonel’s head rose stiffly, and he appeared to be searching the room. “There it is again, that devilish sound. I cannot stand it. Do you hear it, Doctor Watson? Mrs Watson?”

  “I can hear nothing, sir,” I said.

  “Nor can I,” Mary said, alarmed by the Colonel’s sudden distress.

  “Of course not. No one can hear it but me!” The Colonel pressed his fingertips to his temples as if in pain.

  “Now, now, Colonel Warburton,” I said, trying to calm the man, “Do not excite yourself.”

 
; “It is black magic, that’s what it is!” he cried. “The powers of witchcraft have been forgotten in this country, Doctor Watson. But I know of them, and I can think of many people who may wish to employ them against me.”

  A knock sounded on the door of the study. The Colonel started, his eyes wide and staring as the doorknob slowly turned.

  The door opened and a most regal-looking woman entered the room, followed by two Nubian servants. My gaze was drawn to the lady’s face. Beautiful and black as polished ebony, it was framed by coiled and braided hair. Her attire represented the latest and most perfect taste. A feathered hat crowned her head. Her elegant dress was made of fine cloth and covered a splendid statuesque figure.

  The Colonel sprang to his feet, his tense expression easing as he crossed the room. “Nada, dear. Allow me to introduce you to some friends of Ellen’s. Doctor and Mrs Watson.”

  “I am very pleased to meet both of you.” Nada spoke perfect English, betraying no accent.

  The Colonel placed a hand on Nada’s arm, then turned to me. “Nada’s father was a Zulu chieftain, a direct descendant of the great warrior Shaka. An unexpected turn of events allowed me to save his life, and since then, he has considered me his blood brother.”

  Nada’s dark eyes warmed as she looked at the Colonel.

  “And,” he continued, “when the missionaries sent Nada to England to complete her education, I insisted she spend her first few months here, under my wing. I…no!” he cried. “It is too much. I cannot bear it!”

  I tried to discern what caused him such anguish, but perceived nothing. “What is it, Colonel?”

  “That piercing sound again. Please say you heard it this time. Please!”

  As much as I desired to help the man, I could not lie. “I did not hear a thing, sir.”