Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine, Volume 5

by Marvin Kaye

  “Thank you, sir. You have been a tremendous help. Tell me, before we go, how is Sampson getting on?”

  “I am afraid I know of no one by that name. Is he a member?”

  “Evidently not. Sorry, my mistake. Come, Watson. We must get to the

  theatre before it opens for the evening. Hopefully, we will have time for a word with Miss Benson.”

  “Mrs. Benson, Mr. Holmes,” the earl corrected. “Cecilia Benson is married, as well.”

  A short time later, Holmes and I, after another silent cab ride, found ourselves in the Strand before the Burbage Theatre. According to the signs out front, Cecilia Benson was appearing as Volumnia in Coriolanus. We made our way through the large, richly carpeted lobby, the walls of which were lined with caryatides of gilded plaster, to the manager’s office. At our knock, a small, rather high-strung man emerged, and we introduced ourselves.

  “It is a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Holmes. To what do I owe the honour?”

  “It is imperative that I speak to one of your actresses, a Mrs. Cecilia Benson.”

  “Indeed, I, too, would like to speak with her, for you see, she’s been missing for the last four days.”

  “Holmes, that corresponds with the missing pages of the appointment book!” I said.

  “You wouldn’t happen to know who saw her last?” queried Holmes.

  “Well, sir, that would probably be me. On Tuesday afternoon, I was gazing out of my window at a strange carriage I had noticed which was parked in front of the theatre. Within moments of my turning to look outside, I saw Cecilia walking towards the carriage with a man. They climbed inside, and off they went. I’ve been making do with her understudy, ever since.”

  “Could you describe the man who accompanied her?”

  “I didn’t get a good look at his face, but he was quite tall and walked with a pronounced limp.”

  “Was he wearing a broad-brimmed hat?”

  “Why yes, Dr. Watson. He was.”

  “What was it about the carriage that struck you as odd?” Holmes resumed.

  “It was the insignia upon the side — a cross, in front of which was something resembling a fluttering sheet of linen. Over this, were the initials ‘St. V.’”

  “Holmes, there was a man named St. Vincent listed in the appointment book!”

  “Thank you, Watson. Sir, would it be possible to see Mrs. Benson’s dressing room? It might help me to find her whereabouts.”

  “Certainly, Mr. Holmes. Follow me.”

  The dressing room was fairly small, its large dressing table taking up most of the space. Amongst the make-up and brushes littering this was a small notebook which Holmes immediately began to examine.

  “Watson, there is a page missing.”

  Holmes then produced a charcoal stick from his pocket and began lightly rubbing the right-hand page which would have lain beneath the missing one. In this way, he was able to reveal the following faint message:

  *

  “My Darling,

  “I am to be admitted this afternoon. Please come.”

  *

  Holmes then searched the rest of the tiny room but revealed nothing further.

  Finally, we took our leave, Holmes promising to contact the theatre manager, if he found the missing actress. Before returning to Baker Street, Holmes dropped into a post office to send two telegrams. In the cab, on our way home, I could remain patient no longer.

  “Homes, what can it all mean?”

  “Surely, Watson, a man of your background should have no problem finding our fugitive actress’s location.”

  “All I can make of it is that she is to gain admittance somewhere with someone who might possibly be named St. Vincent.”

  “Come now, Watson. The note says nothing of ‘gaining admittance’ but of being ‘admitted’. Surely, that would suggest something to someone such as yourself.”

  “Well, in my profession, one is usually ‘admitted’ to a hospital.”

  “Precisely. Now, let’s assume that ‘St. V.’ does not stand for the name of an individual.”

  “I’m sorry, Holmes, but I don’t follow.”

  “The cross, the linen, ‘St. V.’ — surely that would indicate St. Veronica.”

  “St. Veronica’s Hospital for Women! Of course.”

  “Yes, Watson. I have just sent a telegram to them, asking if Mrs. Benson is a patient and if we can pay a visit tomorrow morning.”

  “To whom did you send the second telegram?”

  “To our good friend, Nicholson, apprising him of our progress.”

  It was already dark when we arrived back in Baker Street, and I was relieved when Holmes decided to join me for dinner. That night, I fell asleep to the melancholy strains of Holmes’s violin and did not re-awake until some time after dawn. When I entered our sitting room, Mrs. Hudson was already setting our breakfast upon the table, and Holmes was reading the paper.

  “Good morning, Watson. Have a seat. There should be ample time for breakfast before we resume our investigation.”

  “You certainly are in a good mood, Holmes.”

  “I have just heard from a Dr. Smythe at St. Veronica’s. Mrs. Benson is, indeed, a patient there, and we are free to visit her at any time after eleven o’clock. I expect this meeting will go a long way in establishing a motive for our case.”

  “Does that mean you know who killed Lord Morris?”

  “My dear Watson, I have known that since yesterday morning.”

  “But who?”

  “All in good time. I must satisfy myself upon a few more points, before I can be absolutely certain of events. Would you like to have a look at today’s paper? It contains an account of what we saw yesterday at Sherrinsthorpe.”

  After breakfast, we departed for the East End. It was there, in the City, that we found the rather ugly pile of a structure known as St. Veronica’s Hospital for Women. It was, in reality, more of a mental asylum than a traditional hospital, and its sterile, white, arched corridors reverberated with the screams and moans of its imprisoned Bedlamites. Dr. Smythe, a rather shabby looking bald man with a flaming orange beard, was leading us through a throng of black and white uniformed nurses to the room of Cecilia Benson.

  “Here we are, gentlemen, but I must warn you that my patient may not be of much help to you,” he said as he swung open the room’s heavy door.

  Even with no make-up and dressed in a shabby white hospital gown, Cecilia Benson was a stunningly beautiful woman. Her flawless, milk-white skin was emphasized by her long, black hair, and her movements were still incredibly graceful, reflecting her several years upon the stage. Yet, when I looked at her eyes, I noticed a vacancy in their gaze, and I could also detect a slight slackness about the mouth.

  “Oh, Smythe, you have brought me company, and a handsome pair they are,” she said, touching Holmes’ arm.

  He did not attempt to hide his distaste and quickly brushed it away. “Mrs. Benson, I would like to ask you some questions about Lord Morris.”

  “He is dead and gone; at his head a grass green turf, at his heels a stone,” she rambled.

  “I take it, then, that you know what has happened. Do you have any idea why?”

  “As if he had been loosed out of hell to speak of horrors, he comes before me,” she said as she turned to me and placed her hand on my leg. Like Holmes, I deflected it but, admittedly, with a greater reluctance.

  “Mrs. Benson,” resumed Holmes, “can you tell me anything of your husband?”

  “I was the more deceived,” she said sadly. “There’s fennel for you, and columbine; there’s rue for you; and here’s some for me.”

  “O, what a noble mind is here o’erthrown,” said Holmes in frustration while turning to leave.

  “You are a good chorus, my lord,” replied Mrs. Benson, and as we left, she began to sing:

  *

  “For to see mad Tom of Bedlam

  “Ten thousand miles I traveled

  “Mad Maudlin goes on dirty toes
<
br />   “To save her shoes from gravel.”

  *

  Once outside the door, I made my diagnosis, “Dr. Smythe, it appears Mrs. Benson is suffering from syphilis.”

  “That is correct, Dr. Watson. She admitted herself on Tuesday and has very rapidly deteriorated.”

  “You say she admitted herself? There was no one with her?”

  “No, Mr. Holmes. She mentioned that her physician had referred her to us but, upon questioning, could not seem to recall his name.”

  “Thank you for all of your help, Dr. Smythe.”

  While we were walking back to our cab, Holmes began to speak.

  “Watson, we must have the name of that doctor.”

  “The one who gave the referral.”

  “Yes, if you could call it that. Would it be possible for you to find out the identity of Lord Morris’s physician?”

  “I imagine I could make a quick stop over at Bart’s and see if any of my colleagues know anything.”

  “Excellent, Watson. We shall drop you off there, first. I have some business to attend to back in the West End. Remember, get as much information as possible, and meet me back in Baker Street, before supper.”

  As we agreed, late that afternoon, I returned triumphantly to Baker Street. Holmes was already seated in his armchair with his feet propped up on the fender before the fireplace.

  “Good afternoon, Watson. How did you fare?”

  “Holmes, Lord Morris’s doctor’s name is Edmund Samuels. He has offices in Wimpole Street and was in a riding accident two years ago, causing him to walk with a pronounced limp! Here is his address.”

  “Brilliant, Watson! You have outdone yourself!”

  “It is just as you have said, Holmes: ‘When a doctor does go wrong, he is the first of criminals. He has nerve and he has knowledge.’ It now looks to me like this is all simply a failed attempt at blackmail. But Holmes, where are you going?”

  “I have to send one more telegram, Watson. I expect developments. Go ahead and have supper without me. There is no need to wait on my account.”

  Indeed, Holmes ate nothing that night and shunned sleep, as well. The next morning, I perceived him dimly through a fog of tobacco smoke. He was smoking impatiently, obviously awaiting a reply to the telegram he had sent the previous evening. It arrived shortly after breakfast.

  “Watson, I must leave to notify Nicholson and Lady Morris that we shall meet them at Sherrinsthorpe Manor this afternoon. It is at that time that I will clear up this matter for them. You will accompany me, I presume.”

  “I wouldn’t miss it for the world. But really, Holmes, you must eat something.”

  My entreaty fell on deaf ears, however, and I was left to finish my breakfast in solitude. Later, that afternoon, Holmes, Inspector Nicholson, Lady Morris, Perkins, and I once again found ourselves in the sitting room of Sherrinsthorpe Manor, and everyone but Holmes took a seat.

  “Mr. Holmes, am I to understand that you have, in fact, solved this case?” asked the inspector.

  “There are but two points which I need to clarify. The first and most pressing of which is how you managed to procure the second derringer round so soon after discovering the body, Perkins.”

  The butler practically leaped out of his chair and exclaimed, “Surely, Mr. Holmes, you don’t think I killed Lord Morris?”

  “Nothing of the sort, Perkins, and please, resume your seat. Why don’t I reconstruct the events of the evening, as I believe they occurred, and you can fill in the gaps for me when I have finished.

  “After you heard the shot, it could have taken you no more than forty-five seconds to reach the room. This event could not have been totally unexpected by you, and you will also have to explain to me how you knew what had driven Lord Morris to suicide. It is obvious to me, however, that you did know, because you managed to rearrange the room so quickly, obscuring what had really happened. You entered the room and closed the door behind you, for if the wind had been strong enough to blow that door shut, it would have also created a larger mess within than what was there when we examined it. Somehow, you found a second round for the gun, and with that came your idea. You reloaded the weapon and replaced it, wiping the powder marks from the lord’s hand. To minimize the chance of anyone’s noticing the odour of the discharged weapon, you opened the French doors which also made it look as though an imaginary intruder had used them. From the appointment book, you quickly removed the pages which would have scandalized Lord Morris, and it was this which prompted you to create the illusion of the room’s being rifled by the imaginary killer. After scattering a few papers from that cabinet, you reopened the door and waited for Lady Morris to appear, which would have been moments later. Am I correct so far?”

  Perkins nodded in bewilderment, while Lady Morris sobbed.

  “But, Perkins, why?” she cried.

  “Madam, Perkins was acting out of a misguided sense of loyalty. However, I am afraid I must point out that Lord Morris’s present behaviour deserved no such fidelity or respect. In truth, Lady Morris, he has used you horribly. Of late, Lord Morris had become romantically involved with an actress. Unfortunately, as I found out yesterday, she, too, had been the victim of a husband with a roving eye, and from him, she had contracted a morbus venerius. She, in turn, passed this disease on to your husband who, unable to cope with the shame, decided to take his own life.”

  “He’s right, Lady Morris. I came upon the lord, weeping in his study on Thursday. He tried to compose himself and mentioned an ailing friend, but when I observed the doctor’s bill upon his desk, he broke down and confessed everything to me. Essentially, he and I grew up together, and I suppose, at that moment, he had to confide in someone. It was also at that time that I noticed the derringer in a drawer of his desk. I had never seen it before, so naturally I thought the worst. Later that evening, I returned to the study and removed the bullet from the breech of the gun, putting it in a pocket of my frock-coat. I knew it wasn’t my place to do so, but I hoped that if Lord Morris knew that I had figured out his intention, somehow, it might deter him. The following night, when I heard the shot, I knew immediately what had happened. As I walked down the hall, I reached into my pocket for a key to the study, in case it should have been necessary, and I found the bullet. The rest is as Mr. Holmes said, though I have no idea how he could have known it. Please, Lady Morris, you must understand that I was simply trying to protect Lord Morris.”

  “At great risk to the health of Lady Morris,” chided Holmes.

  “Holmes, how did you know it was a suicide?” asked the inspector.

  “As Dr. Watson said, the posture of the body and the wound were all consistent with suicide. Why would a killer want to make a crime scene which looks exactly like a suicide look like that of a murder? Also, there was no sign of an intruder. As I said before, how could the butler come into the room within one minute of the shot’s being fired and not have discovered the killer going through the appointment book or the cabinets? There really weren’t terribly many papers lying about on the floor, but to a butler it would seem like this degree of dishevelment was consistent with a robbery of some sort. No, Nicholson, only the body seemed to be undisturbed. All else seemed rearranged, and there was only one person we knew of who would have had the opportunity to alter the room’s appearance. Given all this, all I had to do was discover the reason for the suicide. This proved more time-consuming than I had anticipated.”

  “What about the man in the broad-brimmed hat?”

  “That, Nicholson, was Lord Morris’s physician, Dr. Edmund Samuels. According to this telegram I received today, he had come here on Wednesday to examine Lord Morris. He has promised to contact you, as well, Lady Morris, tomorrow.”

  “Well, I suppose I must now decide how to proceed in the matter.”

  “Inspector Nicholson, as you and several of your colleagues have already learned, your career can only benefit from working with me from time to time and by placing the utmost trust in my conclusions
. However, just because I, who am in no way connected with the official police, have come to this particular conclusion does not mean that you, Inspector, are in any way officially obliged to accept or act upon it.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Holmes. I shall take that under consideration.”

  Privileging honour over self-advancement, Nicholson never did officially solve the murder of Lord Morris, a momentary setback in a career which would soon be redeemed by many successes. At that moment, however, Holmes and I were still unsure of the outcome. It was already growing dark as we made our way home, and outside our cab, a wind had begun to blow from the east, and the snow had finally begun to fall.

  SHERLOCK HOLMES — STYMIED! by Gary Lovisi

  “I see you have been unable to resist the allure of the links once again,” my friend Sherlock Holmes said to me one afternoon upon my visit to our old digs at 221B Baker Street. He was running his eyes over my attire with disdain, having obviously surmised that I had come over straight from playing a round of golf.

  I nodded my acknowledgement. Since my marriage and the sometimes heavy workload at St. Barts I’d seen Holmes only sparingly during the last year, so these occasional visits were moments of great joy for me to see my old friend again and catch up on his cases. My only spare time of late had been taken up with my new guilty indulgence, that fascinating creation called golf.

  “A most stimulating and enjoyable exercise,” I told my friend.

  “Hah!” Holmes huffed sarcastically, “a gross and unmitigated waste of time. Adult men chasing around a little ball in a game of simple and utter luck. I’m afraid that is not for me.”