by Marvin Kaye
Slowly, doubting my own senses, I turned to look back upon our Faithful pursuers. For an instant I beheld them — six anonymous, attentive figures, ghostlike in the mists. Then they vanished, fading into the fog, and I saw them no more.
* * * *
Two nights later, we sat in our lodgings, the ever-present London fog still testing its weight against the window panes. Most of the previous day had been spent in conference with the police, who, swayed by the hysterics of Sefton Talliard’s landlady, had initially evinced some disposition to suspect our complicity in that unhappy academic’s decapitation. The information, however, regarding the nature of Talliard’s shadowy enemies — provided by August Belknap, and substantiated by the testimony of Wiggins and Plunker of the Baker Street irregulars — had much allayed such suspicion. And Holmes’s own masterly analysis of the murder-site had demonstrated beyond all question that a brace of small, acrobatic killers had entered the locked room by way of the chimney, dispatched the sleeping Talliard, ransacked the room, and exited the way they had come, bearing their victim’s head — which will, I strongly suspect, never be located.
The constabulary, their doubts satisfied, had dismissed us, and we came away with Holmes miraculously retaining possession of Sefton Talliard’s journal. The book now lay open before him, and my friend was frowning over it.
“I am scarcely satisfied,” he complained.
“What, Holmes!” I returned. “Against all odds, you succeeded in preserving your client’s life — assuming that his enemies are now mollified.”
“August Belknap has nothing more to fear from the Faithful,” Holmes said, shrugging. “But that is not the point. The information placed at my disposal regarding Professor Sefton Talliard’s ruthless, cool, and unscrupulous character should have alerted me to the fellow’s intentions, early enough to forestall another ritual beheading. It should not have been necessary for me to read his very words in his own journal.”
“What did he say?” I inquired.
“See for yourself.” Holmes extended the morocco-bound volume. “And do not neglect the account of the destruction of the Matilda Briggs.”
Sefton Talliard’s hand was decisive and legible. It was with disapproving interest, but no great surprise, that I read of his plan, motivated by self-serving fear, to transfer the stolen plaque, object of alarming Faithful attention, from his own possession to that of the unwitting August Belknap. The photograph of Belknap’s late wife, a memento of immense sentimental value, prized and carried everywhere by its owner, offered the perfect place of concealment. This transfer, accomplished hours prior to the embarkation of the Matilda Briggs, clearly accounted for Talliard’s unwonted generosity in preserving the valise, containing the personal property of his colleague.
There followed a brief passage, written on shipboard, and phonetically rendering the invocation to Ur-Allazoth ceaselessly howled by the Dyak prisoner locked in the hold of the vessel:
*
Ia fhurtgn iea tlu jiadhri cthuthoth zhugg’lsht ftehia. Iea t1u.
*
And finally, the following passage, penned in the immediate aftermath of the disaster, caught my eye:
*
. . . cannot begin to convey the horror of the Being that rose from the sea to confront the Matilda Briggs. There are no words — there are no sane human concepts fit to encompass the immensity of that primeval terror — that overwhelming, insupportable foulness — that gibbering, slavering, slobbering, quivering, towering, tittering obscenity — that burst from the sea like a corporeal nightmare, shattering the boundaries of time, space, and reason. God help me! My mind quakes at the recollection, my sanity trembles. How shall I speak of a creature, gigantic and jigglingly gelatinous beyond description, ancient beyond earthly reckoning, hideous beyond the tolerance of human vision, combining in one abominable form, all the worst aspects of plague-bearing rat, giant kraken, squid, serpent, and leveret? How shall I speak of the stench that killed courage, the howling aural assault that blasted intelligence? How shall I limn an incarnation of the immemorial, destroying lunacy that humanity calls Chaos? Oh, I cannot — I simply cannot! All about me, men were going mad. The Thing was closing fast upon us, and I knew at a glance that the Matilda Briggs was lost …
*
“Gad.” I looked up from the page. “What do you make of it, Holmes?”
“I would not necessarily discount the professor’s veracity,” my friend returned languidly. “For when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. Nevertheless, we should do well to keep the matter to ourselves, Watson, as it is a story for which the world is not yet prepared.”
* * * *
Editor’s Note: In my anthology, The Resurrected Holmes, a considerable number of Dr. Watson’s original case notes were reported to have been found by a famous Philadelphia book collector. Because the notes had never been written up by the Good Doctor, the collector paid various famous scribes to ghost-write these long untold cases. Below is one of the best-known of these stories. For legal purposes, the author’s name rendered in quotation marks stands in for the ascribed actual (?) writer. —MK
THE ADVENTURE OF THE NOBLE BACHELOR, by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
The Lord St. Simon marriage, and its curious termination, have long ceased to be a subject of interest in those exalted circles in which the unfortunate bridegroom moves. Fresh scandals have eclipsed it, and their more piquant details have drawn the gossips away from this four-year-old drama. As I have reason to believe, however, that the full facts have never been revealed to the general public, and as my friend Sherlock Holmes had a considerable share in clearing the matter up, I feel that no memoir of him would be complete without some little sketch of this remarkable episode.
It was a few weeks before my own marriage, during the days when I was still sharing rooms with Holmes in Baker Street, that he came home from an afternoon stroll to find a letter on the table waiting for him. I had remained indoors all day, for the weather had taken a sudden turn to rain, with high autumnal winds, and the Jezail bullet which I had brought back in one of my limbs as a relic of my Afghan campaign throbbed with dull persistence. With my body in one easy-chair and my legs upon another, I had surrounded myself with a cloud of newspapers until at last, saturated with the news of the day, I tossed them all aside and lay listless, watching the huge crest and monogram upon the envelope upon the table and wondering lazily who my friend’s noble correspondent could be.
“Here is a very fashionable epistle,” I remarked as he entered. “Your morning letters, if I remember right, were from a fish-monger and a tide-waiter.”
“Yes, my correspondence has certainly the charm of variety,” he answered, smiling, “and the humbler are usually the more interesting. This looks like one of those unwelcome social summonses which call upon a man either to be bored or to lie.”
He broke the seal and glanced over the contents.
“Oh, come, it may prove to be something of interest, after all.”
“Not social, then?”
“No, distinctly professional.”
“And from a noble client?”
“One of the highest in England.”
“My dear fellow. I congratulate you.”
“I assure you, Watson, without affectation, that the status of my client is a matter of less moment to me than the interest of his case. It is just possible, however, that that also may not be wanting in this new investigation. You have been reading the papers diligently of late, have you not?”
“It looks like it,” said I ruefully, pointing to a huge bundle in the corner. “I have had nothing else to do.”
“It is fortunate, for you will perhaps be able to post me up. I read nothing except the criminal news and the agony column. The latter is always instructive. But if you have followed recent events so closely you must have read about Lord St. Simon and his wedding?”
“Oh, yes, with the deepest interest.”
; “That is well. The letter which I hold in my hand is from Lord St. Simon. I will read it to you, and in return you must turn over these papers and let me have whatever bears upon the matter. This is what he says:
_
MY DEAR MR. SHERLOCK HOLMES: Lord Backwater tells me that I may place implicit reliance upon your judgment and discretion. I have determined, therefore, to call upon you and to consult you in reference to the very painful event which has occurred in connection with my wedding. Mr. Lestrade, of Scotland Yard, is acting already in the matter, but he assures me that he sees no objection to your cooperation, and that he even thinks that it might be of some assistance. I will call at four o’clock in the afternoon, and, should you have any other engagement at that time, I hope that you will postpone it, as this matter is of paramount importance.
—Yours faithfully,
ROBERT ST. SIMON.
_
“It is dated from Grosvenor Mansions, written with a quill pen, and the noble lord has had the misfortune to get a smear of ink upon the outer side of his right little finger,” remarked Holmes as he folded up the epistle.
“He says four o’clock. It is three now. He will be here in an hour.”
“Then I have just time, with your assistance, to get clear upon the subject. Turn over those papers and arrange the extracts in their order of time, while I take a glance as to who our client is.” He picked a red-covered volume from a line of books of reference beside the mantelpiece. “Here he is,” said he, sitting down and flattening it out upon his knee. “Lord Robert Walsingham de Vere St. Simon, second son of the Duke of Balmoral. Hum! Arms: Azure, three caltrops in chief over a fess sable. Born in 1846. He’s forty-one years of age, which is mature for marriage. Was Under-Secretary for the colonies in a late administration. The Duke, his father, was at one time Secretary for Foreign Affairs. They inherit Plantagenet blood by direct descent, and Tudor on the distaff side. Ha! Well, there is nothing very instructive in all this. I think that I must turn to you Watson, for something more solid.”
“I have very little difficulty in finding what I want,” said I, “for the facts are quite recent, and the matter struck me as remarkable. I feared to refer them to you, however, as I knew that you had an inquiry on hand and that you disliked the intrusion of other matters.”
“Oh, you mean the little problem of the Grosvenor Square furniture van. That is quite cleared up now — though, indeed, it was obvious from the first. Pray give me the results of your newspaper selections.”
“Here is the first notice which I can find. It is in the personal column of The Morning Post, and dates, as you see, some weeks back: ‘A marriage has been arranged’ it says, ‘and will, if rumour is correct, very shortly take place, between Lord Robert St. Simon, second son of the Duke of Balmoral, and Miss Hatty Doran, the only daughter of Aloysius Doran. Esq., of San Francisco, Cal., U. S. A.’ That is all.”
“Terse and to the point,” remarked Holmes, stretching his long, thin legs towards the fire.
“There was a paragraph amplifying this in one of the society papers of the same week. Ah, here it is. ‘There will soon be a call for protection in the marriage market, for the present free-trade principle appears to tell heavily against our home product. One by one the management of the noble houses of Great Britain is passing into the hands of our fair cousins from across the Atlantic. An important addition has been made during the last week to the list of the prizes which have been borne away by these charming invaders. Lord St. Simon, who has shown himself for over twenty years proof against the little god’s arrows, has now definitely announced his approaching marriage with Miss Hatty Doran, the fascinating daughter of a California millionaire. Miss Doran, whose graceful figure and striking face attracted much attention at the Westbury House festivities , is an only child, and it is currently reported that her dowry will run to considerably over the six figures, with expectancies for the future. As it is an open secret that the Duke of Balmoral has been compelled to sell his pictures within the last few years, and as Lord St. Simon has no property of his own save the small estate of Birchmoor, it is obvious that the Californian heiress is not the only gainer by an alliance which will enable her to make the easy and common transition from a Republican lady to a British title.’
“Anything else?” asked Holmes, yawning.
“Oh, yes; plenty. Then there is another note in The Morning Post to say that the mariage would be an absolutely quiet one, that it would be at St. George’s, Hanover Square, that only half a dozen intimate friends would be invited, and that the party would return to the furnished house at Lancaster Gate which has been taken by Mr. Aloysius Doran. Two days later — that is, on Wednesday last — there is a curt announcement that the wedding had taken place, and that the honeymoon would be passed at Lord Backwater’s place, near Petersfield. Those are all the notices which appeared before the disappearance of the bride.”
“Before the what?” asked Holmes with a start.
“The vanishing of the lady.”
“When did she vanish, then?”
“At the wedding breakfast.”
“Indeed. This is more interesting than it promised to be; quite dramatic, in fact.”
“Yes; it struck me as being a little out of the common.”
“They often vanish before the ceremony, and occasionally during the honeymoon; but I cannot call to mind anything quite so prompt as this. Pray let me have the details.”
“I warn you that they are very incomplete.”
“Perhaps we may make them less so.”
“Such as they are, they are set forth in a single article of a morning paper of yesterday, which I will read to you. It is headed, ‘Singular Occurrence at a Fashionable Wedding’:
“ ‘The family of Lord Robert St. Simon has been thrown into the greatest consternation by the strange and painful episodes which have taken place in connection with his wedding. The ceremony, as shortly announced in the papers of yesterday, occurred on the previous morning; but it is only now that it has been possible to confirm the strange rumours which have been so persistently floating about. In spite of the attempts of the friends to hush the matter up, so much public attention has now been drawn to it that no good purpose can be served by affecting to disregard what is a common subject for conversation.
“ ‘The ceremony, which was performed at St. George’s, Hanover Square, was a very quiet one, no one being present save the father of the bride, Mr. Aloysius Doran, the Duchess of Balmoral, Lord Backwater, Lord Eustace, and Lady Clara St. Simon (the younger brother and sister of the bridegroom), and Lady Alicia Whittington. The whole party proceeded afterwards to the house of Mr. Aloysius Doran, at Lancaster Gate, where breakfast had been prepared. It appears that some little trouble was caused by a woman, whose name has not been ascertained, who endeavoured to force her way into the house after the bridal party, alleging that she had some claim upon Lord St. Simon. It was only after a painful and prolonged scene that she was ejected by the butler and the footman. The bride, who had fortunately entered the house before this unpleasant interruption, had sat down to breakfast with the rest, when she complained of a sudden indisposition and retired to her room. Her prolonged absence having caused some comment, her father followed her, but learned from her maid that she had only come up to her chamber for an instant, caught up an ulster and bonnet, and hurried down to the passage. One of the footmen declared that he had seen a lady leave the house thus apparelled, but had refused to credit that it was his mistress, believing her to be with the company. On ascertaining that his daughter had disappeared, Mr. Aloysius Doran, in conjunction with the bridegroom, instantly put themselves in communication with the police, and very energetic inquiries are being made, which will probably result in a speedy clearing up of this very singular business. Up to a late hour last night, however, nothing had transpired as to the whereabouts of the missing lady. There are rumours of foul play in the matter, and it is said that the police have caused the arrest of the woman
who had caused the original disturbance, in the belief that, from jealousy or some other motive, she may have been concerned in the strange disappearance of the bride.’”
“And is that all?”
“Only one little item in another of the morning papers, but it is a suggestive one.”
“And it is —”
“That Miss Flora Millar, the lady who had caused the disturbance, has actually been arrested. It appears that she was formerly a danseuse at the Allegro, and that she has known the bridegroom for some years. There are no further particulars, and the whole case is in your hands now — so far as it has been set forth in the public press.”
“And an exceedingly interesting case it appears to be. I would not have missed it for worlds. But there is a ring at the bell, Watson, and as the clock makes it a few minutes after four, I have no doubt that this will prove to be our noble client. Do not dream of going, Watson, for I very much prefer having a witness, if only as a check to my own memory.”
“Lord Robert St. Simon,” announced our page-boy, throwing open the door. A gentleman entered, with a pleasant, cultured face, high-nosed and pale, with something perhaps of petulance about the mouth, and with the steady, well-opened eye of a man whose pleasant lot it had ever been to command and to be obeyed. His manner was brisk, and yet his general appearance gave an undue impression of age, for he had a slight forward stoop and a little bend of the knees as he walked. His hair, too, as he swept off his very curly-brimmed hat, was grizzled round the edges and thin upon the top. As to his dress, it was careful to the verge of foppishness, with high collar, black frock-coat, white waistcoat, yellow gloves, patent-leather shoes, and light-coloured gaiters. He advanced slowly into the room, turning his head from left to right, and swinging in his right hand the cord which held his golden eyeglasses.
