by Marvin Kaye
A waiter approached the table but Holmes waved him away. He puffed on the cigarette again and flicked a bit of ash on the floor. “In any event, a physiognomic study was totally unnecessary to the solution of the murder.”
“How so?” I asked. My note pad was out. Murphy still leaned back in his chair.
“It was snowing when we arrived and it was still snowing when the good captain arrived. So when I walked along the bar I was on the lookout for a damp coat.”
“But the men wore different materials,” Murphy said. “More than one coat may have remained damp.”
“Quite so. But as you can feel, the coal stove keeps the room rather warm. The men all had their caps pushed back, all, that is, except our now dead suspect, who kept his pulled down in an effort to hide his face.” Holmes puffed again on the cigarette. “Then there were the hands of the barflies, all rough. Hands built for labour, not hands made to strike down beautiful women in a crowded room. These men were, still are, shaken by the woman’s murder. I observed their hands trembling as I passed by. All except the killer, whose hands were calm, fingers unmoving, the singular mark of the professional assassin.”
He dropped the cigarette to the floor and ground it with his heel. “Unfortunately, my dear Captain Murphy, he has escaped your brutal clutches.” Holmes gestured to the mug of mustard Murphy was holding in his hands.
“But he saved the State of New York the cost of a trial and execution,” Murphy said. He walked over to the man’s body and prodded it with the toe of his boot.
I leaned forward across the table. “Holmes, you promised that you would explain to me how you knew Irene Adler was still alive and what she was doing here.”
“That I shall, dear friend. I am afraid that all these years I haven’t been quite truthful with you.”
“You mean you’ve been keeping secrets from me?”
“A secret, Watson. The greatest secret of my career.”
“Whatever do you mean, Holmes?”
“The woman and I have been together over the past two decades. We have met many times, during many cases, to renew our love for each other. Caracas, Saigon, Tangiers were only a few of the places where our love was reconsecrated during nights of heated bliss.”
“Caracas? You mean when we solved the mystery of “The Giant Roach of Caracas” you were romancing Irene? And Saigon, the “Case of the Mutilated Agent?” Well, strike me up a gum tree, as Lestrade would say. Your deductive reasoning was a little slow on that one. Now I know why. I had to find a new literary agent after that.”
“Slow on purpose, my dear Watson. He wasn’t getting you the contracts your recitations of my cases deserve. So he had to go. I did you a favour, old boy.”
“Good old Holmes,” I laughed. “Always looking out for me. Well, I have to admit my new agent does work a bit harder.” I sat back in my chair.“But why was Irene in New York?”
“We were to meet again; she had also reserved a suite at the Waldorf. Moriarty must have been on to her, had her followed and planted a false story that Moran was out to kill me. She thought she was warning me.”
“Holmes, you knew right away that this dead fellow was the real killer, didn’t you?”
He nodded. “Of course, Watson, did you expect anything different? Remember the possibility that there were blood spots on his right shoe, they were a dead giveaway.”
“But that man you first pointed out was innocent and he took a terrific beating.”
Holmes shrugged. “I knew he was innocent, but I didn’t like his face. Besides, his assistance with the investigation was invaluable.”
“How so?”
“The dead man was known to me as Edgar, a highly trusted assassin used by Colonel Moran. There was no way I could let Vicious Aloysius take Edgar into custody. His brutal methods would have been effective and Edgar would have spilled the beans about
Moran and Moriarty. I told you that I will bring them to the justice they deserve. So I had to show Edgar just how brutal Murphy was and convince him that he would talk before leaving here. I was sure Edgar had the means to prevent his being taken alive, I only had to prompt him into using it before he talked.”
“But what about the sawdust you collected, what clue was that?”
Holmes clenched his jaw. “Not a clue, dear fellow, a memento mori.”
Murphy approached the table, still holding the mug of poisoned mustard. “Our police lab will determine what poison the dead man used. Do you have any suggestions?”
Holmes shook his head, no longer interested in helping the hoodlum-detective.
“By the way, for the record, what was the dead woman’s name?”
“Irene…” I started to answer before Holmes cut me off.
“Mrs. Sherlock Holmes,” he said, pocketing the box with the syringe and the heroin. “Watson, since I don’t intend to be good, let us begone.”
THE ADVENTURE OF THE HAUNTED BAGPIPES, by Carla Coupe
“Ah, Watson, there you are!”
Sherlock Holmes stood at the table that held chemical apparatus. His shirtsleeves were rolled to his elbows, baring muscular forearms, his fingers stained and sooty. He tipped a small amount of a vile green liquid into a retort and quickly capped it. As he held the retort over a gas flame, the solution turned brown and filled the glass with curling smoke.
“You look pleased, Holmes,” I said. “What are you working on?”
“Oh, nothing much.” He gently tilted the vessel, coating the sides with the brown liquid. “Merely a method to preserve burnt paper so that it may be subject to further analysis without disintegrating.”
“Very useful, I am sure.”
I consulted my pocket watch. It was almost four o’clock, the hour at which Holmes had requested my presence. I had quit my surgery in response to his note, although in truth it was no hardship to abandon my quiet rooms.
“What is this about?” I settled into a chair by the fire. The day was chill and grey, one of a long procession during the cold, wet weeks late in 1889. The warmth of the coals eased the ache from my old war wound.
Holmes carefully placed the retort on the table and turned toward the door, his eyes bright. “Let us await explanations, for I believe our visitor has arrived.”
Only then did I hear the front door close and Mrs Hudson’s gentle murmur. Holmes snuffed out the flame of the burner and wiped his smudged hands upon his equally filthy handkerchief. He rolled down his sleeves and donned his jacket before moving to stand beside the fire.
After a soft knock, Mrs Hudson entered, ushering in a tall, broad-shouldered young man. The young man paused inside the door and thrust the fingers of his left hand through his black hair. It had been pomaded and now erupted into a halo of curls. His gaze moved between Holmes and me for a moment, then settled on my friend.
“Mr Holmes?” His voice was a light baritone.
“I am Sherlock Holmes, and this is my colleague, Dr John Watson.”
“Gentlemen.” The young man sketched a bow before taking the chair Holmes indicated. “My name is Albert McMahon, and I have a most curious problem.”
Holmes settled on the settee, crossed his legs, and drew out his pipe. “You intimated as much in your letter, Mr McMahon. Before you explain your difficulty, however, please tell us how a man who worked in the timber industry in Canada came to reside in Edinburgh for the past six months?”
Although familiar with Holmes’s deductive powers, I was still surprised at the quickness of his observations. McMahon’s brows rose comically, and his mouth hung open for a moment before he let loose a piercing whistle.
“I must admit I had my doubts about you, Mr Holmes.” He smiled. “But if this is an example of your abilities, I know I am consulting the right man for the job.”
“This is hardly a taxing matter.” Holmes waved a negligent hand. “When a man retains his distinctive Canadian accent and sports a Canadian penny on his watch fob, the location of his origin is clear. Your hands show the callusing peculia
r to those who wield axe and saw on a daily basis, and you are missing the very tip of your left forefinger, another injury common to the trade. Your clothing, although recently purchased, is not unworn, and the cut of your coat is popular among the Scots these days. In addition, the slight burr and intonation atop your native accent are those of Edinburgh … Old Town, I believe?”
“You are correct on all counts,” McMahon said, his smile broadening. “My father and mother emigrated to Canada before I was born. My great-uncle Fergus McMahon was a man of considerable wealth, and unfortunately he could not forgive my father for leaving Scotland. He informed my father that neither my father nor his heirs would ever benefit from his fortune.”
“Not an uncommon attitude,” Holmes said, puffing slowly on his pipe. “Although regrettable for the innocent heirs.”
McMahon nodded. “Imagine my surprise, therefore, when, eight months ago, I was in receipt of a communication from my great-uncle’s solicitors, informing me I was to receive half his fortune, including a town house in Edinburgh. My cousin, James Knox, benefitted from the remainder. Following the solicitors’s instructions, I wound up my affairs in Vancouver and arrived in Edinburgh a little over six months ago.”
“All this is very interesting,” said Holmes. “But what of your problem?”
“I’m working my way up to that, sir.” McMahon rubbed his hands together — a nervous gesture — and I could see the calluses that Holmes had remarked upon, as well as the missing tip of his finger. An old injury, by the colouration.
“I took up residence in my great-uncle’s home, which is situated in Hangman’s
Lane, behind St. Giles, in the shadow of the Castle. It is a tall, narrow stone building, several centuries old. I now own the tenements in the lane, as well.”
McMahon assayed a smile, but it more resembled a grimace.
“I must be honest, Mr Holmes. From the first night I spent there, I have never rested easily. The chimneys howl and the floors creak, and if I were the type of man who believed in ghosts … well, it would be all too easy to do so after living in that house.”
“If it is so uncomfortable, why do you stay?” I asked.
“A provision in my great-uncle’s will requires me to reside in the house for one full year before claiming the rest of my inheritance. He was a leading light in the campaign to provide decent accommodations for the deserving poor, and he insisted that I continue his work by not becoming an absentee landlord. As a consequence, if I fail to sleep there for more than two nights in a row, I will forfeit the money.” McMahon sighed. “Believe me, gentlemen, I could use that fortune.”
Holmes leaned forward, eyes sharp and attentive. “And what would you use that fortune for, Mr McMahon?”
McMahon coloured and repeated his nervous hand-wringing. “Miss Caroline Fraser and I have loved each other for many years. Although we did not make any promises when I left Vancouver, we would have married before if I could have afforded to maintain a wife. Sadly, she has a brother who is simple, and who also needs support. This money would provide amply for our happiness, as well as for the care of her brother.”
“Most commendable,” I murmured.
“I see.” Holmes leaned back, his voice cool, as always when the subject of matrimony arose. “And if you do not fulfill the terms of the will, who then benefits? Your cousin?”
“No. My portion will be given to a charity my great-uncle supported: the Society for the Betterment of the Working Poor.”
“I see. Do similar restrictions apply to your cousin’s inheritance?”
“I do not believe so. He received my great-uncle’s cottage in Kirkcudbright as well as half his fortune, but he resides in Edinburgh.”
“Are you acquainted with this cousin?”
“We have dined together a number of times,” McMahon said with a shrug. “He seems a pleasant enough fellow, although rather absent-minded. At least half of the times he was engaged to dine with me he became so engrossed in his medical research that he completely forgot our appointment.”
I nodded. I knew several such types, for whom the intellectual challenge of research proved far more engrossing than the allure of society, and even of family ties. Edinburgh, as a seat of medical learning, was undoubtedly filled with hosts and hostesses confronted with empty places at dinner parties while their expected guests laboured in their laboratories far into the night.
“Medical research?” I asked, my professional curiosity piqued.
“Yes. Something to do with improving the vigour of the indigent population.”
“Your situation appears straightforward,” said Holmes, clearly impatient with my digression. “And now, please explain your problem.”
McMahon hesitated, a frown forming. “It began about a fortnight ago, and it would not be too strong to say that the events of that night will haunt me forever.”
Holmes spared me a glance before turning back to our guest. “Describe that night, if you will.”
“I doubt I can, Mr Holmes. It was … horrible.” He took a deep breath, as if to steady his nerves. “My housekeeper fled from the house that night, and now she refuses to stay after dark. I, myself, find it difficult to remain inside after the sun sets. My tenants have fled, leaving those once-bustling buildings empty.” McMahon gripped the arms of his chair so tightly that his fingers paled. “Tell me, Mr Holmes, have you ever heard the legend of the Old Town’s haunted bagpipes?”
“I have,” said Holmes, his expression one of tolerant amusement. “Residents have regaled visitors with the story for many years.”
“Apparently I inhabit the wrong social circles,” I said. “Although I have visited Edinburgh, I have never heard the tale.”
McMahon opened his mouth as if to speak, but Holmes anticipated him.
“It concerns a secret underground passage that supposedly existed in the time of Mary, Queen of Scots. The passage is said to link Edinburgh Castle and Holyrood Palace, all the way at the far end of town.” Holmes drew on his pipe. “According to the tale, about a century and a half ago, a bagpiper made a bet that he could walk the length of it. He started at the Castle, piping merrily. The crowds were able to follow him through the streets above by the sound of the skirling.”
I was amused to note the slight burr that had crept into Holmes’s speech. My friend was a consummate actor, and as I have said before, he would have been considered a brilliant artist if he had decided to tread the boards.
“They followed his tune down from the Castle,” Holmes continued, “along the top of the hill. In the vicinity of St. Giles, the piping stopped suddenly, in the middle of a note. And that was the last ever heard of the piper.”
McMahon shuddered. “That is precisely the story my great-uncle wrote in a letter he included for me, Mr Holmes. He added that, according to legend, the piping stopped exactly beneath his house.”
“Poor fellow was overcome by some noxious gas, most probably,” I said, not bothering to hide my impatience with such fancied horrors. “The atmosphere in old passages and cellars can be fœtid and unwholesome.”
Holmes lifted an eyebrow. “Some say the Devil was so captivated by the man’s playing that he carried the piper off to Hell.”
“Well, what of it?” I laughed. “As long as he and his bagpipes stay there, and he does not go about waking the neighbours.”
Obviously affronted by my levity, McMahon glared. “That is exactly what he has been doing for the last month, Doctor.”
I glanced at Holmes, expecting to find him as dubious about McMahon’s pronouncement as I. Instead, his expression was grave.
“You have heard the piping yourself?” Holmes asked.
“Everyone in the lane has heard it and is terrified. That is why they have all left.”
“Nonsense,” I said, disturbed by Holmes’s apparent acceptance of such a patently ridiculous tale. “There must be another explanation. You said the house’s chimneys are noisy. Or perhaps it is some peculiar trick of the wind car
rying the sound of bagpipers playing at the Castle. Why should a ghost who has kept quiet for over a hundred years suddenly decide to return and frighten people?”
Holmes smiled. “That, my dear Watson, is what I am anxious to discover.”
“As am I,” McMahon said. “But the piping has done more than merely frighten, gentlemen. Two of my elderly tenants succumbed to terror after hearing the bagpipes, and a young woman recently miscarried.”
“Tragic,” murmured Holmes, his eyes hooded, smoke wreathing his head as he puffed on his pipe.
“It is not unknown for a shock to carry off the elderly,” I asserted, ignoring Holmes’s sarcastic tone and hoping McMahon did not notice it. “Nor to bring on miscarriages, if indeed these events are connected to the piping.” Although Holmes and I had encountered the occasional inexplicable incident, most of what credulous individuals deemed otherworldly could be explained by science and logic. I was certain that was the case here, as well.
“What would you have us do, Mr McMahon?” Holmes asked.
“I must return to Edinburgh on the morning train,” he replied. “I would be very grateful if you, at least, would accompany me and investigate the cause of this. In order to claim the money, I must continue to live there for six additional months, and I admit that the prospect of even one more evening alone in that house fills me with dread.”
“There you have it, Watson.” Holmes emptied his pipe into the coal scuttle. “Will you join us? Or do the delights of hearth and home prove too alluring?”
His tone stung, but I set aside my annoyance. “Of course I will come. Tonight I shall arrange to have my practice covered for a few days.” I nodded to McMahon. “I will meet you both at King’s Cross in the morning.”
“Mr Holmes, thank you. And you as well, Doctor.” McMahon rose and shook our hands. “I am exceedingly grateful to you.”
Once we had seen him out the door and into Mrs Hudson’s capable ministrations, Holmes turned to me.
“Sit down, my dear fellow. We shall have an early supper together and then you shall return home to make your arrangements and pack for the morrow, while I carry on a few inquiries regarding the McMahon family.” He rubbed his hands together, perhaps in unconscious emulation of his client. “I have the feeling this is a more complex affair than a howling chimney, Watson.”
