“Indeed?”
“Mutton chops, my pocket watch and Madame de Maintenon.”
“Pardon?” I said. “Madame de Maintenon?”
“The second wife of Louis XIV,” he explained, “though why this had any bearing on the matter is entirely beyond my reach.”
“How extraordinary!” I exclaimed.
Holmes appeared to be gazing intently at the fire coals. “She refused to give any explanation for having cut her hair?”
“None. I pressed her repeatedly on the point, but she would answer only in terms of mutton. At last I lost my temper and stormed out of the flat. When I returned several hours later, Violet had gone. I have not seen her since.” Mr. Oldershot stared down at his hands, his eyes rimmed with tears. “Mr. Holmes, I am at the end of my wits.”
Holmes had been leaning against the mantelpiece as our client finished this remarkable narrative. Now he began pacing a short line before the hearth, his hands clasped behind his back. His expression had changed little, but I, who knew his moods and habits so well, could see that his interest had been keenly aroused.
“Mutton chops, you say?”
“Yes, Mr. Holmes.”
He sent a cloud of pipe smoke toward the ceiling and looked after it for several moments. “Your case is not without features of interest,” he said at last.
“Will you help, Mr. Holmes? As to your fee, I’m afraid—”
Holmes gave a peremptory wave of his hand. “We shall discuss my fee upon a satisfactory resolution of the problem. At present I can do nothing. However, if you will return at 7:00 this evening, I believe I may be able to shed some light on the matter.”
“But I don’t—”
“Good day to you, sir. Dr. Watson will show you out.” Holmes turned abruptly and stretched out both hands to lean against the mantelpiece, his eyes fixed on a point at the center of the fire. I rose to conduct our visitor to the door.
“One last thing, Mr. Oldershot,” Holmes called over his shoulder.
“Yes?” The young man halted in the doorway.
“Are you especially fond of mutton?”
“Why, yes. I am, sir. But—”
“Very well, then. I shall have an answer for you this evening.” Holmes returned his attention to the fire.
I closed the door behind our visitor and turned to question Holmes further about the case. He refused to be drawn out, but launched instead into a lengthy discourse on the merits of body armour for front-line soldiers in South Africa.
“Of course, one objects to the added weight under trying conditions,” he informed me, “but this difficulty is easily surmounted. It is largely a question of—”
“Holmes,” I cried, with some asperity, “will you tell me nothing of Mr. Oldershot’s dilemma?”
He disappeared behind the Chinese screens which shaded his chemical deal table from the rest of the room. “Only the vital body centers need be covered,” he called cheerily, “so there would be no loss of mobility. You may set your mind at rest upon that point.”
“Holmes—”
“I will be occupied for most of the day, Watson,” he said, emerging from behind the screen. “Might I impose upon you to join me when Mr. Oldershot returns this evening?”
“Holmes, if you are going to the Copper Beeches to look for Mrs. Oldershot, I would not think of allowing you to go alone. Jephro Rucastle is still a dangerous man. If you’ll give me a moment, I’ll fetch my service revolver and—”
“Jephro Rucastle is dead, Watson.”
“What?”
“He died seven months ago, of influenza. I thought you knew.”
“But why did you not say?”
“If my surmises are correct, Mrs. Oldershot would have preferred that I remain silent. No, Watson, I shall not need you today.”
“But then where—?”
“After all,” he said, “there have been innumerable cases where a Bible, a cigarette case, or some other chance article has saved a man’s life by stopping a bullet. Why has this not set us scheming so as to do systematically what has so often been the result of a happy chance?” With this, he turned and disappeared down the stairs, leaving me gazing after him in confusion.
I was kept busy with my rounds for much of the day, and did not return to Baker Street until shortly before the hour of our appointment with Mr. Oldershot. I entered our rooms to find that Holmes had preceded me. “Ah, Watson!” cried he, emerging from behind the Chinese screens. “You are just in time!”
“Have you had any success?” I asked. “Have you located Mrs. Oldershot?”
“All in good time, dear fellow. I believe I hear our client’s tread upon the stair.”
He opened the door to admit our young client, who appeared even more downcast than he had been that morning. “Good evening, Mr. Oldershot!” cried Holmes with hearty good cheer. “Take a seat by the fire, there is a chill in the air this evening. Will you join me in a cigar?”
“That’s very kind of you, Mr. Holmes, but I won’t impose any further upon your hospitality. If you would please tell me—”
“A glass of sherry, perhaps?”
“Thank you, no. I apologize if I seem curt, Mr. Holmes, but I am on fire to know the results of your enquiries. Have you any news of my wife?”
“I have spoken with her at some length.”
“You have! Where is she?”
“I shall be pleased to tell you, of course,” Holmes said, cutting the end of a black lunkah. “But first I must ask you a question.”
“Anything!”
He lit a taper in the fire and used it to warm the end of his cigar. “I’m afraid the question is a rather intimate one.”
“If it will assist you in clearing this matter, I will answer as fully as I am able.”
“Very well. Tell me, Mr. Oldershot, do you love your wife?”
Our visitor sprang from his chair, his pale cheeks flashing an angry red. “Mr. Holmes! That is outrageous and insulting!”
Unperturbed, Holmes lit his cigar and let out a long stream of smoke. “Your wife believes that she has alienated your affections. She has concluded that you ceased to love her the moment you found that she had cut her hair.”
“Ridiculous!”
“Then why did you react with such violence at the sight of her shorn hair?”
“I’ve told you—I feared for her safety! I took it as an indication that she had entered into a renewed arrangement with her former employer!”
“Why did you not explain this to her last night?”
“I tried to do so. She would not hear me.”
“Are you certain that you made yourself understood? ‘Violet, what have you done—it is ruined, ruined!’ Were those not the words you used?”
“Ruined? I—I did not mean—I was not referring to her appearance! She cannot have thought—” Mr. Oldershot sank back into his chair. “Mr. Holmes, I believe I will take a glass of sherry, if you don’t mind. Thank you, Dr. Watson.” He took a sip from the glass I passed him as he struggled to collect his thoughts. “Mr. Holmes, if I did say such a thing, I am deeply ashamed. It was only the shock of the thing, you see. I did not mean that Violet had ruined her hair, I meant only that she had ruined the surprise I had planned for her. You see, when I happened across my wife talking to Mr. Rucastle—or the man I thought was Mr. Rucastle—I had just been shopping for her Christmas gift. She has long admired a particular set of tortoise shell combs in the window of a shop in the square, as they were just of a shade to flatter her particular coloring. Of course she never dreamed of owning them, but I could not resist, though it meant pawning my watch in the bargain. That watch had been a legacy from my grandfather, and was my most prized possession. So it was rather a blow, you see, to return home having traded the watch for the combs only to find that Violet no longer had any use for the combs. But if I spoke sharply—”
He broke off at the sound of a woman’s gasp. I turned to see the young lady I had known as Violet Hunter step from behind the Chinese scr
eens. She had the same bright, quick face that I remembered so well, freckled like a plover’s egg, and her newly-cropped hair was arranged in stylish ringlets. Mr. Oldershot was at her side in an instant. “Violet!” he cried. “Please forgive me. I—”
She placed a fingertip to his lips to silence him. “Don’t you understand, Henry? I sold my hair to buy a chain for your watch.”
“You—you what?”
“You’ve always seemed so ashamed of that old leather strap. I saw a magnificent gold chain at the shop in town, you see, just the thing for your grandfather’s watch, and I—”
“But—but how did you—?”
“I sold my hair to the Hair Goods shop. My type of hair is much in demand for a particular style of wig known as the Madame de Maintenon, so it fetched a very good price. It took me several days to make up my mind, and that’s why Mr. Harker—the gentleman from the shop—stopped us the other day, although of course I could not tell you so at the time. He dealt with me very fairly, I must say. There was even enough money left to purchase some nice mutton chops for our Christmas dinner. I tried to tell you all of this last night, but you were in too much of a state to hear.”
Mr. Oldershot stood for several moments clutching his wife’s hands. A slow tide of comprehension spread across his features, which gradually resolved itself into a broad, almost beatific smile. “You sold your hair to buy me a watch chain,” he said with quiet wonder, “and I sold my watch to buy combs for your hair. That beats everything, Violet. Truly it does.”
Holmes, who had watched this scene unfold with great merriment, stepped forward to ring the bell for Mrs. Hudson. “I believe we have brought your problem to a satisfactory conclusion, Mr. Oldershot. Now we would be most obliged if you would join us for a spot of dinner. You will find that Mrs. Hudson’s mutton is excellent. Afterward, you may wish to examine that parcel on the mantelpiece. It contains something I picked up at the pawn shop in Walsall.”
“Mr. Holmes,” said Mrs. Oldershot, favoring my companion with a radiant smile, “we cannot possibly repay your kindness.”
“Or compensate you for your services,” added her husband.
“You shall do both soon enough,” Holmes replied. “Earlier today you mentioned your literary aspirations, Mr. Oldershot. May I suggest that the events of the past two days might provide something in the way of inspiration? Of course, you may not wish to publicize these events over your own name, as this might cause some little embarrassment for your wife, but a simple pen name would serve your purpose nicely. Perhaps an inversion of your own name?” He paused to consider the matter.
“Yes,” he said, “I think the name ‘O. Henry’ should do nicely.”
THE HUMAN MYSTERY
Tanith Lee
This story is respectfully dedicated to the memory of the late, unique Jeremy Brett, a fine actor, and a definitive Sherlock Holmes.
1
Although I have written so often of the genius of Mr. Sherlock Holmes, a reader may have noticed, it was not always to Holmes’s satisfaction. With that in mind, I suspect the reader may also have wondered if, on occasion, certain exploits were never committed to paper. This I confess to be true.
The causes are various. In some instances the investigation had been of so delicate a nature that, sworn to secrecy myself, as was Holmes, I could not break my vow. Elsewhere Holmes had perhaps acted alone, and never fully enlightened me, due mostly, I believe, to a certain boredom he often exhibited, when a case was just then complete. Other adventures proved ultimately dull, and dullness I have never readily associated with Sherlock Holmes.
Otherwise a small body of events remain, rogues of their kind. They would not please the more devoted reader, as indeed at the time they had not pleased Holmes, or myself. I do not mean to imply here any failure, anything dishonourable or paltry on the part of Holmes. Although he has his faults, that glowing brain of his, when once electrically charged, transcends them. In this, or in any age, I daresay, he would be a great man. Nevertheless, certain rare happenings have bruised his spirit, and in such a way that I, his chronicler, have let them lie.
A year has gone by, however. An insignificant item in the newspaper brings me to my pen. No other may ever read what it writes. It seems to me, even so, that what was a distasteful, sad curiosity, has become a tragedy.
Holmes, although he will, almost undoubtedly, have seen the item, has not alluded to it. I well remember his sometime comment that more recent work pushes from his memory the ventures of the past. It is therefore possible he has forgotten the case of the Caston Gall.
One winter afternoon, a few days before Christmas, Holmes and I returned to our rooms from some business near Trafalgar Square. The water in the fountain had been frozen, and I had great sympathy with it. The Baker Street fire was blazing, and the lamps soon lit, for the afternoon was already spent and very dark, with a light snow now falling.
Holmes regarded the snow from the window a moment, then turning, held out to me a letter. “I wonder if the weather will deter our visitor?”
“Which visitor is that?”
“This arrived earlier. I saved it to show you on our return.”
Dear Mr. Holmes,
I should like to call upon you this afternoon at three o’clock. Hopefully, this will be of no inconvenience to you. Should it prove otherwise, I will return at some more favourable hour.
I looked up. “How unusual, Holmes. A client who fails to assume you are always in residence, awaiting them!”
“Indeed. I also was struck by that.”
The letter continued:
I am divided in my mind whether or not to ask your opinion. The matter at hand seems strange and foreboding to me, but I am acutely conscious your time is often filled, and perhaps I am fanciful. Finally I have decided to set the facts before you, that you may be the judge. Please believe me, Mr. Holmes, if you can assure me I have no cause for fear, I shall depart at once with a light heart.
“Good heavens!” I exclaimed.
Holmes stood by the window. “She sets great store by my opinion, it seems. She will allow me to decide her fate merely on hearsay.”
“She? Ah yes, a lady.” The signature read “Eleanor Caston.” It was a strong, educated hand, and the paper of good quality.
“What do you make of it, Watson?” Holmes asked, as was his wont.
I told him my views on the paper, and added, “I think she is quite young, although not a girl.”
“Ah, do you say so. And why?”
“The writing is formed, but there is none of the stiffness in it which tends to come with age. Nor does she seem querulous. She has all the courteous thought of someone used to getting her own way. Conversely, she knows of and trusts you. Wisdom, but with a bold spirit. A young woman.”
“Watson, I stand in awe.”
“I suppose,” I added, not quite liking his tone, “an elderly lady will now enter the room.”
“Probably not. Mrs. Hudson caught sight of her earlier. But do go on.”
“I can think of nothing else. Except I have used this writing paper myself. It is good but hardly extravagant.”
“Two other things are apparent,” said Holmes, leaning to the letter. “She wears a ring slightly too large for her, on her right hand. It has slipped and caught in the ink, here and here, do you see? And she does not, as most of her sex do, favour scent.”
I sniffed the paper. “No, it seems not.”
“For that reason, I think, Watson, you at first deduced the letter had been penned by a man. A faint floweriness is often present in these cases. Besides, her writing is well-formed but a trifle masculine.”
Below, I heard the bell ring. “And here she is.”
Presently Eleanor Caston was admitted to the room.
She was slim, and quite tall, her movements extremely graceful. She wore a tawny costume, trimmed with marten fur, and a hat of the same material. Her complexion was white and clear, and she had fine eyes of a dark grey. Her hair was de
cidedly the crowning glory, luxuriant, elegantly dressed, and of a colour not unlike polished mahogany. I was surprised to note, when she had taken off her gloves, that contrary to Holmes’s statement, she wore no rings.
Although her appearance was quite captivating, she was not, I thought, a woman one would especially notice. But I had not been in her company more than five minutes, before I realized hers was a face that seemed constantly changeable. She would, in a few moments, pass from a certain prettiness to an ordinariness to vivid flashes of beauty. It was quite bewitching.
“Thank you, Mr. Holmes, Doctor Watson, for allowing me this interview today. Your time is a precious commodity.”
Holmes had sat down facing her. “Time is precious to all of us, Miss Caston. You seem to have some fear for yours.”
Until that moment she had not looked directly at him. Now she did so, and she paled. Lowering her eyes, she said, rather haltingly, “You must forgive me. This is, as you suspect, perhaps a matter of life or death to me.”
Without taking his eyes from her, Holmes signalled to me. I rose at once and poured for her a glass of water. She thanked me, sipped it, and set it aside.
She said, “I have followed many of your cases, Mr. Holmes, in the literature of Doctor Watson.”
“Literature—ah, yes,” Holmes remarked.
“The curiosity of it is, therefore, that I seem almost to be acquainted with you. Which enables me to speak freely.”
“Then by all means, Miss Caston, speak.”
“Until this summer, I have lived an uneventful life. My work has been in the libraries of others, interesting enough, if not highly remunerative. Then I was suddenly informed I had come into a house and an amount of money which, to me, represents a fortune. The idea I need no longer labour for others, but might indulge in study, books and music on my own account, was a boon beyond price. You see, a very distant relative, a sort of aunt I had never known I had, died last Christmas, and left all her property to me, as her only relation. You will note, I am not in mourning. As I say, I did not know her, and I dislike hyprocrisy. I soon removed to the large house near Chislehurst, with its grounds and view of fields and woodland. Perhaps you can envisage my happiness.”
More Holmes for the Holidays Page 20
