by Otto Penzler
“I thought, then, that I was dreaming, for I heard voices. I opened my eyes to find three passengers standing over me, Mr. Bennett, Mr. Winton, and Dr. Smithfield. They too had God’s grace to come to land. The doctor looked me over and found me as fit as they, so we set out to explore our haven from the sea.
“It was a barren place, sir, and I am sorry to say that my praises of the Lord died on my lips. The island was small, and, but for some pools of brackish water and juiceless-looking bushes, it was dead too. We must have walked the island twice ’round, searching for a way by which we would live. We saw none.
“We talked over our said fortune among ourselves, again and again. Mr. Winton held his faith steadfast then. Rescuers would find us soon, he said. The others were not so hopeful. That first night, as I lay shivering in the mistladen air, I dreamed I was again in the sea, and fishes swam into my mouth for dinner. It had been only one day, then, since eating, and I was brave.
“The next day the sun baked us, and we grew mightily thirsty. Dr. Smithfield searched our clothing and found a piece of jerky I’d forgotten, in a pocket. He ate it quickly before we could protest. ‘I’m the doctor,’ he said when he’d finished, as if to explain. We decided to try our luck at the pools, although the doctor protested. We drank greedily that day, though the water stank of rotting stuff, and when we were sick that night, heaving our empty stomachs, the doctor scolded us for not listening to him.
“The days passed, sir, how, I do not wish to recall. We ate the roots of the scraggly brush. We drank the waters of the pools to keep alive, ’though we wished we were dead when the heat hit us after. Finally, we were done—at our ropes’ ends. Even the bushes had been exhausted. God had plucked us from the sea to starve.
“Then the doctor told us his notion. I wish we’d died then, Mr. Holmes. But we listened. The doctor told us of tribes in Africa, in faraway lands and on deserted islands, that ate human flesh. He told us of its properties of vitality, of the precious fluids it contained. Then he proposed that we eat our own flesh.
“Mr. Winton laughed madly at his idea. Mr. Bennett cursed the doctor for a blasphemer. I—I listened, Mr. Holmes. My belly listened.
“The doctor proposed that one of us sacrifice an arm. Rationing it out, a little at a time, a man’s arm, he said, big as we were (though not so meaty, then, I swear), would feed us for three days. Then, if we must, another, and then…Well, even I could listen no more. The doctor shut up.
“The next day was hotter than ever. The sweat ran down my brow in little trickles, and I lapped it up at the corners of my mouth. The doctor started in again. This time we all listened. The doctor proposed to remove a left arm of one of us (he being the surgeon having to do it, of course), and we should thereby live until rescue. We weakly debated it again. Finally, we all agreed, and we drew lots to decide who should first lose his limb. I lost. In the twilight that night, when it was cool enough to move about, the doctor cut off my left arm with my seaman’s knife. I fainted from the pain, I must admit. The doctor had tied up the wound as best he could, but I bled like a stuck pig. In my delirium, I felt my life flowing from me, and I prayed for death.
“But I did not die, and the next morning I ate. I ate, sir, of my own flesh, with the help of Mr. Winton and Mr. Bennett. We all ate. The doctor took the bigger portion, so as to be able to save us all, he said. We did not begrudge him then, for he had saved us—so I thought then.”
Tiptree paused, clutching his left shoulder. “It burns at night, Mr. Holmes, burns like the devil is stabbing it with a hot poker.” He lay back on the divan, then continued. “We ate the meat slowly, parceling it out to put off the day we knew was coming. We sucked the juices from it, savoring each morsel. By God, I am ashamed to say that it tasted—good. But the day came, and it was gone. We agreed, then, to repeat the vital surgery. This time, however, I protested that the doctor draw straws with the rested, having seen him continually take more for himself than the others. He protested violently, and the others reluctantly agreed with him. But I would not be swerved. I made him take an oath that if we were rescued, he too would submit to removal of a limb, so that he might not profit from our misery. He swore, the blackguard, and then he cut!
“After each of us had lost an arm, we despaired that our bloody pain was just a beginning to further dismemberment. Then, hope against hope, we were rescued! When we sighted the ship on the horizon, we ran, in a burst of lunatic energy, down to the sea, to throw ourselves toward the ship. They set a boat for us, and it struck me, as the boat pulled across the waves, what we had done. I turned to the others and babbled my fear and shame. The doctor quickly took up my cause, and finally we all swore not to breathe a word of what had transpired on our island. I made the doctor repeat his oath, then, too.
“They picked us up and nursed us on their way to London then. They eyed us queerly, for we were a strange bearded bunch of madmen, but we said not a word of what had happened, save of the wreck itself. Our island meat diet must have done us well, for by the time we reached port, we were all well enough to be set free in London. Before we left the ship, I took the doctor aside. He liked it little, I could tell, for now I was mingling with my betters in front of the crew and passengers. But I gripped his neck and reminded him of his oath and arranged to meet him by the waterfront last Monday night, two weeks after we docked. He was to show up there and prove to me—I would act for us three—that he’d mutilated himself as well.
“I thought of little else, Mr. Holmes, for that fortnight, except our vengeance. Perhaps I should have fallen on my knees and praised God for sending us the doctor to save us there. Instead, I paced my room, cursing the doctor, waiting, waiting for our meeting. I took to detective work, then, searching out his offices. I followed him secretly, watching for the deed to be done.”
“Finally the night came. I went to the appointed spot and paced again, waiting, waiting. He came, then, late. He was clad in a greatcoat, and his left sleeve hung limp. My poisoned brain began to rejoice. He carried under his right arm a long, narrow box. ‘Here!’ he said, placing it on the ground, then turned to go. ‘Wait!’ I cried. ‘I must see it!’ I flung back the lid of the casket and exclaimed with satisfaction as I saw the severed arm within. I looked at him, then, with exultation, and to my horror, I saw his greatcoat swung carelessly open, and beneath it, his left arm strapped to his body. My brain reeled, and I leapt then, seizing him by the collar. In a moment, before he could cry out, I released him, plucked my knife from my boot, and stabbed him. My arm worked uncontrollably, stabbing again and again, and it was not until he crumpled against me that I realized my deed. I quickly wiped my knife in the dirt and pushed the box with the horrible false arm deep under a nearby building, for in my madness I feared the arm might link me to him. In a moment of clarity, I seized his wallet, thinking I could make it appear robbery. Then I ran with demons chasing me.
“I remember little else since then, Mr. Holmes. I wandered nearby, and some Samaritan, taking pity on a cripple perhaps, dropped a guinea in my pocket. For that, sir, I bought peace here until you came.”
“We will not disturb your peace again,” said Holmes, as he pulled me from my chair and turned to go. “Opium has become the religion of the masses, I fear, Watson,” he said, “but for some, Heaven must wait too long.”
In the cab, I could not be silent. “What a piteous wretch, Holmes! And so young!”
“Perhaps he will kill his pain and rejoin the living someday.”
“However did you find him, Holmes?” I asked.
“Quite elementary, Watson, when one has the resources of my Baker Street Irregulars at one’s disposal. I had Wiggins direct a search of every gin-mill and pipe den near the waterfront. I fully expected the man to be drowning himself in one sea or another.”
“But why did you suspect him of Smithfield’s murder, Holmes?”
“Come, Watson, the connection was certain clear. I must confess that when I first saw the contents of the mysterious box, I su
spected deviltry—real deviltry, Watson, compared with Black Masses and the lot. But then Hopkins found my deceased carpenter for me—a patient of Smithfield’s, as I suspected. His arm in a box similar to that with which the doctor was seen—well, the box had to be Smithfield’s. But why would he bring it? Obviously, to give someone, but for what purpose? And why was his own arm bandaged?
“It was then that I knew we must trace the White Star. Smithfield’s agitation commenced with his return, and he would not speak of the trip to his assistant. Why? Morse’s story gave me the final link. Actually, though Tiptree believes he has sinned originally, his cannibalism tale is not new. I believe the King’s Bench heard a similar case in ’95. But the bargain element was unique, and until I surmised that, the connection was obscure.”
Holmes puffed meditatively on his pipe. “The ways of nature are strange. She gives life, and she takes it. Sometimes we meddle too freely with her course, Watson, but we never bend her permanently from her appointed goal.”
The Case of the Unseen Hand
DONALD THOMAS
BEST KNOWN FOR his first-rate pastiches of Sherlock Holmes, Donald Serrell Thomas (1935– ) has also written a well-received series about the Victorian policeman Sergeant Verity under the Francis Selwyn pseudonym, among his long list of published works.
As an expert on Victorian times, especially its crime and criminals, Thomas has written various biographies, such as Swinburne, the Poet in His World (1979), Robert Browning: A Life Within Life (1982), and Lewis Carroll: A Portrait with Background (1996), and histories, notably The Victorian Underworld, with Henry Mayhew (1998), which was nominated for a Dagger by the (British) Crime Writers’ Association.
His Victorian-era mystery novels under the Selwyn name began with Sergeant Verity and the Cracksman (1974; U.S. title: Cracksman on Velvet), followed by five additional adventures. Even more successful has been the series about Holmes, enhanced by the author’s knowledgeable background of the time in which the stories are set, written under his own name.
The first of the ongoing Holmes series was The Secret Cases of Sherlock Holmes (1997), followed by Sherlock Holmes and the Running Noose (2001; U.S. title: Sherlock Holmes and the Voice from the Crypt), The Execution of Sherlock Holmes (2007), Sherlock Holmes and the King’s Evil (2009), Sherlock Holmes and the Ghosts of Bly (2010), and Death on a Pale Horse: Sherlock Holmes on Her Majesty’s Secret Service (2013).
“The Case of the Unseen Hand” was first published in The Secret Cases of Sherlock Holmes (London, Macmillan, 1997).
THE CASE OF THE UNSEEN HAND
Donald Thomas
I
IN THAT SERIES of events which I call “The Case of the Unseen Hand,” everything appeared to turn against us from the outset. Yet, at its conclusion, Sherlock Holmes enjoyed a private success that was seldom matched in any of his other investigations.
Readers of “The Golden Pince-Nez,” a narrative made public in The Return of Sherlock Holmes, may recall my reference to the earlier triumph of the great detective in tracking and arresting Huret, the so-called “Boulevard Assassin” of Paris, in 1894. Holmes was rewarded for his services with a handwritten letter from the President of France and by the Order of the Legion of Honour. The presidential letter was written in January 1895 by Félix Faure, who had just then succeeded to the leadership of his country at a most difficult moment, following the assassination of President Carnot and a few months of unhappy tenure by Casimir-Périer.
Holmes had a natural sympathy for Félix Faure, as a man who had risen from humble circumstances to the highest position in France. It was unfortunate for Monsieur Faure, however, that a month before he assumed office, Captain Alfred Dreyfus, a young probationary officer of the French General Staff, had been condemned by court martial to life imprisonment in the steaming and unbroken heat of Devil’s Island for betraying his country’s military secrets to Germany. In the aftermath of the trial there were rioting crowds in the streets of Paris, demanding the execution of Dreyfus. The President himself was attacked in public and spat upon for his leniency. The mob threatened death to any man courageous enough to doubt the guilt of “the traitor.” Dreyfus was first “degraded” on the parade ground of the École Militaire and then transported to that infamous penal colony off the French Guianan coast of South America. He was confined to a tiny stone hut, day and night, in the breathless heat of Cayenne Île du Diable. Though escape was impossible from such a place, his ankles were locked in double irons attached to a bar across the foot of his cot. His true punishment was not imprisonment for life but death by slow torture. A firing-squad would have been a more humane sentence.
The facts alleged against Alfred Dreyfus were that he had sold his country’s secrets to Colonel Max von Schwartzkoppen, Military Attaché at the German Embassy in Paris. The court martial was held in camera but the details of the accusations were public knowledge. The paper, which his prosecutors insisted was in the hand of Dreyfus, conveyed to Colonel Schwartzkoppen specifications of the new and highly secret 120 mm gun, its performance and deployment; the reorganisation plan of the French Artillery, and the Field Artillery Firing Manual. Only an officer of the General Staff could have held such information.
Sherlock Holmes, like Émile Zola and a host of impartial men and women, never believed in the guilt of Captain Dreyfus. My friend’s skill in graphology convinced him that the handwriting on the letter to Colonel Schwartzkoppen was not that of Alfred Dreyfus but, perhaps, a half-successful attempt at imitation. Like Monsieur Zola, Holmes also deplored the bigotry of the prosecution, the whole manner of the court martial and condemnation. Years later, our Dreyfusards were proved right. Colonel Hubert Henry of the Deuxième Bureau and Lemercier-Picard, who had both forged further “evidence” to deepen the guilt of Dreyfus after his condemnation, committed suicide.
In the years that followed our adventure, the innocence of Dreyfus and the guilt of a certain Major Count Ferdinand Walsin-Esterhazy were to be established. Restored to his command, as a gallant officer of the Great War, Captain Dreyfus was to join Sherlock Holmes as a Chevalier of the Legion of Honour. The manner in which justice was done at last forms the background to my account of our own case.
II
In January 1899, when the presidency of Félix Faure and the imprisonment of Captain Dreyfus had already lasted for four years, Holmes and I travelled to Paris on behalf of the British government. Our confidential mission, which had been warmly supported by our friend Lestrade at Scotland Yard, was to meet the great Bertillon. Alphonse Bertillon was a former professor of anthropology, now head of the Identification Bureau at the Préfecture de Police. The “Bertillon System” had enabled the French police to identify a man or woman uniquely by measuring certain bony structures of the body, notably those of the head. It was claimed in Paris that these measurements would render all criminal disguises and false identities futile. The objection at Scotland Yard was that such a system was far too complicated for general use. In England, Sherlock Holmes and Sir Francis Galton had been working upon the simpler method of identification by fingerprints, which Bertillon had also pioneered. They had been set upon the task by Mr. Asquith, as Home Secretary in 1893. At first their opponents argued that no jury would be persuaded to convict a defendant upon such a whimsical theory. Twelve years later, however, the Stratton brothers were to be hanged for the Deptford Street murder on the evidence of a single thumbprint.
When we set off for Paris in January 1899, it was our mission to persuade Professor Bertillon to join his efforts with ours in championing this simpler method of criminal detection. One of Bertillon’s original objections had been that a great many surfaces retain no visible fingerprint. Holmes had answered this when he devised in our Baker Street rooms a system for making these unseen or “latent” fingerprints visible, by the use of silver nitrate powder or iodine fumes. Bertillon then demanded of him how such evidence was to be displayed in court. In reply, Holmes had painstakingly adapted a small Kodak camera by addi
ng an open box to the front, so that the lens always looked down on the fingerprint from a uniform distance and was therefore permanently in focus. By this means, any number of photographs of a fingerprint might be made for a criminal trial. He had brought his prototype of the camera to display to the great French criminologist. All the same, there was no sign as yet that such advances would persuade Professor Bertillon to change his mind.
On a chill but windless January day, we crossed from Folkestone to Boulogne by the Lord Warden steamer. Holmes stood at the ship’s rail, his sharp profile framed by his ear-flapped travelling-cap. As soon as we cast off from Folkestone harbour pier, it seemed that his interest in his French adversary underwent a significant change. Fingerprints and skull measurements were discarded from our conversation. He unfolded a sheet of paper and handed it to me.
“The affair of Captain Dreyfus, Watson. Read this. It is a private note from my disgraced friend Colonel Picquart, late of the Information Branch of the Deuxième Bureau. Even in this matter it seems that we cannot escape the shade of Bertillon. Picquart tells me that the professor is immoveable, convinced that the incriminating letter of 1894 is in the hand of Captain Dreyfus. For a man of Bertillon’s capability to believe such a thing is quite beyond my comprehension. Unfortunately, however, his reputation as a criminal expert will count for far more in a courtroom than all Monsieur Zola’s denunciations of injustice.”
He shook his head and gave a quiet sigh, staring across the Channel. The sea lay calm as wrinkled satin towards the sands of France, pale and chill on the horizon of that winter afternoon.
