by Otto Penzler
Her husband and his partner, who had seemed about to demur, were swayed by her appeal, and the transaction was agreed.
“Say,” added Mrs. Briggs, “why don’t your friends come and join us here? They’ll be safer in company than alone.”
I doubted this, as Bianca’s pursuers would surely be haunting the area of the waterfront to foil any attempt at escape. We finally agreed that I would bring the passengers to the lodging house after dark on the following night, so that they might board the ship just before she sailed on the morning tide.
At Briggs’s invitation, I accompanied him to the ship, where I met the crew, assuring myself that all were genuine seamen, and well-known to their captain. In particular the mate Richardson seemed a fine example of an honest, fearless Yankee mariner.
Returning to my apartment, I found Bianca fully recovered from her ordeal. As she attempted to thank me in pretty, broken English, I was able to observe her properly for the first time. She had the flawless, creamy skin and clear grey eyes which can often be observed in northern Italy, but combined with such perfect features as I have never seen before or since. Long, silky black hair, and a lissome figure, just above the medium height, completed the picture. As she became conscious of my gaze, she lowered her eyes, and the colour which flooded her cheeks seemed to add a further dimension to her beauty.
With Luca’s assistance, she described to me how she had been waylaid as she rushed out of the palace, and confined in the cellar of a house in Madrid, from which she was taken to Vigo, where she and her captors embarked for New York. They had not used her ill, as they hoped to force her to make public a statement discrediting the King. This the brave girl had refused to do, but the constant brow-beating which she received because of this, together with her prolonged incarceration and the frequent soporifics administered in order to prevent her calling for help, had no doubt accentuated the natural pallor of her features.
After dark on the following evening a cab took us to Captain Briggs’s lodging. As we approached, I noticed three sinister figures lurking on the other side of the road. It was clear that the house was being watched, and that my plan must be changed. As the cab halted, I quickly told the driver to drive to the rear of the building after we had alighted. We entered the lodging house, and I paused to warn Briggs of the watchers outside.
“I reckon I can take care of myself,” said he with a laugh.
There was no time for argument; we ran swiftly to the back of the house, and jumped into the cab, which was waiting outside the back door, which fortunately did not appear to be watched. I ordered the cab-driver to take us to the Mary Celeste, and we boarded the ship. The mate, although surprised to see us, made us welcome, and installed Bianca in the captain’s cabin, which it had been agreed she should share with Mrs. Briggs and the child.
I explained to Richardson what had happened, and that I feared that the captain and his family might be at grave risk from our pursuers.
“Let us go to his lodging and deal with the ruffians outside,” said he. “I will give instructions to the men to guard the ship, and the lady. Then we will be off.”
Luca remained, with drawn sword, outside the cabin door, and Richardson and I made our way swiftly to the lodging house. There was no sign of the watchers.
With grim foreboding we entered the house. The door of the room occupied by the captain and his family was ajar. As we entered the room a dreadful sight met our eyes. By the light of a fire which was even then spreading to the curtains we could see that Briggs and his wife had been savagely stabbed to death as they slept. As we recoiled in horror, the dry wood of the timber wall caught fire and the room became a sheet of flame. We turned to flee, and then the mate caught sight of the child, peacefully asleep in a cot by her murdered parents’ bed.
“Sophia!” he cried, leaping forward through the flames, and snatching the child from the cot, he followed me out of the burning house.
As we gained the roadway, the whole building became enveloped in flames. None of the other occupants can have had any chance of survival.
Soberly, we returned to the ship. Although we kept a keen lookout, we could detect no signs of pursuit, and it seemed likely to me that the murderers could have been deceived in the darkness, thinking that they had killed Bianca and Luca in the house, or that they had perished in the conflagration intended to hide the crime.
Once aboard, we held a council of war. Bianca took the bewildered and weeping child into her arms and attempted to console her. Richardson, once we had told him the whole story, suggested that we should proceed with the voyage as planned, and I was inclined to agree, as any attempt to report the murders and arson would inevitably cause us to be detained indefinitely in New York, and would undoubtedly expose Bianca and Luca to the publicity which they were so desperate to avoid.
“But what shall we do with the child?” asked Luca.
Bianca looked up with flashing eyes.
“Because of me her parents die,” she said fervently. “I will take her and give her a new life!”
“We both will,” said Luca, and took her hand.
She lifted her eyes to him with a brilliant smile which said more than words could.
IV
Sherlock Holmes paused at this point, and puffed reflectively at his pipe.
“If I might make a deduction of my own at this point, Holmes,” I said, somewhat mischievously, “your description of the girl, Bianca, seems to indicate that you were considerably attracted to her.”
“You must remember that I was very young,” said Holmes tartly. “In any case the difference between us—”
“You mean because she was of the nobility—”
“No, Watson, because she was by far my intellectual inferior. But let me proceed with my story.”
—
The Mary Celeste sailed with the morning tide. The next two weeks were uneventful, if any crossing of the Atlantic by sailing ship in winter can be said to be uneventful. Bianca and the child Sophia became great friends, and the ship frequently rang with their merry laughter. There was no sign of pursuit, yet I was not entirely at ease. It seemed likely that our pursuers would not long be deceived, and would find some way to follow us, and I spent many long hours on deck scanning the horizon through a telescope.
As it happened, however, it was not I who made the first sighting. As we approached the island of Santa Maria, which is the southernmost of the Azores, there was a cry from the other side of the deck. It was Bianca.
“A monster! A monster rises from the sea!”
I ran to her side. A great grey mass was emerging from the waves—your hypothetical monster, Watson. It was only a few yards away, and I could see that it was no sea-monster, but a man-made construction. Without doubt it was a submarine vessel, such as are now being constructed by all the great navies in the world, but at that time it was, as far as I knew, merely an inventor’s pipe-dream. Was it friend or foe? We were not left long in doubt.
With a clanking sound, a hatch on the upper surface of the vessel opened, and a bearded face peered forth.
“Ees the brigantina Mary Celeste? Señor Holmes accompanied by two friends of the King of Espain?” it enquired cautiously.
“Who are you?” I called out.
“I am Don Narciso Monturiol, and this is my invento the submarino, the Ictíneo III. I have been charged by the King to escort you to where you wish to go.”
“How did you know that we were on this ship?” I persisted, still a little suspicious.
“The King has received a message from you, from Lisboa.”
I breathed a sigh of relief. My message had arrived safely.
“We welcome your escort, Don Narciso,” I cried.
Monturiol and I agreed that my companions and I should remain on board the Mary Celeste, as the submarine would be rather uncomfortable, especially for a young lady and a child. He would patrol in our vicinity and report to us if he detected any vessel following us.
A fe
w days after we had left the Azores behind, the submarine again surfaced near us. By this time, the weather had worsened considerably, with high seas and poor visibility, but Monturiol was able to make us understand that there was a brigantine following closely on our course, and that he proposed to take Bianca and Luca aboard.
“If the ship indeed carries our pursuers,” said Luca, “then anyone left aboard the Mary Celeste is doomed, for in their fury that we have escaped them they will surely kill all those who have assisted us.”
“You are right,” said Richardson. “Can we not all be carried by the underwater vessel? We could then leave them to chase an empty ship, giving us more time to make our escape.”
Monturiol confirmed that there was sufficient room in the submarine for us and the crew, and proceeded to attempt to bring his vessel alongside our ship. Because of the gale and the high seas, this proved extremely difficult. Twice the submarine came alongside, and on both occasions was flung violently against the bows, gouging deep strips out of the timber with its steel fins.
Finally, seeing that any further attempt was likely to endanger the submarine, Richardson shouted to the vessel to stand off: we would lower the ship’s boat and row across to it.
This was done with great difficulty. More than once the boat was almost swamped by the waves, but eventually we reached the submarine. First the child and then Bianca were pulled through the hatch into safety; then Luca clambered in. As he turned to give me his hand in assistance, a tremendous wave hit the submarine, driving it into the boat, which was crushed, and all those in it were engulfed by the waves. I received a blow on the head, and was barely conscious of all this, and only afterwards was I told how Luca had kept his grip on my arm through it all and had dragged me to safety. We circled the area for some time, but no trace of the crew did we find. My good friend Richardson and his men had given their lives for us. Then the shape of the pursuing brigantine began to loom up through the mist, and Monturiol gave the order to dive.
“What was the name of the ship which you sighted?” I asked the inventor.
“The Dei Gratia,” said he.
As our journey proceeded, I questioned Monturiol about his marvellous vessel, and found him most willing to expound on his invention.
“For more than one decade I have worked,” he said, “and I started with a small wooden vessel driven by pedals; after, I build a big one, with steam engine, but that one also could only work in calm water, in harbour, and the Ministry of Marine are not interested. So I have worked for years on this third submarino, which will travel under the ocean.”
“And very successful you have been!” I exclaimed.
“Alas no,” said the inventor sadly. “Ictíneo is leaking badly after the heavy seas and the collision with your ship; she is taking in much water, and will be hard-pressed to bring us to the Espanish coast. Fear not,” he added. “We shall be safe. But Ictíneo will never sail again, and the Navy will again pour scorn on my efforts. This will be my last submarino.”
“Never fear,” I rejoined. “If not you, someone else will take up your work, and perfect it.”
—
“And I was right, Watson,” added Sherlock Holmes.
—
A few years later, one Isaac Peral, a compatriot of Monturiol’s, built an improved submarine, and since then many other countries have followed suit, and the submarine is now an important part of the world’s navies.
Monturiol was true to his word, and landed us all safely and secretly at a small port near Cadiz, from where, with the help of letters which he carried from the King, Monturiol was able to arrange for a fast frigate of the Spanish Navy to take Bianca and Luca to Genoa, while I hastened to Madrid to report to King Amadeo.
“I am deeply grateful to you, Mr. Holmes,” said Amadeo. “And I am happy that the wrong which I did has been righted. It is only just that I should have gained no benefit from all this. In a month or two I shall abdicate and return to Italy. From what you tell me, it seems that I may well be able to attend my cousin’s wedding!”
While in Madrid I heard that the Mary Celeste had been taken into Gibraltar by the crew of the Dei Gratia, who had obviously decided to try to make a profit out of the affair. More disquieting news was that Captain Winchester had been called to Gibraltar to testify. I felt sure that he intended to keep his promise to say nothing of our transaction, but feared that the lawyers might wheedle out of him more than he intended to say. I travelled south again, to Gibraltar, and attended the court in disguise. Afterwards, I revealed myself to Winchester and learned from him that the deaths of Captain and Mrs. Briggs had passed unnoticed, as he alone knew that they had been staying in the ill-fated hotel, and it was assumed in New York that they had sailed on the Mary Celeste. Although he assured me that he would stand firm and say nothing, I thought it best to suggest to him that the court intended to arrest him for complicity in the murder of the crew of the Mary Celeste. He took fright and fled to America, taking no further part in the case.
The Dei Gratia sailed on to Genoa, even while the Admiralty Court was hearing the case, and much to the annoyance of the Judge Advocate. The Republican ruffians, knowing the proposed destination of the Mary Celeste, presumably suspected that Bianca and Luca, if they had survived, would make their way to that port, and were determined to have their revenge on them. Their deductions were correct as it happened, but the delay in Gibraltar meant that Luca and the Genoese carabinieri were waiting for them when they arrived, and the scoundrels paid the ultimate penalty for their crimes. The ship and its corrupt crew returned to Gibraltar, where the court obviously had serious doubts as to the bona fides of the salvagers, but nothing could be proved, and the Judge had to be satisfied with granting only a minuscule salvage award.
—
“Ah, yes, Watson, one other point. There was a ship’s cat. It too found its way to safety—in the arms of Miss Sophia Briggs who, by the way, was adopted by Bianca and Luca D’Este after their marriage. She is now the Duchess of——.”
The Adventure of the Curious Canary
BARRY DAY
NOTED FOR HIS career as an actor and the author of numerous books about the theater, literary figures, and entertainment celebrities, Barry Stuart Day also was one of the driving forces behind the reconstruction of Shakespeare’s Globe Playhouse on London’s Bankside, an experience about which he wrote This Wooden “O”: Shakespeare’s Globe Reborn: Achieving an American’s Dream (1996), which featured an introduction by John Gielgud.
Among his other books are several in which his scholarship and perseverance produced such works as The Letters of Noël Coward (2007) and several charming collections of quotations: Noël Coward: A Life in Quotes (1999), Oscar Wilde: A Life in Quotes (2000), P. G. Wodehouse in His Own Words (2001), and Sherlock Holmes: In His Own Words and in the Words of Those Who Knew Him (2003).
He is the author of five novels about Sherlock Holmes: Sherlock Holmes and the Shakespeare Globe Murders (1997), Sherlock Holmes and the Copycat Murders (2000), Sherlock Holmes and the Alice in Wonderland Murders (2001), Sherlock Holmes and the Apocalypse Murders (2001), and Sherlock Holmes and the Seven Deadly Sins Murders (2002).
“The Adventure of the Curious Canary” was first published in Murder, My Dear Watson, edited by Martin H. Greenberg, Jon Lellenberg, and Daniel Stashower (New York, Carroll & Graf, 2002).
THE ADVENTURE OF THE CURIOUS CANARY
Barry Day
“TELL ME, HOLMES, do you believe there is any such thing as the perfect crime?”
We were sitting in our rooms in 221B at a very loose end indeed. As an indication of the depth of his boredom, the world’s most famous consulting detective was reduced to turning the detritus of the morning’s newspapers into paper darts and launching them into the fire Mrs. Hudson had lit earlier in that morning to ward off autumn’s first chill. More than once I had had reason to fear my friend’s somewhat uncertain aim would end in a conflagration which would be recorded in the next day’s e
quivalents—“HOLMES AND FRIEND PERISH IN MYSTERY BLAZE—ARSON SUSPECTED.”
When I had almost forgotten the question—which had been asked more for something to fill the silence than anything else—Holmes finally answered.
“I am inclined to believe, Watson, that the only crimes that remain unsolved are the ones that have not been called to my attention.”
As I glanced in his direction, I saw the small twitch of irony catch the corner of his mouth. It was an expression one had to be quick to spot and interpret. The next moment the face had regained its classically sculpted lines, something poised between Roman senator and an American Indian.
“I presume you are thinking of the icicle used as a dagger that subsequently melts?” he continued.
“Yes, or what about the case of the Barchester beekeeper who appeared to have been stung to death, until you proved that his wife had administered a fatal injection before dragging his body next to the hive and inciting the bees to attack. I should say that was a close run thing. If you hadn’t been able to prove that the fellow was dead before the bees stung him, she’d have got away with it.”
“A simple enough deduction for one versed in the kiss of the needle,” Holmes replied, casting me a covert glance in expectation of a reaction. But I am too old a soldier to rise to such an obvious lure. Seeing that his ploy had failed, he continued. “And an insult to such a sophisticated species. One of these days I fully intend to…” But then another thought seemed to strike him.
“But, my dear chap, I confess I’m surprised you have failed to mention the infamous Anitnegra Affair—a story for which, like the Giant Rat of Sumatra, I suspect the world is not yet prepared.”
“The Anitnegra Affair?” I exclaimed. “But I don’t believe you have ever…”
“Oh, my dear fellow, how remiss of me. Do forgive me. It must have occurred during one of your many marital sabbaticals. I do declare, now that I think about it, that it comes very close to your definition of the perfect crime.”
