by Otto Penzler
“Of course,” said Randolph, and just as the light reddened his face, there was the sound of the door opening and of someone coming into the hallway.
“Sofia?” someone called. “Is that you in the parlour?”
“God help me,” Randolph said. “It is Bertie, Dr. Bingham, I mean. Sofia’s husband. What shall I say?”
“Say that we are here, in the parlour,” Holmes suggested.
Randolph did as he was bid, and Dr. Bingham bustled in after doffing his coat and settling his bag in the hallway. He was a youngish man, not much older than Randolph himself, and he had a round, smiling visage that must have offered a great deal of comfort to those who needed his aid.
“Ah, William,” said the doctor. “So good to see you. And who are these gentlemen you have with you?”
Randolph indicated me with a turn of his hand. “This is Dr. John Watson. And this,” he turned to Holmes, “is Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”
Bingham’s pleasant face brightened at the mention of our names. “I have heard of both of you,” he said. “Living so near, I had hoped that I would one day have the pleasure of meeting you, and now that day has arrived. Where is Sofia? Has she offered you sherry?”
Randolph seemed to have no idea how to answer the query, and he turned helplessly to Holmes.
“I’m sorry to tell you,” said Holmes, “that your wife is dead.”
I thought it a rather harsh way to broach the information, but I suppose that there was really no other way. Bingham’s smile faltered.
“Surely you must be making some sort of joke,” he said. “You cannot mean—”
Holmes’s face was grim. “I am sorry to say that I do mean exactly what you have heard. Your wife lies dead in the other room.”
With a strangled cry, Bingham broke away from us and ran into the solarium. Randolph, after a glance in our direction, followed him.
“What now, Holmes?” I asked, completely at a loss.
“Now let us find the Gila monster,” said Holmes. “I think it must be nearby.”
He picked up the lamp that Randolph had lighted, and walked in the direction of the fireplace. The embers that had earlier blushed on the grate had now turned nearly to ash. Holmes raised the lamp in his left hand.
“There,” he said, pointing with his right forefinger to a spot on the low hearth.
And there, indeed, it was.
It looked almost like a creature from another time, thick, torpid, and black with splotches of color that showed but dimly in the lamplight. Its clawed feet clutched at the bricks of the hearth where it had come, drawn, no doubt, by the warmth of the dying fire. Its hooded eyes stared blankly.
“It does not appear to be quite as aggressive as I had thought,” said I, clutching the handle of my revolver in the event that the creature should attempt to spring upon us. I slowly drew my revolver from my coat. “Shall I kill it?” I asked.
Holmes, ever observant, smiled at my nervousness. “I do not believe we have anything to fear from the Gila. It appears hardly to notice our existence.”
And indeed it did not. It was as motionless as the graven image of some pagan god. It hardly seemed even to breathe.
“But how can we return it to its cage? The glass is broken.”
“We shall see,” said Holmes. “For now, let us join Dr. Bingham and attempt to alleviate his grief.”
I did not think that would be possible. To have lost a beautiful young wife in the prime of her existence—it was a marrow-deep melancholy that I knew all too well. But I put away my revolver and followed Holmes into the solarium, where Bingham sat on a wicker couch, sobbing into his hands as Randolph stood impotently by.
Bingham looked up at our entrance, his eyes red and hollow. “I do not blame my brother-in-law for this,” he said. “Although he has tried to take the fault upon himself, it is mine alone, for I am the one who allowed my wife to keep such a monster in our home.”
“I believe that you are correct,” said Holmes. “The fault is indeed yours alone, for you are the one who killed your wife.”
Randolph’s face mirrored the astonishment on mine, though neither of us appeared quite as surprised as Bingham.
“What are you saying?” he asked. “Could you possibly accuse me of murder in such circumstances?”
His pain seemed so genuine that I was moved to speak in his defense. “I say, Holmes, it hardly seems right to intrude on a man’s grief with such an accusation.”
“It is more than an accusation, my dear Watson,” said Holmes. “It is an incontrovertible fact.”
Bingham came to his feet. “I have heard that you seldom err, Mr. Holmes, but this is one time that you have made a grave mistake.”
“No,” said Holmes, “I have not. The mistakes, and there were many, were all yours. I think it would be best if you went for the police now, Mr. Randolph. We will want them here when I confirm all that I have said.”
Randolph turned with a wordless appeal to Bingham, who snarled, shoved him aside, and ran past us toward the parlour.
“Stop!” I shouted, removing my revolver from my coat and firing a shot into the lintel beam.
The sound of the shot echoed around the room, and Bingham froze in mid-step.
Holmes smiled grimly. “That was quick action, Watson. I am glad that you were ready.”
“I have known you longer than Dr. Bingham,” said I. “And I have not known you to err.”
“And yet you doubted for a moment.”
“A moment,” I admitted, keeping a close watch on Bingham, who, however, seemed to have lost his desire to flee. “But for a moment only.”
“It is just as well,” said Holmes.
Randolph’s eyes went from one of us to the other, and then to Bingham, who was standing listlessly, his hands at his side.
“I do not understand,” said Randolph. “If the venomous lizard killed my sister, how could her husband be to blame? It seems impossible that you could know.”
“I knew while we were still at Baker Street that something was very wrong with your story,” said Holmes. “We had only to arrive here to confirm my suspicions.”
His remarks puzzled me. “But I thought you did not theorize until you had the facts.”
“I had the facts, and they pointed to the crime of murder,” said Holmes. “For one thing, the Gila has never been known to attack a human being except in cases of extreme provocation. It did not seem likely to me that a woman at home alone would be so obtuse as to provoke the creature into attacking her. In addition, although the bite of the Gila is indeed poisonous, there has been, as far as I know, not a single recorded instance of its bite having killed anyone.”
“But the stories I heard!” Randolph protested.
“Are merely that—stories. Miners are prone to exaggerate, though it may well be true that one of them might have provoked a Gila to bite him. And it may even be true that the creature’s bite was so tenacious that it would have to be cut away from its victim. But it does not kill.”
“But what of the bite on my sister?”
“That is one reason we could not afford to kill the monster and risk the destruction of its unique dental structure. There was some attempt to make the marks on your sister’s arm look like the bite of some reptile, a snake perhaps, but the Gila’s teeth are not like fangs at all, as a simple examination will show. It chews on the victim’s skin and mangles it to introduce the poison rather than injecting it.”
Randolph’s puzzlement had not ended. “But Sofia is dead, and apparently of poison.”
“Yes, but the color of her skin would indicate that the poison is more likely curare than that of the Gila. And curare is a poison that a physician can obtain with ease. I observed a spot on your sister’s arm that was undoubtedly caused by an injection, an injection that Dr. Bingham gave to her after rendering her unconscious by other means. He then broke the cage and freed the monster to make it appear that his wife’s death was an accident.”
Randolph, no
w almost convinced, stared at Bingham. “But why?” he asked.
“Money,” said Holmes, “is almost always the answer. Your sister had the fortune, not he. Perhaps he was going to leave her for another but could not do it without her money. Or perhaps it was merely that he was tired of her. He can tell us that.”
Bingham stood silently.
“If the police examine your bag and find curare in it, will you be able to show that you are currently using it in some medical case?” asked Holmes.
Once again, Bingham ran for the other room. But I had worked my way closer to him, and I was able to grasp his arm firmly in one hand and show him the revolver. That was quite enough to stop him. At another word from Holmes, Randolph went to fetch the police and bring an end to our adventure.
—
And yet such adventures never really end. As I sit here and write about the events of that day so long ago, and the streetlights outside my window flicker to life in the rain, I can see the Gila monster crouching on the warm hearth almost as clearly as if it were in the room where I now sit. The dull ache of the Jezail bullet fades. And I feel alive and young again, in a way that I have not since last I saw the face of Sherlock Holmes.
The Case of the Friesland Outrage
JUNE THOMSON
ALTHOUGH THE MAJORITY of the novels by June Valerie Thomson (1930– ) feature Inspector Jack Finch (named Inspector Rudd in American editions after the first book in order to avoid confusion with the Septimus Finch series written by Margaret Erskine) and Sergeant Tom Boyce, she has become a staple in the world of Sherlock Holmes, having written seven books about Dr. Watson and the great detective. In addition to Holmes and Watson: A Study in Friendship (1995), an examination of numerous elements of the canon, including the reasons for the close relationship between the two roommates, Thomson has written six collections of pastiches of nearly uniformly high quality, noted both for their original plotting and the adherence to the background, tone, and atmosphere of the originals.
The Rudd/Finch series of twenty novels about the wily policeman in the quiet Essex village of Abbots Stacey began with Not One of Us in 1971 and appears to have ended with Going Home, as there have been no new books since 2006.
Thomson’s Holmes story collections began with The Secret Files of Sherlock Holmes (1990), followed by The Secret Chronicles of Sherlock Holmes (1992), The Secret Journals of Sherlock Holmes (1993), The Secret Documents of Sherlock Holmes (1999), The Secret Notebooks of Sherlock Holmes (2004), and The Secret Archives of Sherlock Holmes (2012).
“The Case of the Friesland Outrage” was originally published in The Secret Journals of Sherlock Holmes (London, Constable, 1993).
THE CASE OF THE FRIESLAND OUTRAGE
June Thomson
I
IT WAS, I recall, late one stormy evening in November 1894, some months after Sherlock Holmes’s miraculous return from death at the hands of his arch-enemy, Professor Moriarty, at the Reichenbach Falls,*1 that the following remarkable events occurred which were so nearly to cost us both our lives.
Having dined, we had retired to our armchairs on either side of the blazing fire, Holmes deep in a volume on Early Elizabethan ciphers, I absorbed in nothing more abstruse than the Evening Standard, content that my old friend had no case on hand to force us out of doors in such tempestuous weather.
Hardly had the thought crossed my mind than Holmes lifted his head and, laying aside his book, remarked, “A cab has just drawn up outside, Watson. I believe we have a visitor. Rather than allow the maid to be disturbed at such an hour, I shall let him in myself.”
“Him?” I inquired.
“Oh, it is undoubtedly a man. Did you not hear the slam of the cab door? No woman would act in quite so positive a manner.”
I had heard nothing above the sound of the wind roaring in the chimney and rattling the windows in their frames although I was not surprised that Holmes had discerned these distant noises. His hearing is keener than that of any other man I know.
He left the room, returning soon afterwards with a short, powerfully built, bearded man, so broad across the shoulders and so stocky of frame that he appeared quite square in shape. From his pea jacket and peaked cap, I took him to be a seafarer, a supposition which proved correct when Holmes introduced him.
“This is Captain Hans Van Wyk, Watson.” Turning to our visitor, he continued, “Pray be seated, sir.”
Van Wyk removed his cap, revealing a head of grey hair, as thick and as grizzled as his beard. His weather-beaten face was deeply creased about the eyes with humorous lines, suggesting a jovial nature, although the gravity of his general demeanour revealed that whatever business had brought him to consult Holmes was of a serious nature.
“Master of the Dutch vessel, the SS Friesland,” said he, sinking down into the chair which Holmes had indicated. Although his English was on the whole excellent, he spoke with a guttural accent. “I apologize for intruding on you so late in the evening, gentlemen. But the lady insisted I come to you, not the official police.”
“I think,” said Holmes, resuming his own seat, “that you had better begin by telling us who the lady is and why she is in such urgent need of my help.”
“Of course, Mr. Holmes. However, I ought first to explain a little of the background to the affair. The SS Friesland is a small cargo vessel, plying between the coasts of Germany and Holland and the south-east of England. We also carry passengers; not many as there is cabin accommodation for only a dozen. Yesterday, we docked at the Free Trade Wharf*2 in the Port of London where we unloaded and took on a fresh cargo, ready for the return voyage to Rotterdam. We are due to sail at half-past one tomorrow morning on the high tide.
“A few passengers embarked earlier this evening, among them an elderly gentleman, a Mr. Barnaby Pennington, and his daughter. I did not see them come on board although I understand from the steward that they went straight to their cabins.
“Some time later, Miss Pennington went on deck and approached the mate in some distress. It seems that, after she had settled herself into her own cabin, she went to her father’s which was opposite hers to make sure that he, too, was comfortable for the night. Having knocked and received no reply, she let herself in, only to find the cabin empty and signs that a struggle had taken place. Her father’s luggage had been riffled and a large sum of money, together with some important documents, was missing.
“The mate alerted me and I ordered an immediate search of the whole ship but no trace of Mr. Pennington was found. I also questioned the crew. But no one had noticed anything suspicious although that is understandable. It is a dark, wet night and the men were busy about their own tasks.”
“Miss Pennington had heard nothing?”
“Evidently not, Mr. Holmes, apart from some muffled thuds which she took to be coming from the deck. The storm was then at its height.”
“And what of the other passengers. Have you spoken to them?”
“Not personally. I was too occupied with supervising the search and examining the crew. However, the steward questioned them on my instructions. He reported that none of them had heard or seen anything out of the ordinary. There are only four of them on this voyage and the cabins between theirs and Mr. Pennington’s are unoccupied. I have since taken the precaution of posting a man at the head of the gang-plank in case anyone should try to take Mr. Pennington ashore. Of course, it may be a case, as you English say, of bolting the door after the horse has vanished.”
“You mean that someone could have come on board and abducted Mr. Pennington without your knowledge?”
Captain Van Wyk spread out his large, gnarled hands.
“On such a night, anything is possible,” he replied.
“You said you spoke to Miss Pennington,” Holmes continued. “Had she any idea who might be responsible for her father’s disappearance?”
“No, none at all, sir; except she seemed to think robbery might be a motive.”
There was a hesitation in the captain’s v
oice which Holmes was quick to perceive.
“You yourself do not believe it?”
“I think there may be more to the case than simple theft, Mr. Holmes. When I spoke to the lady, she was strangely reluctant to discuss her father’s business affairs. She was also most insistent that I was to come directly to you and no one else. She has written a letter which she asked me to deliver to you personally.”
Feeling in his jacket pocket, Captain Van Wyk produced an envelope which he handed to Holmes who, having opened it and glanced quickly over the sheet of paper it contained, read the message aloud for our visitor’s benefit as well as my own.
“ ‘Dear Mr. Holmes, Captain Van Wyk will have explained to you the circumstances surrounding my father’s disappearance. As I have great fear for his safety, I beg you to make inquiries on my behalf. My father has often spoken of your detective skills in relation to one specific investigation.’ ”
At this point, Holmes broke off to ask Captain Van Wyk, “Did Miss Pennington happen to mention any particulars of this inquiry?”
“Yes, she did, Mr. Holmes!” the captain replied eagerly. “It was the Blackmore case.”
“Indeed!” my old friend murmured. “As I remember, it was a most delicate business.” Seeing my look of inquiry, he explained, “It was an investigation I carried out in ’89 when you were in practice in Paddington. I did not call on your services, Watson, as you were laid up at the time with an attack of bronchitis. To continue with the letter. Miss Pennington goes on to add, and the sentence is underlined twice, ‘On no account must Scotland Yard be informed of this affair.’ The letter is signed Maud Pennington. Well, Captain Van Wyk,” Holmes concluded, folding up the sheet of paper and placing it in his pocket, “I shall certainly accept the young lady’s request. The case presents some unusual features. You came in a four-wheeler, I believe, which you have retained?”
“It is outside, Mr. Holmes,” the captain replied, looking surprised. “But how did you know I had asked the driver to wait?”
