The Secret Journals of Sherlock Holmes (A&B Crime)

by Thomson, June

  ‘How on earth have you come to that conclusion?’ I asked, greatly taken aback by this deduction after so cursory an examination.

  ‘Because, my dear fellow, this fragment is clearly part of the top right-hand corner of a sheet of paper. Although badly scorched, it is still possible to see the straight edges in those positions I have indicated. As the back of the fragment is blank, we may safely deduce that it is not part of the letter itself but must form a portion of the address which is invariably written at the top right-hand side of the page. The word that appears to be “use” must therefore form the last three letters of the word “House”, otherwise in such a position on the paper it makes no sense at all. The first half of the name ends with the letters “vy”, an unusual combination. There are not many words ending in such a fashion which can be applied to the name of a house. Have you any suggestions, Watson?’

  ‘I can think of nothing on the spur of the moment, apart from “navy” which is hardly suitable.’

  ‘Quite so. For the same reason, we may also dismiss the words “heavy”, “envy” and “gravy”. But what of “Ivy House”? Does that not sound perfectly acceptable? I propose therefore going down to Guildford tomorrow where I shall make enquiries at the post office of a nursing-home of that name in the immediate area.’

  ‘So you will take the case, Holmes?’

  ‘Of course, my dear fellow! I have no other enquiries on hand at present and this one contains some most interesting features, not least the strange behaviour of your old army friend, Colonel Warburton. I am not referring merely to his recent actions. There is also his past conduct to consider.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Why, his reluctance to return to England and his avoidance of all society once he arrived here. I find that highly pertinent. You knew him in India. Tell me a little more about him, Watson. Was he, for example, a drinking man?’

  ‘Quite the contrary. He was most abstemious in his habits.’

  ‘Then did he gamble?’

  ‘Very infrequently and only for the smallest stakes.’

  ‘Or keep an expensive mistress?’

  ‘Certainly not, Holmes!’ I cried, deeply shocked. ‘He is of the highest moral standards.’

  ‘A most exemplary life!’ Holmes murmured. ‘In that case, let us turn our attention to the sprig of myrtle.’

  ‘Mrs Warburton seemed to think that it signified maidenly love.’

  Holmes burst out laughing.

  ‘A mere sentimental fancy, my dear fellow! I am surprised that you, with your professional training, should set any store by such nonsense. A red rose for passion! Myrtle for maidenly love! Why not other more humble members of the vegetable kingdom, such as the carrot or the parsnip to show “The roots of my affection run deep”? No, my dear fellow, I think you will find, once we have solved this mystery, that the sprig of myrtle is open to a much more prosaic interpretation.’

  ‘And what is that, pray?’

  But Holmes refused to be drawn.

  ‘The answer, which is quite simple, I shall leave to you to puzzle out. If you care to call here again tomorrow evening on my return from Guildford, I fully expect to have further information regarding Ivy House and its occupants.’

  As my wife was away for a few days, visiting a relative,6 I was not able to discuss the significance of the myrtle sprig with her and I was no nearer to solving the mystery when, the following evening, I again presented myself at Baker Street to find my old friend in a jubilant mood.

  ‘Sit down, Watson!’ cried he, rubbing his hands together with delight. ‘I have excellent news!’

  ‘Then your excursion to Guildford was a success?’ I asked, taking the armchair opposite his.

  ‘Indeed it was. With the assistance of a post-office official, I traced Ivy House to the small village of Long Melchett, two miles north of the town. Having established the exact location of the nursing-home, I then retired to the local inn, the Cricketers, where the landlord, a most garrulous fellow, entertained me over a simple luncheon of bread, cheese and ale to a full account of Ivy House and its inhabitants, in which he takes the most lively interest. It has, it seems, about fifteen inmates, some permanent, some temporary, and is owned by a Dr Ross Coombes.’

  ‘Ross Coombes!’ I interjected, much surprised.

  ‘The name is familiar to you?’

  ‘He is one of the most eminent neurologists in the country, who used to have a thriving practice in Harley Street. From what you say, I assume he must have retired, for he must be quite elderly by now. It is strange, though, that, with his reputation, he should choose to run a small private nursing-home in Surrey.’

  ‘Indeed, Watson? That is most interesting. Perhaps in the course of our enquiries we shall discover the reason. As for the investigation, I propose setting about it in the following manner. On your advice as my doctor, I shall have myself admitted to Ivy House as one of your patients who is unfortunately suffering from some mental aberration. What would you suggest, my dear fellow? Nothing too serious, for I do not wish to find myself locked away as a dangerous lunatic. Would melancholia suit the occasion, do you suppose?’

  ‘Most apt, Holmes,’ I remarked wryly, recalling my old friend’s tendency to periods of low spirits which, in his enthusiasm, he himself appeared to have forgotten.

  ‘Then let us sit down immediately and draft a letter to Dr Ross Coombes so that it can catch the last post tonight.’

  Between us, we composed the letter in which Holmes, who was referred to as James Escott,7 was described as a patient of mine in need of treatment for melancholia. As the matter was urgent, I proposed accompanying Mr Escott myself to Ivy House, of which I had heard the most excellent reports, in two days’ time, on the morning of 14th July at twelve o’clock.

  Would Dr Ross Coombes kindly telegraph to confirm the arrangements?

  On Holmes’ advice, I added a final paragraph suggesting that plenty of fresh air and exercise would help alleviate my patient’s condition.

  ‘A necessary addendum,’ Holmes explained, ‘if I am to have the opportunity of exploring the house and its grounds without arousing suspicion. I assume, by the way, that you will be free to accompany me? One of your medical colleagues will be willing to take over your practice in your absence?8 Excellent, my dear fellow! Then I shall wait to hear from you that Dr Ross Coombes has agreed to your proposal.’

  I took the draft letter home with me and wrote out a fair copy on my headed writing-paper which I posted in plenty of time to catch the last collection.

  The following afternoon, having received a telegram from Dr Ross Coombes confirming the arrangements, I again set out by cab for Baker Street to pass the good news on to Holmes, quite forgetting, in the excitement of putting the final touches to our stratagem, to question him further about the significance of the sprig of myrtle.

  II

  The next morning, Friday, we caught the 10.48 train from Waterloo, Holmes carrying a valise containing those personal possessions he would need during his stay at Ivy House, I bearing in my pocket some medical records for ‘James Escott’ which I had drawn up the previous evening.

  On our arrival at Guildford, we took the station fly to Long Melchett and, after a two-mile drive, approached on our right-hand side a high brick wall, topped with broken glass.

  ‘The grounds of Ivy House,’ Holmes remarked. ‘Take note of the iron gate we are just about to pass, Watson. It is a side entrance. On the left, about halfway down, you will find a gap in the brickwork of the supporting pillar. I discovered it when I made my earlier reconnaissance. As communication may be difficult between us, I suggest you wait for three days to give me time to establish myself in the nursing-home and then collect any instructions I may have left for you there.’

  The gate was tall and made of strong metal bars, the tops of which were spiked and bent over at an angle to prevent anyone from climbing over them. As a further precaution, it was secured by a stout padlock and chain.

 
A little further on, we came to the main entrance, a pair of double gates this time, guarded by a lodge-keeper who, on hearing the rattle of our wheels, emerged from an adjoining cottage and, having examined our credentials, allowed us to enter.

  Ahead of us stretched a gravelled drive with gardens on either side, consisting mostly of open lawn with an occasional tree. A few disconsolate figures, patients I assumed, were wandering about or sitting on wooden benches of the type found in public parks. Despite the bright sunshine of that July morning, the place had a bleak, institutional air about it, an impression which was confirmed by our first sight of Ivy House itself.

  It was a large, ugly building with squat towers at either end, its grey façade almost entirely covered with that dark-leaved climbing plant from which it had no doubt derived its name. From the dense mass of this gloomy foliage, the windows seemed to glower out at us, as if suspicious of our arrival.

  The fly drew up before the porch and we both alighted, Holmes immediately assuming the identity of a man suffering from melancholia. As I have remarked before,9 he is a master of disguise although, on this occasion, there was no need for him to have recourse to a wig or false moustaches. With his chin sunk low upon his breast and his features drawn down into an expression of deepest misery, he shuffled his way slowly up the steps, the very picture of the most acute depression.

  I rang at the doorbell and we were admitted by a maid who conducted us across the hall, panelled in dark oak, to a ground-floor study, overlooking the front gardens.

  Here we were greeted by Dr Ross Coombes, who rose from his desk to shake hands with us.

  He was an elderly, white-haired gentleman with distinguished, fine-drawn features but possessing a nervous manner which I found surprising in a man of such a high professional reputation.

  Without question, however, the room was dominated by its other occupant, a lady in her mid-forties, whom Dr Ross Coombes introduced as Mrs Hermione Rawley, the matron of the clinic.

  As a younger woman, she must have been strikingly beautiful. Even in her middle years, she was still handsome, her abundant black hair, only lightly touched with grey, drawn back into a chignon. As we entered, her large, brilliant black eyes regarded us with an expression of keen alertness, as if reading our very thoughts, a most unnerving experience.

  Just as disconcerting was an aura of power and authority which surrounded her, compared to which all of us seemed strangely diminished.

  I was uncomfortably aware of her presence and, as I went through ‘Mr James Escott’s’ case history which Holmes and I had prepared together and handed over my medical notes to Dr Ross Coombes, I found myself stumbling once or twice over its recitation.

  By the time it was concluded, however, I had sufficiently collected my wits to make my final statement without hesitation.

  ‘I must insist’, I concluded firmly, ‘on seeing my patient whenever I feel it is necessary. There may be urgent family business which I shall need to discuss with him.’

  It was Holmes who had suggested this device in the event that he was refused all visitors, as had happened in the case of Colonel Warburton.

  I saw Dr Ross Coombes look across at Mrs Rawley who inclined her head.

  ‘That will be allowed, Dr Watson,’ said he, passing on the permission.

  Nothing remained to be done except to pay a week’s fees in advance, an exorbitant sum of twenty-five guineas, which I handed to Dr Ross Coombes who, in turn, gave it to Mrs Rawley. Rising from her chair, she unlocked a door on the far side of the study with one of the keys which hung at her waist on a long chain, and withdrew into an adjoining room.

  I had but a brief glimpse of its interior before the door closed behind her. It seemed to serve as both an office and bedchamber, for I saw a large bureau standing against the opposite wall as well as the footboard of a bed.

  Within a few moments, she had returned with a receipt which Dr Ross Coombes signed before giving it to me.

  The business completed, I made my farewells, the last with Holmes who, raising his gaze from the carpet which he had been mournfully studying throughout the interview, offered me a limp hand to shake, at the same time giving me a look of such piteous dejection that, as I took my departure, I was genuinely distressed at leaving him in such a sorry plight.

  It was only when I was in the fly, on my way back to Guildford station, that it occurred to me my concern was wasted. Holmes’ affliction was entirely fictitious, at which thought, to the great surprise of the driver, I burst out laughing at my old friend’s skill at deception.

  As Holmes had suggested, I waited for three days before returning to Long Melchett. On this occasion, I asked the fly to wait some distance short of the main entrance to Ivy House and I walked on towards the iron side gate. There I halted and, having made sure no one was observing my actions, I bent down and retrieved the piece of paper, folded up small, which Holmes had left for me in the crevice of the brickwork.

  The message read: ‘Matters are progressing satisfactorily. I suggest you make arrangements with Dr Ross Coombes to visit me tomorrow (Tuesday) and that you book a room for yourself for that night at the local inn. Please make sure you bring my bunch of picklocks with you to Ivy House; also equip yourself with a dark lantern and a length of stout rope for your own use later. My very best regards, S. H.’

  I was puzzled by this last item, for, although I could understand why Holmes might have need of the picklocks, I could not see to what use he proposed I should put the rope, unless it was to effect the rescue of Colonel Warburton.

  Its purpose was made clear to me the following day when, having carried out Holmes’ instructions, I returned to Ivy House.

  We were walking about the gardens of the nursing-home, taking care to distance ourselves from its windows although, as a precaution, Holmes maintained ‘James Escott’s’ shuffling gait and lowered gaze.

  ‘You have the picklocks, Watson?’ he enquired.

  ‘Yes, Holmes.’

  ‘Then slip them as unobtrusively as you can into my pocket.’

  As I did so, I remarked, ‘I have also brought the rope and the dark lantern.’

  ‘Not with you?’ he demanded, raising his head momentarily to glance at me sharply from under drawn brows.

  ‘No, Holmes,’ I hastened to assure him. ‘They are in my valise at the inn. But what is the rope for? Is it to assist in Warburton’s escape?’

  ‘No, my dear Watson. Such an attempt would be futile. He is kept in one of the upper rooms with the barred windows, reserved for those whose behaviour can at times be violent.’

  ‘Then he is truly mad?’ I asked, saddened to think that my old army friend might indeed be subject to fits of insanity.

  Holmes shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘As I have not seen him, I cannot say. He is confined to his room most of the time and is allowed out only if accompanied by two attendants. But, mad or not, there is no point in rescuing him until we have discovered the evidence which will explain why he was incarcerated in this manner in the first place. And be a good fellow and refrain from asking me what the evidence consists of. Until I have examined it myself, I have no notion of its contents. I only know that it must exist and that it is kept under lock and key. Hence my request for the picklocks. As for the rope, that is needed not to arrange your friend Warburton’s exit but to gain your entry.’

  ‘My entry, Holmes? Entry to where?’

  ‘To the grounds of Ivy House. Now please pay particular attention to my instructions, for I may not have time to repeat them. Visits are strictly limited and at any moment Dr Ross Coombes or the matron may send one of the male attendants to escort me back to the house.’

  For the next few minutes I listened with a sense of rising excitement as Holmes rattled off the details of his plan.

  He concluded by saying, ‘And pray remember, Watson, that, in raising the alarm, you give two peals upon the bell, not one. That is most important.’

  ‘Why, Holmes?’

&nbs
p; ‘I shall explain later when there is more opportunity. You realise, of course, Watson, that in carrying out our enterprise we shall be breaking the law? Does that cause you any concern?’

  ‘Not if it assists Warburton’s case,’ I assured him.

  ‘Stout fellow! Then, my old friend,’ said he, shaking hands, ‘I shall expect to see you here again at two o’clock tomorrow morning.’

  III

  That night, I dozed fully clothed in the armchair in my room at the local inn, the Cricketers, for it hardly seemed worth the trouble of undressing and going to bed.

  Holmes had estimated that I should need an hour to carry out my part in his plan. Consequently at one o’clock, I rose and with the rope coiled over my shoulder and the dark lantern in my pocket, I crept quietly down the stairs in my stockinged feet. Unbolting the kitchen door, I let myself out into the yard.

  Then, having put on my boots, I set off for Ivy House, my heart beating high at the adventure to come.

  It was a warm, still night and, although there was no moon, the stars, which hung huge and brilliant in the clear sky, were bright enough to light the way and I had no difficulty in finding the path which led along the side of a field to the back of the nursing-home.

  Although Holmes had been a patient there for a mere three days, he had used the time to spy out the land most effectively for, as I turned the corner of the high brick wall which enclosed the gardens and followed it along its rear extension, I could see ahead of me an apple tree exactly as he had described it, one thick branch hanging low over the brickwork and its palisade of broken glass.

  It took me only a few moments to throw one end of the rope over this branch and, securing it with a slip knot, to haul myself up into the tree, bracing my feet against the wall. Once at the top, I saw the roof of a potting-shed below me, again just as Holmes had described, and after lowering myself on to it, I dropped from there to the ground.