In Dublin’s fair city,
Where the girls are so pretty,
I first set my eyes on sweet Molly Malone,
As she wheeled her wheel-barrow,
Through streets broad and narrow,
Crying, “Cockles and mussels, alive, alive, oh!”
I spontaneously began singing the chorus and it brought yearning for home into my heart. His whistling was unexpectedly melodic.
“Alive, alive, oh,
Alive, alive, oh,”
Crying “Cockles and mussels, alive, alive, oh”.
There was a pause while I collected myself, and then he said, “Only a Dubliner would sing this with such passion…dare I say it, you settled in a location not far from the sea. The fading scars from rope burns between your thumb and forefingers, as well as your jacktar stained hands, attest to a seafaring life in your younger days. You would have settled near a port where ostrich feathers are plentiful due to the export trade, and where bivalves are there for the taking…Mossel Bay in South Africa.”
“Well done, Mr Holmes,” I answered simply.
“Furthermore, my extensive study of candle wax—that I documented in my folios—exposes your occult training. There are small drops of blue wax on the cuff of your trouser leg. Blue candles are used ceremonially to enhance healing and to seek truth and wisdom, are they not?”
He did not wait for an answer.
“Moreover, the fabric on your trousers is thin and worn at the knees, suggesting you either spend a good deal of time crouching or in cross-legged repose with an inclination towards the meditative practices.
“I have already uncovered you as a Freemason…oh, don’t tut tut me or be embarrassed for inadvertently revealing yourself. I have my ways of uncovering rituals and understanding symbols. You mustn’t be concerned. I won’t reveal your wretched secrets.
“But it is your study of theosophy that intrigues me most. What is it that you subscribe to? One almighty and Great Architect of the Universe?”
Again, I realised it was useless to deny it. Although I did not confirm his exposition through my words or gestures, I am sure my countenance betrayed me. In a strange way I felt liberated that a little piece of my usually shielded but genuine self had been revealed.
I was in no mood for further discussion and we were coming closer to our journey’s end so I decided he should answer as well.
“I’d ask you what brings you to these parts, Mr Holmes,” I said, rapidly changing the subject, “Except that I already know.”
“Aaaah…a reversal of roles. Splendid. So what is it exactly that you think you know?”
“A friend or companion in the medical sciences has urged you to come to Hindhead to seek the air for your lung complaint brought about by too many years of pipe puffing.”
He snorted. “Doesn’t every tourist…” he said, overemphasising the ‘tourist’, “…come to Hindhead for the air? It is, after all, known as ‘Little Switzerland’. Long-stay visitors who come here for their convalescence have even been known to recover from phthisis. You yourself have also suffered from this particular complaint have you not, Dr Moriarty?”
“Yes, indeed.”
“One doesn’t have to be a medical practitioner to discern that.”
“Yes, that’s why I moved to Africa; but other people suffering from your affliction rarely come to Hindhead with your particular combination of complaints.”
“Then please enlighten me. What do you observe with your…sixth sense?”
“Energetically I can feel pulmonary congestion. It’s like a jungle swamp in your lungs.”
“Phewy.”
“There is a tightness and lack of mobility in your right shoulder. Be wary. If you don’t warm up your musculature, you’ll tear it when next you practice your swordsmanship.
“The scornful way you treated the nurses suggests you have little sensitivity towards women.”
“Correction. I dismiss or ignore anyone who doesn’t pose a challenge, not merely women,” said Holmes.
“I sense desolation…I discern the letter ‘M’. A rival, but yet a fraternal and maternal connection…A brother perhaps? But there is another ‘M’ who has featured in your life…Departed now but brought you to the brink of destruction. Your lung complaint is more than the accumulation of toxic ash and debris. I sense your lungs filling with water…you gasping to breathe. A struggle. Perhaps a bout of pneumonia brought you to the brink? But there is something perilous about this M. His psychic venom has permeated you. If you don’t release him from the entirety of your body you’ll still bestow him with power over you, and I can see a future of crippled hands, hooked over like raptor talons, and throbbing joints, and you writhing to suck air into your bronchial tubes as you drown: not from your physical afflictions but from adverse feelings trapped in your mind and body.”
“Balderdash…” he replied, “I’ve never had pneumonia in my life.”
He did not change his expression. He merely glared at me. I felt a subtle energetic shift as if something I had said had connected but it was gone in an instance. And as a consequence, he battle-hardened again and so I was unable to probe anymore.
“Not that it is any business of yours, Dr Moriarty, but I give you that seven per cent of what you said had some truth behind it. The other ninety-three per cent is pure conjecture and unadulterated fantasy. You are nothing but a terrible fortune-teller. All academic pretentiousness and pretence. You’re not a real medical doctor by any means, and to remind you of that I think I shall call you “Dr M.”
“If you must. I’ll answer to that.”
I refused to be baited for I perceived this interaction with him as an opportunity. I was being tested and he was the vehicle of that test. The Invisible Forces were using him for their own means, as well as to assess my conviction to the path I was resolved to walking.
The cab rounded a bend, slowed down, and passed through the stone pillars of a gateway.
“Oh, look. We’ve arrived, and not a moment too soon, I see,” Holmes said, glancing at a small but elegant, two-levelled sandstone Georgian house. Small droplets of rain started to descend. He poked his head out of the window to get a first impression and, once we had clattered to a stop outside the entrance, he looked at me and said, “Ahah. Now let the fun begin.”
Police Sergeant Ingram and Constable Bennington—with whom I was already familiar—greeted us at the doorway. They were dressed in full uniform with custodian helmet, belt and baton. Brackenridge pulled up and then paled when he spotted them.
“Are you the man of the house?” Ingram called out brusquely.
“Er…yes,” said Toby, clambering slowly out of his vehicle. He looked up at the heavens and his face became splotched in the drizzle.
“It seems you and your sister are in a spot of bother. We’ll need to question you both.”
“I’m afraid my sister is lying unconscious in a hospital,” answered Brackenridge.
“Perhaps I can be of service?” interrupted Holmes, stepping out of the cab and tipping his hat—more to deflect attention away from his charge rather than from respect for the police I suspect. “The Brackenridges are my clients and I’ll be consulting on this case, Police Sergeant…”
“Ingram,” said the policeman suspiciously, “A solicitor already, Brackenridge? Something to hide have we?”
“Oh, no. Nothing as unseemly as all that. My name is Sherlock Holmes.”
There was a pause. The policemen glanced at each other and their expressions changed rapidly.
“Not ‘the’ Sherlock Holmes?” asked Bennington.
“I didn’t know there was another.”
“Well I’ll be…” said Ingram, striding forward and offering up his hand. “We know you by reputation from our fellow bobbies in London. We’ve also been hearing how you’ve been solving littl
e Hindhead mysteries for our townsfolk. Now the case of the suiciding dogs…that was a tricky one. Never would have picked that myself.”
“And what about the mystery of the kidnapped garden dwarves,” said the constable with sheer delight, “Who’d have thought that holidaying on the continent would be the answer!” They guffawed simultaneously.
“You look as if you know nothing about this, Moriarty?” said Ingram, glancing in my direction as I paid the cab driver and then walked towards them, turning up my coat collar to avoid getting completely wet.
“You’re correct in your assertion,” I answered, feeling rather stupefied by their rapid shift from suspicion to mirth.
Ingram slapped me on the back and replied, “Mr Holmes has been keeping himself busy solving our country shenanigans. Modest by London standards I’m sure. Buy me a pint at the pub after we’ve closed this case, Moriarty, and I’ll tell you all about it.”
“What case is that?” I asked.
“I’m afraid we have our own little murder upstairs,” replied the constable.
I flinched. This had taken me by surprise. Brackenridge, however, lowered his eyes and shuffled, indicating he probably already knew and established why he had urgently sent for Holmes.
“Let’s wait to determine if it is indeed a murder or mishap,” replied Holmes, “And as to your contention about the modesty of crimes in the boroughs, let not the guise of an idyllic country town pull the wool over your eyes. I’ve attended the scene of many a county homicide and oftentimes they’re even more diabolical and gruesome than anything I’ve witnessed in the city.”
“We’ve got our theories, Mr Holmes, We’d be honoured if you could put forward your own extrapolations. Yours may very well tally with ours.”
An elderly butler, introduced as Hobbes, opened the door to let us in. In the midst of unnerving joviality, Brackenridge remained quiet and anxious. He seemed perturbed that Holmes appeared to be aligning himself with the police and their dark comedic jesting. But I understood this to be more tactical than anything else. Holmes could glean more information in the spirit of cooperation rather than in an adversarial relationship. And, as it was, once we entered into the household, the frivolous mood turned to one of grimness and authority.
“We’ve questioned all the servants, Mr Holmes. None of them saw or heard nuthin’, save the cook who mentioned the only deviance from her daily pattern was discovering the side door flapping open at midday. But that timing doesn’t concur with our reconstruction of last night’s events,” said the police sergeant. “We’ll show you to the deceased now.”
We followed him up the several flights of a sweeping staircase to the top floor then walked down a corridor towards a locked room. The constable produced a key from his pocket, inserted it into the keyhole and opened the door to reveal Sophie Brackenridge’s bedroom. We remained in the doorway while further discussion ensued.
“The body was discovered in the walk-in wardrobe, Mr Holmes, after Brackenridge here took his sister to hospital,” said the constable, pointing to second closed door in the interior.
“Has anybody been in here since you arrived?” asked Holmes.
“Nobody in and nobody out.”
“What have you done with the body?” asked Holmes.
“It’s still where the maid found it earlier this morning. She’s in a state of shock and sniffing smelling salts downstairs.”
“Excellent. I’ll interview her later. I don’t want anyone else entering the crime scene until we’ve had a proper opportunity to thoroughly examine it ourselves.”
We stepped inside the bedroom and quickly surveyed it. Nothing appeared to be untoward. It was rather charming, actually. It contained a four-poster bed that had obviously not been slept in and an open marble fireplace with slate hearth. There was a sash window with interior shutters, and the walls were covered with romantic paintings of slumbering women and dead heroines inspired by poetry and prose. On the vanity cabinet, there was a vase of flowers, an empty glass water pitcher, as well as a knife and a lemon on a silver tray. Holmes sniffed the air and slowly dropped to his knees beside the bed. He peered underneath but his expression did not alter.
“Mr Brackenridge, this is where we need you to tell us everything that happened? And I do mean everything,” said the police sergeant.
“Everything that is relevant to ensuring your sister remains safe,” added Holmes cryptically.
Toby Brackenridge hesitated, caught Holmes’s eye, and then launched into his story.
“Last night after dinner when we were sitting in the drawing room, we heard a knock at the door and a messenger delivered a letter addressed to Sophie. When she opened it she went pale, as if that is at all possible because for the most part she walks around as white as a ghost anyway.”
“What was in the letter?”
“I don’t know. All I know was that it contained some sugar.”
“Interesting,” said Holmes, “And where is that letter now?”
“I’ve no idea.”
“Continue,” said Ingram.
“I asked her if she was feeling all right, and she made a feeble excuse and rushed upstairs. I took no more notice of it because Sophie…well, you see…Sophie has piques and can be temperamental and belligerent at times. When she doesn’t want to talk she just withdraws from the world and sits in her wardrobe.”
“Keep going.”
“This morning the maid came to wake her at eight with a breakfast tray but the bed hadn’t been slept in. She called me up at once. I promptly sent the servants to search the rest of the house and the grounds. I noticed the door to the wardrobe was closed but didn’t think anything more of it. Sophie always keeps it under lock and key even when she’s in there.”
“Why would she feel the need to do that?
“Sophie wants complete and utter privacy. Even I’m not allowed inside. She brings her clothes out herself and leaves them on the bed for her maid to dress her. The one time she forgot to lock up the wardrobe, she found a maid in there, trying on a pair of Persian slippers.”
“Where is that maid now?”
“She was dismissed on the spot.”
“Would you say this maid harboured a secret resentment and wanted to exact revenge?” asked the constable.
“I don’t think so. I gave her a good reference and helped secure a position for her in a nearby town. By all accounts she’s happy there. But after that incident Sophie kept her key on her person.”
“Hmm…” said Holmes, “So, what happened next, young man?
“Well, after I sent the servants away I knocked on the wardrobe door. I didn’t hear anything but turned the doorknob expecting it to be secure but instead I discovered it to be unlocked. I found Sophie unconscious on the floor. I also saw a man’s body lying near the window. He was already dead.”
“How do you know that?”
“It was pretty obvious from all the blood.”
He paused and then said, “That’s when I picked up Sophie and rushed her to the hospital in my motor car. Clocked up forty-five miles an hour.”
“What state did you leave the room?” asked Ingram.
“I locked the bedroom door again to avert any scandal but one of the servants must have entered and saw the body and called the police.”
Ingram nodded subtly at Holmes to indicate what had just been said had indeed transpired.
“Now for an examination of the wardrobe,” said Holmes. “That includes you, Dr M. Do not touch anything unless instructed. Be cognisant of where you walk. You’re here merely as an observer. As for you, Brackenridge, I’m sure I’m speaking on behalf of our fine British police force when I insist you not accompany us beyond the threshold but continue your narrative from the door.”
“Yes, most assuredly, that’s our position,” said the police sergeant.
Br
ackenridge nodded and complied.
Holmes and I walked tentatively inside accompanied by Ingram.
The wardrobe was no armoire that could hold eight small men. Instead, it was a small room attached to Miss Brackenridge’s bedroom and was spacious enough to have held at least forty large men. The walls were painted forget-me-not blue. It was also surprisingly intimate and ladylike. A keyhole into this young woman’s secret life. But that was not what drew my attention.
My immediate thought was to reach the dead man who was lying face up on the floor near the sash window. I automatically took a step towards him but Holmes blocked me with his arm and said, almost kindly, “The instinct that has you rushing forward, no doubt from keeping company with physicians, is admirable but there’s nothing more you or anybody else can do for him. You’ll merely corrupt the crime scene. I ask you to switch into another mode and adapt to a new way of thinking…Become a detective while you’re here with me, for at this moment I have need of you. You’re a proxy for another and your observations will offer me a unique perspective.”
“Very well. What must I do?”
“Follow me as I make my way through. Tamper with nothing. This is a methodical and practiced art.”
We proceeded, and Ingram and I stepped where Holmes stepped.
“Right where you’re standing is where I found my sister,” said Brackenridge from the doorway.
Holmes dropped to one knee and examined the oak floorboards for a few minutes.
“Yes, I see,” he said mysteriously. Then he stood up again.
On the left wall was some shelving, containing a large collection of women’s shoes. He picked up several pairs seemingly randomly, scrutinised their soles, sniffed them and returned them to their place. Beside that was another shelved compartment containing millinery boxes and a jewellery case. In the corner was a full-length standing mirror.
On the right hand side were several garment racks full of ladies day, travelling and dinner dresses, and evening gowns. Holmes’s gaze lingered there for a moment longer than necessary. One thing was obvious, even to me. Half of the garments hanging together were multiple colours but the second half was entirely blue.
Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Was Not Page 24
