Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Was Not

by Sequeira, Christopher;

  “My father worked exceedingly hard for many years in the goldfields of Victoria in Australia and amassed quite a fortune over a period of years. As his holdings grew he planned to return to England and envisioned a life for us here in which we might find a place in society commensurate with his wealth, and he had prepared for this by sending me to Switzerland where I would be groomed to become a lady. Sadly, toward the end of my stay in Geneva, my mother’s health, which had been rather poor for some time, sharply declined. Thus, a journey here, where he would meet me was delayed until she should be fit enough to endure the journey. Unfortunately, contrary to our hopes, her condition declined further and she departed this realm.”

  “We’re sorry to hear that,” Mabuse murmured.

  “Thank you,” Elizabeth nodded in acknowledgement. The doctor studied her intently, with a look of intense compassion. She guessed him to be in his fifth decade but thought him unusually handsome, despite having reached such a venerable age. His long, slightly hooked nose divided a face of remarkable symmetry, and his eyes burned with a fire that she could not place.

  “My father was a modest man despite his accomplishments. He was unlettered and everything he had achieved had been by dint of hard work, native wit and, as he was the first to admit, more than his fair share of luck.”

  “Hard working men with good wits frequently are lucky,” Holmes said with a quick smile. “But I do not imagine it is his good fortune that brings you here.”

  “No,” Elizabeth agreed, her head bowing with sadness. “My father was found dead, supposedly by his own hand, a few weeks ago.”

  “And, yet, you suspect foul play?” Holmes said gravely.

  “It seems obvious to me that something unholy is involved in his demise,” the young woman confirmed. “And I am sure that when you hear the circumstances, you too will be suspicious. While my father came here with a fortune and purchased a substantial estate, in the six months since he had been here, according to the police, he had gambled away his entire fortune and more, borrowing from the bank against the estate which will shortly be reclaimed to recover the debt. It is assumed that his suicide was prompted by his inability to cover his gambling debts.”

  “Did he not leave a note?” Mabuse asked diffidently.

  “No. As I mentioned, he had no letters. All correspondence was dictated to his factotum, a man named Flanders. I do not see Father enlisting his aid in such a final communication.”

  “Ah, of course,” Mabuse nodded. “I should have seen that.”

  “And the basis for your suspicions?” Holmes prompted.

  “My father brought two other servants with him from Australia,” Elizabeth said. “But they were given their notice by Flanders just some two weeks after the arrival. My father had taken ill, on the first day he set foot on English soil. I have since spoken to one of the servants who was dismissed, Elsie Jones. Elsie tells me my father was ill, acted peculiarly, and insisted on behaving the recluse after arriving here. In fact she only saw my father in his bed in dim light from the moment they settled in their new abode, however he did speak.

  “Could an imposter have taken over your father’s place?” asked Holmes.

  “She believes it was him.”

  “And yet…”

  “The pretext upon which she and the other servant were dismissed seemed concocted. And my father was a temperate man who never gambled. He was an individual with a strong character. Even if he had developed such a destructive habit, and even if he had lost his fortune, he would never end his life and leave me without means. He would have made another fortune.”

  “Gambling is a topic of considerable interest to the doctor and myself,” said Holmes drily. “It is a vice which many apparently strong individuals have fallen a prey to, nonetheless I cannot ignore the fact that you have great faith in your father. And yet the police are unmoved, I gather?”

  “They have mounted an investigation,” Elizabeth said. “Armed with a photographic portrait and a description of my father they have discovered that a man very like him had been seen in many gambling dens about the city and also at the racing track, and his name was well known.”

  “Yet you do not believe it was him?”

  Elizabeth wrung her hands in dismay. “It seems impossible to me that my father could change that much. I knew him, the police did not.”

  “Yet his body was found and positively identified?”

  “Only by Flanders, who has since disappeared,” Elizabeth said.

  “Yet this is not enough for the police to consider the matter afresh?”

  “No. The way they view it, my father was seen by dozens of people gambling his fortune away. He was attempting to move up in station which is not an easy thing to do in English society, and his wife was recently deceased. They consider it likely that he felt dejected and turned to gambling as a mere distraction, but it came to dominate his life and destroyed him. They consider me merely unwilling to accept the unpleasant truth.”

  For a brief moment silence reigned in the room.

  “It is a reasonable surmise,” Holmes conceded at last. “And yet this ‘Flanders’ disappearance is highly suspicious, as is the dismissal of the other servants. However, even if the police did agree that foul play was involved, proving it would be exceedingly difficult, and the authorities would rather not expend their energies upon unpromising puzzles that might defy them. That would look like a defeat. Better that they pretend there is no puzzle at all.”

  There was another moment of silence, then Holmes spoke decisively: “I will look into the matter myself.”

  “Thank you, oh, thank you so much,” Elizabeth said, rising from her chair.

  “I must go, too,” Mabuse said. “Please allow me to see you to a carriage, miss.”

  “You’re most kind,” Elizabeth said with a small curtsey.

  “You must both meet me here at six tomorrow evening,” Holmes said. “I will have news for you then.”

  The following day had been grey and cloudy and rain chattered across the cobbled streets as the dusk fell and the gas lights were ignited. Mrs Hudson ushered Mabuse and Elizabeth into Holmes’s study at precisely six p.m.

  “Well, you are here, on the mark,” Holmes remarked brightly.

  “I am sure neither of us would be late for this particular appointment,” Mabuse smiled. “I myself have been pondering our mystery much of the day, trying to imagine what you might discover that the police had neglected.”

  “I’m surprised you did not hypnotise yourself into focusing more on your work,” Holmes said smugly.

  “Hypnosis?” Elizabeth said. “Is that Mesmerism?”

  “Yes, indeed,” Holmes agreed. “Mesmerism shorn of its hocus pocus. While he is best known as my chronicler, our good Doctor Mabuse is also renowned, in certain circles, as a psychoanalyst and hypnotist.”

  “Ah, I did not know that,” Elizabeth said. “I had assumed that the Doctor was a surgeon and a general practitioner.”

  “He is those things, too,” Holmes said. “Our Dr Mabuse is a man of many parts. His knowledge is much broader than mine, I’m afraid. He knows of such matters as literature and art which psychoanalysts take an inordinate interest in. I’m afraid my attention is far too taken up with the criminal sciences to have attained his broad range of knowledge.”

  “Not to mention the newspapers and penny dreadfuls.” Mabuse grinned.

  “Both are an excellent source of information,” Holmes said, smiling.

  Mrs Hudson appeared at the door, carrying a tray with a tea service and biscuits, and the trio seated themselves and poured their beverages.

  “Come, Holmes,” Mabuse prompted as his comrade took a sip from his cup. “Don’t keep us in suspense. What have you discovered?”

  “Like the police, I showed the photograph around. A large number of cab drivers had a vivid recollecti
on of dropping off someone of Mr Durance’s description at the track, or in Chinatown. They also recalled his name. Apparently he paid generously. When they expressed their gratitude he was fond of making such pronouncements as, ‘Don’t let it be said, Arthur Durance hain’t a genlman,’ and ‘Arthur Durance hain’t short a penny, my lad.’ And, ‘Arthur Durance ‘as nobless obleej’.”

  Holmes turned to Elizabeth. “Does that sound like your father?”

  “Well, yes and no,” she replied gravely. “The accent does, to some degree, and the vocabulary, too, I suppose, but my father was never in the habit of talking of himself in the third person.”

  “Few people are,” Holmes mused, “unless they are acting in an expository role. What is immediately suspicious about this case is that this person was so easy to verify as being where Flanders had said he would be. It made it very straightforward for the police to confirm his movements. However, had they questioned more deeply, as I have done, they would have discovered how unusual the manner of this individual was, and how different from your father’s. As it is, they were merely content to place him at the scene.”

  “What do we do next?” Mabuse asked. “It seems that we have established that Miss Durance’s father was most likely being impersonated by some scoundrel. Nonetheless, Flanders, who is no doubt the mastermind, is missing and I imagine the imposter is, too.”

  “Perhaps,” said Holmes. “But with my extensive network I have ways of finding missing persons. So I shall put together a drawing of Flanders and a description and circulate it among my associates. As to the imposter, there are two possibilities.”

  “What are they?” Elizabeth asked.

  “Well, the first is that it was his body that was discovered in your father’s house and identified by Flanders, in which case he has already paid for his crimes. Failing that, he is still at large.”

  “And how do we determine which is the case?” Mabuse prompted.

  “Well,” Holmes said tentatively. “Given the suspicions I have and my standing with the police, I imagine I could move to have the body exhumed. However, it is possible that the body is, indeed, that of Elizabeth’s father.

  “I would rather not say this, but it is possible, that while this charade was being played out, the poor fellow was kept sequestered and possibly drugged until the suicide scene was staged?”

  Elizabeth drew a sharp breath and grew pale. She bit the back of her hand.

  “Really, Holmes, could you not keep such speculations private?” Mabuse said, frowning.

  “No, Doctor,” Elizabeth breathed. “As horrible as such ideas are, I am already convinced that my father met with foul play. I would rather know the truth. If hypothesising along these lines is part of solving the mystery, then it is better that it not be stifled in deference to my delicacy.” She turned to Holmes. “I suppose it would be up to me to identify the body?”

  “You would be best able to do so,” the detective agreed, “though the servant girl whom you have located could possibly do the task. And yet, perhaps it is not necessary to proceed with such a stratagem at this point. For if the victim is, indeed, Mr Durance, then nothing will be gained by the disinterment and the police will consider that their time has been wasted. The only point, in fact, in the exhumation, would be to prove that the body is not your father’s and that some skulduggery is definitely involved. While foul play may still be a factor, the police will take this as evidence that it is not.

  “Therefore, it seems to me, that it would be more advantageous to proceed as we would if the exhumation was not a possibility. Ergo, let us assume the imposter is still among us and make some small attempt to discover him, and approach the solution of the mystery via that avenue.”

  “And how shall we discover this individual?” Mabuse asked doubtfully. “I do not believe there is a register of imposters.”

  “A register of imposters?” Holmes mused. “Well of course there is, or as good as.”

  “How do you mean?” Mabuse asked.

  “Can you think of no profession which makes its living from imposition and disguise? You dragged me along to one such performance last evening…”

  “Actors!” the doctor exclaimed. “Of course! Yet there are so many in London. Where on earth would we begin?”

  “Yes, Mabuse, there is, indeed, a plague of vaudevillians, pantomime artists, thespians and diverse other mummers upon this city. Yet, for this charade to have been carried out successfully, the villain must have been able to have observed Elizabeth’s father long and close enough to have mastered his speech and manner; at least sufficiently to fool the servants until Flanders dismissed them. Do not forget, the fact that the servant girl was convinced that it had been her master she had seen in his sick bed helped also to convince the police that Elizabeth’s father had been master of the house, while I suspect that he had been replaced at the same time that Flanders became head of staff. The servants were kept on just long enough to be convinced that the imposter was Mr Durance.”

  “So it must be someone he knew in Australia?” Elizabeth suggested. “Perhaps,” Holmes agreed, “Yet, I do not know how long this scheme was in the making. It is possible that the imposter knew your father much more recently, and it strikes me that the voyage out here would offer the perfect opportunity for close observation.”

  “Ah, I see,” said Mabuse. “So you think that an examination of the passenger list of the ship that Mr Durance came out here on, may give us the identity of the one who took his place?”

  “It seems a reasonable avenue of inquiry,” Holmes smiled, pleased with this conclusion.

  “Yes, I think so,” Mabuse agreed. “So I suppose your next call is to the shipping office?”

  “Indeed,” Holmes nodded. “I sense we draw closer to unrav­elling this mystery.”

  “Miles Batersea,” Holmes said. It was the following day and he had met with Doctor Mabuse once again at six o’clock in the evening.

  “I beg your pardon?” Mabuse replied.

  “Miles Batersea, was a passenger on Durance’s ship.”

  “The chap who plays Faustus?” Mabuse said, apparently aghast. “No! The very man we just observed on stage!”

  “You are surprised to discover that he has truly sold his soul to the devil?” Holmes grinned.

  “By the Devil, this time you mean Flanders?”

  “Perhaps,” Holmes agreed, “if he is, indeed, the mastermind. Though I suspect some other devil.”

  “How do you know that Batersea isn’t the mastermind, him­self?” Mabuse enquired.

  “He’s an actor,” Holmes said, raising his eyebrows haughtily.

  “Extremely amusing, Holmes,” Mabuse said, smiling. “Yet are you not, yourself, also an actor? Many is the time I have seen you transform yourself and play a role to the utmost. However, are you not also a mastermind yourself, if one who works on the side of the angels?”

  Holmes smiled enigmatically.

  “To think,” Mabuse mused, “we saw him on the stage the night before we met Miss Durance.” He pause an moment in thought, then asked, “So what are we going to do next, follow Batersea?”

  “Hmmm, I don’t see that just confronting him, at this stage, will do much. And certainly we have nothing particular to take to the police yet, by way of evidence, as being an actor is not yet a crime; not even if you are guilty of travelling on the same ship as a fellow who is recently deceased. So I imagine, yes, that we shall observe him for a while and see what we might learn in that way.

  “Or rather I shall, for stealthy stalking is something I fear you are unsuited to, and while I am not averse to disguising myself as a coolie, a Mohammedan, or a lady of the night if need be, I cannot see you doing the same—at least not convincingly.”

  “I’m not so sure,” Mabuse quipped. “I think I might make quite a fetching courtesan if the light were dim enough.”
r />   Holmes clapped his companion upon the shoulders. “Know thyself, my friend, and therefore your limitations; even in London there isn’t a quarter dark enough for such a charade, not with that beard.”

  “So I must leave the front line to you, once again?” Mabuse said.

  “You shall have word from me,” Holmes assured him.

  Doctor Mabuse was leaving his consulting rooms the following evening when he found himself approached by a bent Chinese man. At least he assumed it was an oriental, but the fellow was so bowed that nothing could be discerned of him save the top of his conical hat. The hat itself was so large as to obscure everything from view save the coarse garments that covered the fellow’s lower limbs, the ragged slippers upon his feet, and the nether end of a crude cane. It was a wonder that he could navigate the streets at all, considering that he could not have seen more than a few feet ahead. It seemed that he was afflicted by some disorder, or extreme old age perhaps, for his passage was halting and disjointed.

  Mabuse stepped to one side to allow this strange apparition to pass but the fellow changed direction and the doctor found his way still blocked. The Chinese muttered in annoyance and stood waiting, apparently, for Mabuse to make up his mind which way he was going. Yet when the gentleman moved so did the Chinese who grunted in frustration at the confusion.

  “Go round, go round,” he muttered. He waved the cane feebly, perhaps to indicate the possible directions the doctor might take, or perhaps as a vague and somewhat pathetic threat. Mabuse moved again only to have his movement mirrored.

  A stream of curses in what might have been Cantonese cascaded from under the conical hat.

  “My good fellow!” Mabuse began in remonstrance. Then he noted that the curses had turned to laughter which metamorphosed from the faltering wheeze of the old Chinese to the rich peal of amusement that could only belong to one man.