Tales From the Deed Box of John H. Watson MD

by Hugh Ashton

  I passed him the required utensils, and he deftly captured the creature, removing it from the box, and transferred it to the jar. It feebly spat the green fluid in his general direction, but seemed to lack the strength to reach him with its vile spittle.

  “I am relieved to see that it lacks an infinite supply of this hellish fluid,” remarked Holmes, screwing on the lid of the jar with his gloved hands. The worm writhed inside the jar, still spitting feebly. Now we could see it, it appeared to be about four inches long, as thick as a child’s finger, and as pink. The face, if it may be so described, appeared grotesque and almost evil in its aspect.

  “And now, if you have morphia or some other such drug in that bag of yours, I would advise that you administer it to this poor fellow here,” said Holmes, “while I summon the police and the lunatic asylum.”

  -oOo-

  “I had my suspicions,” remarked Holmes, when I discussed the case with him later, “almost from the start. It was when we visited Covent Garden and discovered the Professor’s attachment to Miss Muñoz that my vague fears became more concrete. Of course, I knew that the fair sex was involved from the beginning when Schinkenbein first visited us.”

  “How did you know there was a lady in the case?” I asked Holmes.

  “Elementary. I observed a strong odour of feminine perfume when he entered the room. It was not the kind of scent that I could imagine being used by any man, no matter how artistic his temperament. It was obvious that he had been in recent close, if not actually intimate, contact with a young lady of looser morality than the kind of which you would approve, Watson,” he wagged a finger at me, “in the past twenty-four hours.”

  “I bow to your superior reasoning here,” I replied.

  “Surely you also observed the oddities in his attire when he visited our rooms?” Holmes asked me.

  “I remember the cravat, the topaz scarf-pin and the scarlet lace handkerchief,” I replied.

  Holmes laughed out loud. “That, my dear Watson, was no handkerchief. Had you examined it more closely, you would have identified it as a lady’s garter.”

  I confessed I blushed. “What sort of blackguard would parade himself in society with such an intimate item so prominently visible? I suppose we can take it for granted that this was not a sentimental memento of the Professor’s wife?”

  “According to my sources, his wife – or should we say his widow – is a somewhat elderly German Hausfrau, currently residing at the family home in Berlin, and is hardly the type of lady to wear such garments. No, I am sure that the open display of such an object was intended as some sort of trophy signifying his conquest of the lady in question, of whose identity we are already in no doubt.”

  “The utter cad!” I exclaimed. “The world is well rid of him.”

  “From the viewpoint of today’s morality, you may well be correct there,” Holmes admitted. “But he is a sad loss to the world of opera.”

  Once again, I found myself in silent disagreement with my friend’s eccentricity in the matter of morals.

  “I can guess a little,” I replied. “Persano and Muñoz arrived together in this country from Argentina as lovers.”

  “That much I have ascertained from other quarters,” he affirmed.

  “And she subsequently transferred her affections to Professor Schinkenbein. This aroused the ire of the slighted Persano, who took his revenge in the form of his criticism of Schinkenbein’s music.”

  “Excellent, Watson. Your intuition and judgement when it comes to affairs of the heart are truly admirable.” I flushed a little. “However, when it comes to the truly rational aspects of these matters...” He shook his head sadly.

  I continued, a little abashed. “I would suggest that the supposed subject of the public quarrel in the restaurant was a pretext for a challenge over Miss Muñoz.”

  “Something along those lines, I agree. Certainly, all was not as appeared at first sight in that incident, I am sure.”

  “After that, I am unsure of the course of events.”

  “I am reasonably certain that the original intention of fighting a duel was a serious one on both sides,” said Holmes. “Both had something of a reputation in their own countries as duellists, and neither was lacking in physical courage. Their arrest and subsequent detention must have brought home to them that such a course of action was not practicable in this country.”

  “And at this point, we had our visit from the Professor?”

  “Indeed. He was probably examining my shelves for methods of poisoning with serious intent, but I feel he may have been laying his murderous plans even before that time. The package containing the worm was dispatched from Argentina by Miss Muñoz’ relation – a brother, maybe, but it is unimportant – before the incident of the threatened duel. I am guessing that her former paramour was continuing to importune Miss Muñoz against her wishes, and she, too, wished to see his demise. It would be easy for her to acquire some sort of exotic means of death from her own country that would baffle our English authorities.”

  “And the worm? What of that?”

  “The Natural History Museum in South Kensington has been unable to identify it. The green spittle has been analysed, and is confirmed as containing a powerful alkaloid with varying effects on its subjects when absorbed through the skin. For some it causes failure of the respiratory system, but others seem relatively unaffected in that regard. However, it in every case it appears to exercise a powerful effect on that part of the circulatory system that leads to the brain, leading to a loss of mental faculties, as we saw in the case of poor Persano, and most probably the Professor as well before his death.”

  “I can vaguely understand the reasons why Schinkenbein would want to encompass the death of Persano, given the goads that resulted from the criticism of his work. But how did he meet his own end?”

  “I would have thought you could have deduced that yourself, Watson. When Schinkenbein ventured to criticise the phrasing of the diva’s arias, all passion fled. You saw her reaction to his name for yourself, and you also handled the fragments of his inscribed photograph which she had ripped to shreds in her fury.”

  “And the rejected lover decided to take his own life?”

  “I believe so. We have been fortunate that the authorities have been willing to accept a verdict of accidental death, and his widow will suffer no loss of reputation. My belief is that he first goaded the worm into releasing its foul liquid on himself, and in his last moments of sanity, passed the matchbox to Persano.”

  “The matchbox still puzzles me, I confess. Why was that matchbox missing from the line, and why were all the other matchboxes in his room in the first instance?”

  Holmes smiled. “I do not know, and I can only make a guess here. The original intention was to present Persano with a matchbox containing the worm, exchanging it for the box of matches which Persano carried with him to light his cigars. The problem with this plan was that the matchbox had to be of the same brand as Persano’s customary matches.”

  “So that was the meaning of the collection of matchboxes that we discovered?” I asked.

  “Precisely. My surmise here is that Miss Muñoz was unable to recollect Persano’s habits precisely, and the different types of match were purchased by Schinkenbein as an aide-memoire. The fact that they were arranged in order of size is a tribute to Schinkenbein’s Teutonic sense of neatness and precision, rather than on account of any practical reason. Hence my amusement at the time when you mentioned the size of the matchbox.”

  “You had obtained the solution at that stage?”

  “I was close to a solution, but lacked the closing evidence. What we subsequently learned at the hotel filled the gaps in my knowledge.”

  “It sounds plausible, at the very least,” I replied.

  “I think it is more than plausible; it is probable,” he replied. “I have no wish to rake up more scandal by asking questions of Miss Muñoz, and it fits the facts as we know them.”

  “A
sad affair,” I remarked.

  “Indeed. I must admit, looking on this business, that there may be something to be said for your conventional ideas of morality, Watson, if disregard of the same can bring about such consequences. On the other hand,” he added, turning to his violin, “our lives would be less interesting if everyone shared your beliefs.”

  So saying, he started to saw away at his fiddle in a tune I recognized as one of the arias from the late Professor Paul Schinkenbein’s Cosimo de Medici.

  Sherlock Homes in

  The Case of the Cormorant

  Editor’s Note

  In The Veiled Lodger, Dr Watson states:

  “I deprecate, however, in the strongest way the attempts which have been made lately to get at and to destroy these papers. The source of these outrages is known, and if they are repeated I have Mr. Holmes' authority for saying that the whole story concerning the politician, the lighthouse, and the trained cormorant will be given to the public. There is at least one reader who will understand.”

  This cryptic utterance has baffled students of Holmes’ history and cases for many years. The story alluded to was, for a long time, considered to be unwritten, existing only in the memory of Holmes (and possibly Watson), and the facts held in reserve against the possibility of an attack on Watson’s records as described above.

  It was with great pleasure, therefore, that the following account was discovered in the deed box which had once been the property of John Watson, MD. The MS had been carefully placed in not just one, but three stout manila envelopes, each sealed with the impression of two signet rings, one of which bore the initials “SH” and the other a simple “W”. The outermost bore the words, “The Case of the Cormorant”, and this is the title by which I now make this available to the world.

  -oOo-

  My friend Sherlock Holmes had been suffering from a surfeit of cases which admitted of no easy solution, and which had at the last caused a seeming debilitation of even his seemingly indestructible faculties. As his friend and his medical adviser, I persuaded him that a temporary retreat from the metropolis was in the best interests of his health and he assented with an alacrity which somewhat surprised me.

  My suggestions that we spend a week enjoying the pleasures of the Normandy coast at Deauville or some similar watering place did not meet with his approval, however, and he proposed as an alternative that we travel to the westernmost county of our principal island – Cornwall. I was happy to fall in with this idea, and welcomed the prospect of bracing walks along the rugged coastline of that most entrancing, and in many ways one of the most mysterious, of counties.

  Accordingly, we reserved rooms, assembled our garments and other accoutrements necessary for a stay in the countryside, and travelled on the express train from Paddington Station to Falmouth. Upon arrival, we enquired as to the whereabouts of the lodgings where we had secured accommodation, and on finding that they were close by, Holmes proposed stretching our legs after the train journey by walking to our destination, and sending our luggage on by trap. The plan seemed to me to be a good one, and we strolled through the streets of the charming old town, taking in the quaintnesses and sights as we did so. By the time we had reached the home of our landlady, Mrs Buncombe, I for one felt no pangs of regret at the decision to remain in our native land rather than making a journey to foreign parts.

  Holmes seemed indifferent to the natural beauties of the surrounding countryside, as he did to the man-made interests of the place, but contented himself with an examination of the plants and vegetation growing along the hedgerows, occasionally referring to a small handbook on such matters that he carried in his pocket.

  After our welcome by Mrs Buncombe, we found ourselves seated in her guest drawing room, where on a polished table before us stood a tea-tray, brought in to us by our smiling landlady. On this in turn stood a steaming teapot, and scones served with the finest Cornish cream and jam which had its origins, so Mrs Buncombe had assured us, in the wild strawberries growing in the area, Holmes stretched his legs to their fullest extent, and sighed with what appeared to be genuine pleasure.

  “I foresee an interesting week here, Watson,” he remarked to me.

  “By ‘interesting’, I take it you mean ‘relaxing’, do you not? I am delighted to see you taking an interest in some of the glories of nature, rather than the sins of your fellow man, but I feel you should at some time in the coming days lift your eyes somewhat in order to appreciate the beauties of the whole landscape, rather than the individual plants that compose it.”

  “By no means do I intend to allow myself to become sunk in idleness, Watson, but I will, even so, attempt to avail myself of the opportunities for mental refreshment to which you allude. However, at this juncture, the matter of physical refreshment would appear to be of more importance.” So saying, he proffered the plate of scones to me, taking two of them for himself and placing them on his plate. I feared for my friend’s continuing health if he continued to refuse to allow himself to unwind, if the process of prolonged mental relaxation may so be described, but determined to hold my peace for the nonce.

  -oOo-

  I was awakened early the next morning by the sound of gunfire from outside the window of the room I was sharing with Holmes. I turned to alert Holmes of the fact, but the other bed was unoccupied. Glancing at my watch and noting the time, as my association with Holmes had trained me to do as a matter of course, I hurriedly pulled on some clothes and made my way downstairs, where I let myself out through the back door of the house, which was unlocked.

  On arrival at the small orchard at the rear of the house, I encountered Sherlock Holmes, calmly reloading his revolver with fresh ammunition. A row of bottles which had once contained beer stood on a sawhorse some ten yards away, with the necks of the leftmost six bottles shattered.

  “Holmes!” I expostulated. “This is intolerable! Revolver practice at the hour of half past five in the morning is not only eccentric in the extreme, but positively inconsiderate of others. I would experience no surprise if Mrs Buncombe, who is, I would remind you, an elderly widow living alone except for any lodgers, decided to throw us out of the house forthwith and invited us to make our way back to London.”

  Holmes regarded me, a faint smile on his lips. “Watson, you serve as my guide and conscience in these matters. I do confess that the further implications of this little exercise of mine had slipped my mind. I awoke to the unaccustomed sound of birdsong, and a likewise unfamiliar vista of green leaves, and decided to avail myself of the solitude afforded by the early hour. On encountering these bottles, it occurred to me that this would be a suitable occasion to renew my skills with the revolver. I seem to remember your expressing displeasure at my doing so in our rooms at Baker Street at one time.”

  “Quite so, Holmes. There is a time and a place for such an exercise, and half-past five in the morning is no time, and the interior of our rooms in London is no place.” I spoke with some heat.

  “Tush, Watson. I fear you are quite vexed.”

  “I am indeed. I would suggest that you apologize to Mrs Buncombe at the earliest possible opportunity, and that you and I work together now to remove and dispose of any broken glass, which will undoubtedly pose a danger to any passers-by.”

  “Very good. As you say.” Holmes pocketed his revolver, after, I was happy to note, first removing the cartridges from the cylinder. “I will indeed extend my apologies to our worthy landlady at the first possible opportunity, and we will dispose of the débris that I have created. Ah—”

  Mrs Buncombe had appeared in the back doorway of the house, and was staring at us across the orchard. Holmes and I walked to meet her. I was pleased to see Holmes’ stride appear a little less confident than usual, and I had hopes that my words might have had some lasting effect on him.

  As we approached Mrs Buncombe, Holmes, who had opened his mouth to speak, was forestalled by the good lady herself.

  “Did either of you two gentlemen happen to hear
that Jim Pollard shooting at them crows?” she enquired of us. “He ought to be stopped from doing such a thing of an early morning. It’s not a fit practice for Christian folk to be out killing the Lord’s creatures at that hour. Deaf as I may be, the sound of that dratted gun, if you’ll forgive the word, woke me up out of my bed.”

  Holmes and I exchanged glances. Holmes, I could guess from my past experience of his moods, was struggling to contain his laughter, so I replied in his place.

  “Indeed we did, Mrs Buncombe, but we saw nothing.” I spoke loudly and distinctly. As we had discovered the previous day, and as she had admitted to us herself, the good lady’s hearing was not of the keenest. Holmes had turned away, seemingly seized with a violent fit of coughing.

  “Well, I must thank you two gentlemen for taking the trouble to see what was going on. Since I am alone in the house as a rule, it is a comfort to me to know that you are here,” she replied. “And since you are both up and doing, it seems to me that a cup of tea would be welcome.”

  “Thank you, Mrs Buncombe,” I replied. “You are quite correct in your surmise.”

  “Then I will just be running along and putting the kettle on. I will call you when your tea is ready, if you want to stay outside a little longer.”

  As she made her way to her domestic mysteries, I turned to Holmes. “We were lucky that time, Holmes,” I said as sternly as I could manage. “We must give thanks to Jim Pollard, whoever he may be, for his unconscious intervention in our affairs.”

  “Indeed so,” said Holmes. “Come, let us carry out your excellent suggestion of clearing away the remnants of my targets.”