by william Todd
A Reflection of Evil
A Sherlock Holmes Mystery
William Todd
A note to the reader: As those who are regular readers of the accounts I put forth regarding my friend Sherlock Holmes know, I sometimes need to rely on second hand accounts when I am not a witness to particular events. To make sense of the little epistle I am about to pen I must acknowledge two separate accounts for which I was not present. However, after having consulted both parties I have been given permission to tell their accounts within the story with my usual literary embellishments to make the story more palatable. Thank you.
Dr. John H. Watson
Chapter 1
While the year 1896 was not a particularly eventful year regarding cases in which to showcase my friend Sherlock Holmes’ remarkable abilities, it was a somberly dynamic year, nonetheless. In the ten months or so between the particulars surrounding the Bruce Partington Plans in November of ’95 through the mystery Holmes cleared up in the Veiled Lodger in September of ’96 very little took place in the life of the restless boarders of 221B Baker Street. The monumental volume of crimes typical in a city of this size, especially those of which Holmes was especially astute in solving, seemed to have been chiseled down to bric-a-brac of the sort that Holmes would never stoop to waste his intellect on.
Things looked bleak. That is until a Mrs. Anne Merrick walked into our digs.
It was the 26th of June, 1896, a warm and breezy Friday. Sherlock Holmes was staring languidly at the wall, chewing on his spent pipe, while I scoured the papers for any trifle worth mentioning to him.
“It seems a Mr. and Mrs. Templeton in Poplar have somehow misplaced a few of their Schipperkes,” I said aloud to bring Holmes out of his melancholy.
“Excuse me?” he replied dryly.
“Schipperkes—they are dogs. The Templetons are breeders.”
He sighed and turned a twisted brow to me. “I know what Schipperkes are, Watson.”
“Well, what do you think?” I asked.
“About what?”
“Finding them. They are offering a fairly sizable reward. Several dogs are missing.”
Holmes turned defiantly, taking the pipe from his mouth. “Watson, do you honestly think I would waste my time trapesing the countryside looking for what amounts to be a pack of primped and pampered black rats? The fact that they are offering a reward is inconsequential. I need stimuli not compensation.”
Putting the paper down I faced him directly. “Wouldn’t that be better than just wasting our afternoon caged in this den of filth and smoke you have created. If nothing else, it will get us outside into the fresh air.”
Holmes said nothing, which relayed to me his utter disinterest. He only straightened his lean frame from the chair and retrieved a box next to the mantle. This the detective placed on his lap when reseated and began pulling out locks of different shapes and sizes. Once a lock was within his grasp, he tinkered with the locking mechanisms of each with a personally-fashioned tool he had retrieved from the stand next to his chair. Within several seconds of manipulating the small tool inside each lock, they would pop open and he would toss it over his shoulder, ending in a loud thud upon the wooden floor at his back. He then repeated this same action with each subsequent lock. Within ten minutes, fifteen open locks lay haphazardly along the floor behind the man.
I was about to remonstrate him on the metallic minefield he had created across our flooring when there came a knock at the door.
“Yes, Mrs. Hudson?” said Sherlock Holmes as he put his little tool in the pocket of his frock coat.
Mrs. Hudson entered the room with a tall, young lady in tow. “A Mrs. Anne Merrick with some urgent business. And may I say, whatever it is she needs your assistance with, please take it. The confounded noises and awful smells coming from this room will be the death of me.”
Ignoring Mrs. Hudson’s remark, Holmes rose and, regarding the young lady, gestured to his seat. “Please, sit here and tell me what has brought you to our humble abode.”
Mrs. Merrick bowed slightly and gave Holmes what I surmised a flirtatious smile as she took the seat that Holmes offered.
Holmes flashed a quick, uncomfortable one of his own, of the variety one would see from a canine flashing a toothy grin when its owner has taught it to “smile” on command.
“Mrs. Hudson, would you be so kind as to make us some tea?” he then offered.
The woman fidgeted uncomfortably on the cushion then replied, “No tea for me, thank you. I am hurried. I wish to tell you my plight in hopes of gaining your services and return to Swansea as soon as possible.”
“No tea then?” Mrs. Hudson asked.
“None for our guest, but I still require a sip or two, if you please. As a great person once said, ‘I thirst’. Some cold meats would be nice, as well. I feel a bit of a hunger overtaking me.”
Mrs. Hudson implored me with her eyes, and I for my part could only shrug; there were times that Sherlock Holmes taxed her to her breaking point, which he found oddly amusing.
“I’ll be back shortly,” she finally said and left the room with a slightly determined closing of the door.
“So how may we be of service to you, Mrs. Merrick?” asked Holmes as he took a seat in an armless chair by the window, taking in her appearance in quick glances.
Anne Merrick was a quite stunning creature, even if my friend would not stoop to so low a state as to agree. He would describe her as though he were reading the entrees off a menu. I, on the other hand, am happy to give credit where it is due. She had curly golden locks that swept round about her head and were kept in place with a flowery hat. Her eyes were of such an uncommon green hue they almost appeared to glow in the smoke dappled light, which seemed to add to her allure. Her red dress was immaculate and silky, and in her gloved hand she waved a cigarette in a long ebony cigarette holder. This she put to her lips often as she spoke.
“Mr. Holmes,” she started in an excited burst, “my husband has gone missing. I don’t know where he could be or why he has gone. I’m at my wit’s end.” She ended the exclamation with a long drag from her cigarette.
“What makes you think his disappearance warrants a consulting detective?”
“When I explain the whole affair, I think you will agree I have done the right thing to come to you.”
My friend, with an intensely direct gaze, said, “Pray, continue with your story and leave out no detail, please.”
She took another long drag then said, “My husband is Derwyn Merrick. We live on his family estate in Swansea. His is an ancient family whose wealth has come mostly from copper and coal mines.”
“So, he comes from old money?”
She nodded in a puff of smoke and continued. “Our lives as of late have seemed fine at first glance. Nothing out of the ordinary, really. He did seem a bit distant lately, but he has fought off bouts of melancholy his entire life, a family malady, so this most recent one did not seem out of place. He had, over the last month, been spending more hours at one of his mines; but again, it is something that he does on occasion, doing…whatever it is he does, so I thought nothing of it. Then, a week ago, a fit of rage overtook him, and we had a terrible fight,” she said with a growing agitation and another long drag from her cigarette. “Out of nowhere, he accused me of spending him into the poorhouse, the ignorant tuss. Over a silly set of French floor vases. We never squabbled over anything so trivial as money before. To my knowledge, we have more than enough to support the furnishing and up-keep of the estate. In reality, his spending habits at the track often outpaced my decorating tastes.”
Holmes had been keenly gazing at the
woman, yet silent while she spoke; however, he interrupted her at that point. “Madame, what color eyes would you say you have?”
She gave him a queer look and glanced over at me in an obviously curious state.
“There is a reason for the query,” he offered, reading her expression, “though it may not be obvious to you. Please answer the question.”
She lowered her cigarette holder. “Well, I’ve been told they are a unique shade of green,” she said with a flirtatious smile.
“And could you look over my shoulder,” Holmes continued dryly, “and tell me what the state of the weather is outside our window?”
Her smile disappeared abruptly. It was obvious that her coquetry had rarely been rebuffed before; however, she had met her match in Holmes’ dispassionate underpinnings. “It is sunny, and a breeze flutters your curtains,” was her subdued reply.
“Well enough. Continue your narrative, Mrs. Merrick.”
“Well, it is straight enough from here,” she replied with a deep inhalation of her cigarette. “I woke up at a quarter past seven three days ago and Derwyn was gone. He had left the bed in the middle of the night and hasn’t been seen since. Then yesterday morning I found this; it had been slipped under our door in the night.” She produced a piece of paper folded into quarters. This she handed over to Holmes, which he unfolded and read aloud:
“Two men the same in each and every way,
yet born in different years and born on a different
day.
One is quite busy while one rests his head,
revenge is a dish that is best served dead.”
At this point there was a knock at the door, and Mrs. Hudson entered with a silver platter, a teapot and one cup, and a plate of cold beef. She placed it on a side table and left without a word.
Holmes poured himself some tea. “Are you quite sure you wouldn’t want a cup?”
“Quite alright, thank you,” said she.
“May I inquire about the unique color red of your dress?”
Smoothing out the fabric with both hands she replied, “I believe in some circles it is called French Desire. But really, Mr. Holmes, what about my husband and this cryptic poem?”
I finally added to the conversation. “Yes, I am curious. What do you make of the strange rhyme?”
“The syntax is horrible. The verses, puerile.”
“I am not referring to its poetic merits. Its meaning, Holmes, its meaning!”
“There are one or two trifling possibilities, which I am not at liberty to offer quite yet. Watson, you know my ways. I keep my own counsel until I am sure my conclusion hits the mark. Mrs. Merrick, may I keep this note for further examination?”
“So, you will help me then?” she asked.
Holmes smiled weakly. “Of course we shall, Madame. That was never in doubt. There is a small affair that needs tending to on this end, which can be wrapped up by day’s end—”
I shot Holmes a curious glance and was about to query about this phantom affair, however the look on his face told me there was a reason for the ruse which he couldn’t divulge.
“—but we shall be on the first train to Swansea in the morning. I shall want to talk to the men in charge of each of his mines, but do not tell them you have gained my services. If all goes well, we shall find your missing husband.”
“Thank you, Mr. Holmes. You shall have carte blanche. Spend what you will to get my husband back.”
“Before giving us that blank check, Mrs. Merrick, will you do me the service, if it at all possible, to check into your husband’s finances for yourself? Whatever wealth you believe the Merrick family possesses, riches can disappear rather quickly if you owe the wrong people money.”
“I will do as you ask as soon as I am back home. So, you are inclined to think his disappearance and this odd verse have something to do with our finances?”
“I do, Madame. Your family mines are particularly at risk. And I must prepare you—there are many things which can go wrong in these situations. But you have done well in coming to me and not the police. In that alone, you may have saved his life.”
The woman assented with a nervous nod then rose from her seat and gently shook our hands before leaving.
“What are your plans now?” I asked the woman.
Through a miasma of smoke she said, “I am heading back to King’s Cross to catch the next train back to Swansea.”
“You mean Paddington,” Holmes corrected. “No trains from King’s Cross go to Wales.”
“Yes, Paddington is what I meant. It has been such a trying few days. Worry and lack of sleep has me in tatters. I look forward to seeing you tomorrow. I shall have a carriage waiting to pick you up at the station.”
Holmes stopped her just as she made the door. “Mrs. Merrick, pray tell, are you of Welsh decent yourself?”
Through one last cloud of smoke she smiled and said, “Born and raised my whole life in Swansea.”
“Thank you. We shall see you tomorrow, mid-morning.”
Holmes closed the door behind her with a strange eagerness in his eyes and raced to the open window. He watched as the young lady hailed a hansom on the street below, then he ran back across the room and out the door himself. In short order, he was back in the room.
I exclaimed, “That was one of the oddest interviews I think I have ever been a witness to.”
“I assure you, Watson, every question I asked had a reason behind it.”
“Why the lie about having a current affair to finish up with here? We have not had anything in weeks to occupy our time.”
“I did so to give the appearance we could not leave before tomorrow. I do not wish to telegraph our movements.”
“And how, exactly, could the color of her eyes or the color of her dress or the weather outside shed any light on the disappearance of her husband?”
“They cannot. But those questions helped me establish the fact that nothing she said to us was the truth.”
The revelation surprised me. “How were you able to establish that?”
Holmes refilled his pipe and began adding to the smog of the room. “Everyone has a tell, Watson. Something they do that calms themselves when wishing to pass off a lie as the truth. Once you establish what a person’s tell is, you can decipher whether anything they say is an actuality or an invention.”
“And what was Mrs. Merrick’s tell?” I asked.
“It was her smoking. When the woman’s words were true, she would not put the cigarette to her mouth. When she perjured herself she smoked like a chimney. I needed a baseline of truth to test my theory, so I asked those mundane questions for which she had no reason to lie.”
“Well, what made you suspect she was lying to begin with?”
He sighed wistfully. “Where shall I start…When she entered the room her demeanor, to me, seemed one born more of nervousness than of worry or fear. She called her husband a tuss, which you may know is a uniquely Cornish term. Something a Welsh aristocrat would not stoop to use. She did not know Paddington is the station to the west country precisely because she never came in on that train. Did you happen to notice how pristine her dress was?”
“It was a very nice dress,” I commented.
“Yes, Watson, precisely. It was a bit too nice—clean to be exact. I read in yesterday’s paper there was a delay in launching a new steamer in Bristol because of the persistent inclement weather over the last week. I believe Bristol and Swansea would more likely than not share the same weather, since they are not that far apart.”
“Why on earth would you read something so mundane as an obscure article about the launching of a steamer being delayed by bad weather?”
Holmes smiled dryly, “So when a young lady walks into our flat and says she is from Swansea and her husband is missing, I will know she is being deceptive. At any rate, she carried no umbrella and had no mud on her hem. One would expect at least a bit of mud from the walk from her home to the carriage or from the carriage to the statio
n. The truth is her dress barely had any blemish on it. I suspect she is a Londoner with ties to Cornwall. I employed one of my little urchins for a reconnaissance mission, and he is following her as we speak to see where she lands. In the end, she sealed my suspicion when she said she was Welsh born and bred.”
“So, we are not going to take the case then,” said I.
“We absolutely are, my dear Watson. If she, or more likely her employer, is willing to lie to this degree to get us to Swansea then we shall endeavor not to disappoint them.”
Suddenly, Mrs. Hudson appeared at the door again. A young constable was quick on her heels. “It seems your services are needed for a second time today.”
The lawman had a mop of disheveled brown hair, close-set eyes, and a thin mustache. His helmet he had tucked under his arm. “Mr. Holmes, I am Constable Hill. Inspector Lestrade sent me here straightway. There is a riot at the prison at Wormwood Scrubs. There was a prison transfer from Brixton to Wormwood that only happened two days ago. We don’t know if the riot had anything to do with the new prisoners. Very dicey at the moment. Several guards and more than a few inmates are dead. There have been some escapes in the chaos, but we’re unsure who has taken to the hills. The inspector is requesting your services.”
With a telltale glint in his eyes, Holmes replied, “A transfer from Brixton, you say?”
“That is correct, sir. Some twenty-five inmates were transferred because of overcrowding. But we currently do not know if one has to do with the other.”
“It seems the evil eye of lawlessness has finally awakened, Watson!” Holmes said. With an exuberant step, he went to his writing desk and scribbled a note, tucked it into an envelope and handed it to the constable. “Please give this to Lestrade and tell him that we are currently detained and plan on leaving for Swansea. We shall be back no later than Sunday morning. We will join him at The Scrubs then, if he still requires our services.”
“Do you not think helping Lestrade is a more worthy endeavor?” I asked.
“As you know, Watson, I do not believe in coincidences. There has been nothing worthy of my time and talents in months, and suddenly two intriguing affairs fall into our lap in one afternoon. I cannot help but think these two strands somehow overlap. No, we shall continue down our road. In solving this little dilemma, we may well bring clarity to that one.”
