Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine #10

by Arthur Conan Doyle

  “So you think he bought the poison then?”

  “I went in afterward myself on the pretext of needing some valerian root, and managed to have a look at the receipt when the chemist’s back was turned. It was a curare derivative—very rare and very deadly. A paralytic agent which, shortly after entering the bloodstream, causes paralysis and death. There is no known antidote. This was an example of life imitating art—a very deadly example.”

  A thin, cold shiver slithered down my spine as I realized the truth of his statement, and I suddenly felt the full impact of my narrow escape.

  “I am astounded that Nate knew his poisons so thoroughly,” I said.

  Holmes shook his head. “I am not so certain he did. The use of this obscure and powerful poison suggests the hand of another agent.”

  “But what—”

  “Not what, my dear Booth—who. I sense someone else’s hand behind all this—someone far more deadly than young Nate Carlisle.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  He paused to draw on his pipe before answering. The smoke from the pipe curled upward, a thin grey mist partially obscuring his face.

  “I am not convinced that Nate Carlisle was capable of so much patience and planning…from what I saw of him, he does not seem up to it. I have the feeling he was a pawn of some larger, more cold-blooded agent…and yet I cannot quite…” His voice trailed off, and he stared in the direction of the French windows at the front of the building.

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Did you remark upon how upset he was when poor Kitty’s dog died from the poison he had intended for you?”

  “Yes, but perhaps he was just acting.”

  “But why call attention to himself? If he truly felt no remorse, wouldn’t he simply say nothing?”

  “I take your point. If his guilt was genuine, what does that suggest to you?”

  “Merely that he is no natural killer. What he did, he did with some reluctance, accounting perhaps in part for his high rate of failure.”

  “How did you know he would use the poison on the sword?”

  “I didn’t know for certain—that’s why I had to find out what would happen if I switched the swords. It wasn’t enough that he bought the poison—that in itself is no crime, and he could always claim that he purchased it to poison rats or some other vermin. No, he had to be caught red-handed, as it were.”

  “What made you suspect him in the first place?”

  “In some ways it was a process of elimination. But one or two things he said or did led me to think he was the most likely culprit.”

  “Such as—?”

  “I already mentioned his pronounced grief at the death of Kitty’s dog, and his attempt to console her, which struck me as unusual, unless he was somehow responsible.”

  “What else?”

  “His background was shadowy. He came to you on recommendation from a theatre company in Savannah.”

  “Yes. He presented me with a letter.”

  “How well do you know that city?”

  “Not well. I traveled there once with my father.”

  “I sent a telegram to the address on that letter, and there is no such theatre.”

  “Good heavens—my poor Mary always said I was too trusting of people.”

  “You are a very busy man. Savannah is far enough away that you would be unlikely to check on that reference—and he must have known that.”

  “True; I often hire actors on a single recommendation. I can always fire them if they are inadequate.”

  “That is precisely what young Carlisle was counting on—which is why he came with his part perfectly learned. As you pointed out, he is quite a good actor, so you were not likely to fire him. And, I suspect, faking a recommendation is perhaps not unusual in the theatrical community.”

  I sighed ruefully. “You’re right—even had I found out the letter was false, I still probably would have chalked it up to the eagerness of a young actor to find employment.”

  Holmes smiled. “There was one more thing.”

  “What was that?”

  “As I just remarked, he is a gifted actor.”

  “Yes, that’s true. But what—?”

  “And he did a credible job of pretending to be a Northerner.”

  “Yes, his accent was quite convincing.”

  “I agree—except for one small thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “He made one small slip. When the cast was ordering breakfast the other day, he asked for ‘a egg.’ Not ‘an egg,’ but ‘a egg.’”

  “How odd. But I don’t see what that—”

  “In certain parts of the South, that is a very common usage. However, it is virtually unknown in the North, which made me suspect he was not all he claimed to be.”

  I shook my head. “But that’s such a small detail.”

  “My dear Booth, details may be small, but they are anything but insignificant. They can indeed be the difference between life and death.” He drew in more smoke from his pipe, a thoughtful expression on his lean face. “You own your theatre building, do you not?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “And have there been any attempts to purchase it from you recently?”

  “Well, now that you mention it—I had an offer a few months ago which I turned down.”

  “Have you had any suspicious fires since then, by any chance?”

  I stared at him. “How did you know? We had a fire in the middle of the night, just over two months ago—luckily a stage hand had fallen asleep in the wings and gave the alarm; the fire station is only half a block away. We only lost a few costumes and some scenery.”

  He nodded slowly. “Yes…I think I am beginning to see.”

  “See what?”

  “A motive. It is not yourself that this criminal is after at all—it is your building. You were merely in the way.”

  “But why on earth would someone go to such extremes to get that particular building?”

  “Precisely, my dear Booth. Why, indeed?”

  Just then Hector entered the room with a letter on a silver tray. I began to reach for it, but he handed it to Holmes.

  “Thank you, Hector,” Holmes said, taking the letter. “Who gave this to you?”

  “It was a tall man, sir—as tall as yourself. Skinny as a rail, too, with a neck like a chicken, and a big ol’ head atop it. Didn’t look to me as though a head like that belonged on such a skinny little neck—it seemed ’bout like to topple right off, I thought.”

  “Thank you. Anything else?”

  “His eyes, sir—they was deep and hooded, like…like a big ol’ rattler, sir. That’s what he brought to mind, sir—a big ol’ rattler sunnin’ hisself on a rock, with his head swivelin’ from side to side as though he was lookin’ for some poor field mouse to devour.”

  Holmes smiled. “Thank you, Hector—you are a remarkably observant man.”

  Holmes’s praise seemed to put wind in Hector’s elocutionary sails, and, encouraged, he waxed on. “I didn’t like him, sir—no, sir, I didn’t like him one little bit. Felt like if I turned my back on him, the big ol’ snake would gulp me down in one bite. I’d watch out for him if I were you, sir.”

  “Thank you, Hector—I shall heed your warning,” Holmes replied earnestly.

  Hector left the room muttering to himself about rattlesnakes disguised as men. Holmes watched him depart, then turned to me.

  “He is quite a remarkable man, your servant,” he said.

  “Yes, I know.”

  Holmes turned his attention to the note in his hand. He read it quickly and handed it to me. It was written on the finest quality stationary, a creamy white parchment—the letterhead was embossed with gold initials: JFM.

  A note was etched in a firm masculine hand in blue ink.

  My congratulations—you win this round. I assume you have deduced by now that young Carlisle was merely a pawn; perhaps you have even surmised my motive in enlisting his aid. It is qu
ite simple: I needed the building for my own purposes. If you want to know more, I will be happy to meet with you a week from now in Chicago. (Of course, I cannot guarantee your safety should you take me up on my offer.) I have decided to move on to—shall we say—less crowded pastures. The river is no longer worth crossing with Chiron standing guard over the prize.

  In any case, I am certain we shall meet again, and I look forward to crossing swords sometime in the future.

  Yours,

  James F. Moriarty

  I gazed up at Holmes, who was looking very pensive.

  “Chiron,” he murmured.

  “Isn’t he the centaur who gave up his immortality in order to save Prometheus?”

  “I see you know your Greek mythology.”

  “What a curious reference. Who is this person?”

  “He is obviously educated, brilliant and ruthless. I have a feeling this is not the last the world will hear of him.”

  “So is this the missing piece of the puzzle?”

  “I believe it is,” Holmes replied. “He has supplied the missing piece—and I suspect he also created the entire puzzle.”

  That the world would know of him is a matter of record—and of course, before long, the world would also know of Sherlock Holmes. He left New York soon after our production closed, and some months later I received a postcard from him, sent from Chicago, complaining it was too windy and that he much preferred New York. After that I heard nothing—until I began following his exploits in London some years later.

  As for me, I went back to my life as an actor without further incident. My part in the ongoing life and adventures of the great detective was over…the rest is silence.

  FOOL’S GOLD, by Martin Rosenstock

  In my endeavour to render truthfully the methods by which my friend, Sherlock Holmes, arrived at solutions to some of the most intricate cases, I have focused on the scientific side of his character. Undoubtedly, it is the remarkable amount of knowledge that he commands in such areas of human inquiry as chemistry, botany, and anatomy that accounts for much of the success he has achieved. However, I desire not to lay myself open to the charge that I present a skewed portrait of his character; therefore, I should like to emphasize that Holmes is also a shrewd reader of the human soul. These few sentences may suffice as a preface, and I now turn to the task of reconstructing from my notes a case which was solved not only by my friend’s understanding of the laws by which the natural world operates, but also by his ability to discern that ephemeral world concealed in each and every one of us.

  * * * *

  “Ah, good morning, Watson,” said Holmes, as I walked into the living room of our quarters in 221B Baker Street. “You had better hurry up with your breakfast. Lestrade sent word. He will be stopping by shortly.”

  Mrs Hudson was already pouring my tea. I sat down and lifted a warm scone from the basket in the centre of the table.

  “I trust you have an idea as to the nature of the inspector’s call.”

  My companion exhaled smoke from a cigar, adding to the cloud that was already hovering below the ceiling. “Well, it would appear our dear Lestrade has once again followed a trail till it turned cold.”

  I sipped my tea and looked out of the window. It was a fine spring morning. Small white clouds were moving at a brisk pace eastward across a pale blue sky. It rained heavily during the night, and the downpour cleared the London air. The yellow brickwork of the house across the street shone brightly. In the distance a dog was barking.

  “Don’t you remember the murder that caused such consternation on Monday?” Holmes continued.

  He was in high spirits, I noticed now that Mrs Hudson’s tea had chased away the last vestiges of sleep. His grey eyes shone with the gleam of anticipation I had so often observed before.

  At that moment, the doorbell rang, and Mrs Hudson could be heard going to answer it.

  Recalling an article I had read in The Times, I asked: “Neville Cavendish?”

  Steps were coming up the staircase.

  “Precisely, my dear Watson,” said Holmes, then lifted an index finger to his lips in a gesture that betokened silence on the content of our conversation.

  There was a sharp knock on the door, and Lestrade stepped into the room. “Mr Holmes, good morning.” He nodded to me. “Dr Watson, good morning to you, too. I am sorry to be interrupting your breakfast.”

  “Not at all,” I said. “Urgency is a feature of your profession, Inspector. Please don’t mind me. I shall enjoy the privilege of listening quietly while you and Holmes discuss the business at hand. Would you care for a cup of tea?”

  “Too kind of you. But no thank you, Dr Watson.”

  * * * *

  Mrs Hudson had taken Lestrade’s hat and coat, and Holmes was now ushering him to an easy chair opposite his own. The inspector sat down, but did not lean back to make himself comfortable. Rather, he remained bent forward with his lower arms resting on his thighs. His fingers were clenched. The usually dapper and wiry man, I now realized, looked positively exhausted. Dark shadows lay below his eyes, and his frame seemed to be sagging.

  “I am sure you know why I’ve come by to bother you this morning,” he began, somewhat sheepishly.

  I expected that Holmes would grasp at this opportunity to demonstrate that Lestrade could dispense with the explanations, since the cause of his visit was as well known to us as his failure was apparent. However, my companion seemed to be in a forgiving mood, and to my astonishment waived airily:

  “I am sure I have no idea whatsoever, Lestrade. I’ve spent the last few days measuring my skills as a violinist against Brahms’s Concerto in D, and once music seizes hold of me I tend to forget the world at large.”

  “Ah, I see,” said the inspector, an expression of relief crossing his face. “Well, then let me fill you in on this sordid affair.”

  Much of the information had already been in the paper. Some details, however, the police had kept secret, as public knowledge of the investigation’s minutiae could only help the criminal.

  Neville Cavendish was found dead by his butler on Monday morning. The Major General’s body lay in his study, a few yards from a safe that had been forced open. He had been hit in the face with a blunt instrument, probably a tool of some sort. The blow had shattered his left cheekbone, but had not been lethal. Subsequently, however, the intruder had shot Cavendish through the head, using a cushion from a nearby sofa to stifle the report. It had been murder, cold-blooded and merciless.

  “The revolver lay beside the body,” Lestrade continued. “It was Cavendish’s own service revolver. It appears the Major General got home around ten on Sunday evening. He had not been expected till Wednesday. He’d been off fly-fishing in Wales. But the trout weren’t rising, this according to the clerk at the hotel in which he was staying. Cavendish wasn’t the most patient man, and so early on Sunday morning he packed his bags and boarded the train from Swansea to Bristol and then took the express to Paddington. That evening, when he opened his front door, he most likely heard the burglar working on the safe. He fetched his revolver, which he kept in a cupboard by his bedside, and went to confront the intruder. Whoever it was, he seems to have nerves of steel. Cavendish must have had the gun pointed at him, but he brought the old man to the floor…”

  “…and put a bullet through his head,” Holmes concluded.

  “Exactly.”

  “Why did Cavendish not send a wire that he would be returning early?”

  “Ah,” said Lestrade, “of course, I asked the same question. It appears he in fact did send a wire. However, Cavendish only kept a small household, with one butler. A lady comes in twice a week to clean and do the laundry. The butler is one Jacob Fitzsimmons, a man in his middle years, and I am afraid that the mouse was playing while the cat was away. Fitzsimmons appears to be romantically involved with a young seamstress, and he and the girl took the opportunity afforded by Mr Cavendish’s absence to go to Salisbury for the weekend. On Sunday night,
they were guests at an inn, under a false name. Be that as it may, it accounts for the fact that no one was at home when the telegraph boy came by to deliver the Major General’s wire.”

  Holmes exhaled smoke. “I see, Lestrade. Pray continue.”

  “Well, Fitzsimmons returned to Cavendish’s house around eleven on Monday morning and discovered the body. The Major General’s physician, Dr Lanyon, lives across the street. Fitzsimmons ran to fetch him. The doctor came right away, but Cavendish was beyond help. Lanyon appears to have been quite upset; he and the Major General were good friends. Then the butler went to alert the police.” Lestrade pressed thumb and forefinger against his tired eyes. “Cavendish’s murderer got what he wanted. Whether he opened the safe before or after the murder we do not know. But the only contents left were a number of stock certificates impossible to sell anonymously, the Major General’s stamp collection, and…” Lestrade cleared his throat, “…a few pictures of a somewhat lurid nature, all rather old.”

  Holmes turned to me. “What say you, Watson?”

  I had been listening so intently to the inspector’s account that I had forgotten my scone. It was cold to the touch, as I now took a few seconds to sift through my thoughts.

  “Well,” I ventured, “do we know what the murderer stole?”

  “We have a good idea of it,” replied Lestrade. “At least if Cavendish’s sister is to be believed. It appears he never showed her the safe’s contents, but mentioned that he had put his late wife’s jewellery there, which in itself was worth a fortune; you might recall the society columns frequently praised Mrs Cavendish’s exquisite appearance. The jewellery is insured, but beyond that Miss Cavendish claims that her brother also alluded to keeping a substantial amount of gold bullion there.”

  “Gold bullion?!” I exclaimed. “At home?”

  “That’s what she says.”

  “Miss Cavendish is the Miss Cavendish?” Holmes inquired.

  “Afraid so,” the inspector nodded.

  I whistled through my teeth.

  “I think it is time we had a look at the scene of the crime,” said my companion.