Sherlock Holmes--The Red Tower
Page 1
CONTENTS
Cover
Also Available from Titan Books
Title Page
Copyright
Foreword
Chapter One: An Unexpected Invitation
Chapter Two: Crain Manor
Chapter Three: Ghosts of the Past
Chapter Four: An Unusual Gathering
Chapter Five: Dinner is Served
Chapter Six: A Spirit in Scarlet
Chapter Seven: The Curse of the Crains
Chapter Eight: A House in Disarray
Chapter Nine: The Great Detective
Chapter Ten: Parlour Tricks
Chapter Eleven: Ulterior Motives
Chapter Twelve: Sir Thomas Golspie
Chapter Thirteen: A Suspicious Disappearance
Chapter Fourteen: An Eye for an Eye
Chapter Fifteen: Secrets Revealed
Chapter Sixteen: The Testimony of Lady Esther
Chapter Seventeen: A Retrospection
Acknowledgements
About the Author
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TITAN BOOKS
Sherlock Holmes: The Red Tower
Print edition ISBN: 9781783298686
Electronic edition ISBN: 9781783298693
Published by Titan Books
A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd
144 Southwark St, London SE1 0UP
First edition: March 2018
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This is a work of fiction. Names, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2018 Mark A. Latham. All Rights Reserved.
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“For who can wonder that man should feel a vague belief in tales of disembodied spirits wandering through those places which they once dearly affected, when he himself, scarcely less separated from his old world than they, is forever lingering upon past emotions and bygone times, and hovering, the ghost of his former self, about the places and people that warmed his heart of old?”
Charles Dickens, Master Humphrey’s Clock
FOREWORD
FROM THE NOTES OF DR. J. H. WATSON
The affair of the Red Tower is a story that I have long overlooked. Not because it offers insufficient intrigue or incident when compared to the vaunted annals of Sherlock Holmes’s casebooks, but because it is of such personal concern to me that it has long pained me even to review my notes. Now, with my friend and I both retired, and the subjects of this tragic tale all departed this mortal coil, the time is right to add this case to those stories of the great detective within the public domain.
It was the April of 1894. Sherlock Holmes had not long been back in London after his sensational return from what many had supposed was his death, and this had barely faded from the news. I was mulling over an invitation from Holmes to return to my old room at Baker Street, an offer made more tempting by the interest I had received from one Dr Verner in the purchase of my medical practice. I had hesitated, perhaps longer than I ought to have. In truth, I had never really suited living alone, but nor could I face simply turning back the clock. To resume my professional partnership with Holmes was one thing—I had certainly been reminded of how much I had missed our adventures during his hiatus—but I still could not bear to leave the home that I had shared with my late wife, Mary.
Yet an unexpected invitation from an old acquaintance changed all that. So it was that I found myself travelling to rural Berkshire, against the advice of Sherlock Holmes, in much need of a change of scenery and some friendly company. What I found there instead was a case singular in its strangeness, cruelty and ingenuity.
CHAPTER ONE
AN UNEXPECTED INVITATION
The train rattled noisily through Berkshire—a not at all unpleasant part of the world through which to travel, save for the cold nip in the air that sliced in through the window casements. I looked again at the letter of invitation and, not for the first time since boarding, hoped that my host would not be meeting me at the station in person, for I had managed to secure a seat only in third. As I was to spend the weekend in the company of a Marquess and his friends and family, it hardly seemed a propitious start.
Not that he would care. The host in question was James Crain of Easthampstead, son of Theobald Crain, the Marquess of Berkeley. Through Holmes, I had met many storied noblemen, yet there were none I could ever truly call friends. James Crain, on the other hand, had become close both to me and to my late wife, Mary; so much so that I was among a close circle who called him simply “Crain”, at his insistence, rather than using his courtesy title of Lord Beving. Crain had always striven to be seen as a common sort of man, which I suspect not only led to his pursuit of friendships with the likes of me, but was also born of some antagonistic relationship with his father. Certainly, despite our years of acquaintance, I had never before been invited to his family home.
Mary and I had been there for James when his mother, Lady Agnes Crain, had passed away—an event that rocked him in such a profound way that it seemed as though he’d expected her to live for ever. He had never quite recovered, and became somewhat dependent upon us, spending most of his time in our company whenever he was in London. Crain had always been a man of varied and addictive appetites, and the tragedy pushed him towards the misuse of various medications. I had tried to help him once or twice, but he always gave me short shrift. “I came to you as a friend, not a physician,” he would say, as if one precluded the other. In those moments, he rather reminded me of Holmes, though otherwise they were as chalk and cheese.
After Mary’s death, our acquaintanceship dwindled to the occasional exchange of letters, a situation which C
rain often put down to the increasing pressure of his duties at the family estate, but which I had often suspected had more to do with the spectre of Mary’s passing. Our meetings had become awkward, full of those moments that gentlemen often cannot bear with the required decorum, and it became easier simply to avoid the circumstances—and each other—altogether. That he had not been there for me as I had been there for him could have been considered rather selfish, but so all-consuming was Crain’s grief for his mother, that I felt sure he could not stand to grieve for Mary also. I had written to him only recently, as it happened, telling him of the offer I had received for my practice, and of how torn I was at the prospect of moving away from my marital home at long last and returning to the life of a bachelor. He had been sympathetic in his response, but no more or less than that. That is, until he sent his latest letter, and the invitation.
All these recollections would have been little more than maudlin emotion stirred in a breast long recovered from the most difficult trials, were it not for the contents of that letter. For although the invitation promised wine, music and song, there was something in it that bothered me. It could have been nothing, or, as Holmes would have had it, it could have been everything. For the guest of honour at the weekend party was a certain “Madame Farr”, a spiritualist medium.
The last time I had seen Crain, many months prior, he had at least belatedly begun the healing process, or so I had thought. As it transpired, he had become increasingly interested in spiritualism. He had always given the practice more credence than I, ever since his mother’s passing, but the enthusiasm with which he pursued messages from beyond the grave had worried me. The truth was, I had reached out but briefly to a spiritualist “mission” in Blackheath in my darkest moments after Mary’s death, but had found it curiously lacking in both comfort and candour, and had resolved never to return.
“In my experience they offer some small comfort to those whose grief is near,” I had told Crain, aiming to be circumspect should I inadvertently cause offence, “and they seem harmless enough.” I had wanted to add “if misguided”, but refrained. I had said instead, “I would always advise caution when dealing in such matters. In my experience, when we mourn a loved one, we begin to see her likeness in every reflection; to hear her voice in every echo. When we are presented with notions of an afterlife, we strive to believe, even if the evidence of our senses denies it.”
“But what if the evidence of our senses does not deny the truth of an afterlife?” Crain’s hands trembled. “What if it were real, Watson, and it could be proved?”
“Then greater men than I would be forced to eat their words,” I said, thinking briefly of the rationalists at the Royal Society, but more so of Holmes. “The world as we understand it would be changed.”
“Aye, for the better,” Crain said. “There is no greater pain than the loss of those we love. Imagine if that pain could be diminished. Imagine if we could be absolutely certain that the departed stand with us, as though they had never left at all; that we could speak to them as plainly as I speak to you now; that they could see into the past, present and future, and use their great knowledge for the advancement of us all.”
“I think the world functions adequately as it is,” I had said. “I have seen grief consume men, Crain. I have seen death in all its forms, natural and unnatural.” I always struggled at the reminiscence of past battlefields. I rarely allowed myself to dwell on the things I had seen in my army days. “Throughout it all, I have always known one thing to be true: that those who move on from tragic loss—who look to the future—thrive. Those incapable of relinquishing painful memories are forever imprisoned by their own grief.”
Crain had seemed somewhat wounded by my lack of belief, and had promised in jest that, should he ever find definite proof of his convictions, he would present it to me and expect me to eat my words. I assured him that if he could find true evidence, then I would be only too pleased to do so, but I expected that day to be a long time coming.
Some few days later, I heard that Crain had started visiting a medium who had set up her little enterprise in some village near the Marquess’s estate, and that news presaged a dwindling of my contact with him. Indeed, he seemed to have retired himself, young as he was, from London life almost entirely, much to the befuddlement of his friends.
In what few brief exchanges we did share, no more was said about the matter, and that had remained the case until one week ago, when a letter arrived from Crain, along with the invitation. The note was full of the boyish warmth that had so endeared him to me when first we’d met, and contained such familiarities as though we had never become estranged. But it was the way he wrote of the local spiritualists that worried me. “Worried” may seem too strong a word, but if anyone was in a vulnerable state of mind, it was James Crain; and as heir to both title and fortune, he would make a fine prize for a more unscrupulous trickster. After so long in Holmes’s company, I was ever suspicious.
Crain had written:
Watson, as I think you may have heard, about a year-and-a-half ago, a small spiritualist group formed in the village of Swinley. Over the past year I have rather become convinced of their faith, and of their genuine ability to converse with spirits. They have passed on to me messages which I believe cannot have come from any other source than dear Mama. So convinced am I, that I think even you would be unable to deny the truth of your own eyes and ears were you to see her work in person. Her name is Madame Farr, and I would very much like you to meet her.
I am sure that she can help you as she has helped me. Because Mary was my friend, as you are. Because—and this is deuced selfish of me, I know—I need an ally. Someone of sound mind and strong character who can attest to Madame Farr’s talents, and support me against naysayers. My family are less convinced than I am of Madame Farr’s teachings. My sister, Esther, is a sceptic. I’m rather afraid that her mind is closed, although it has more to do with her fiancé, I’d wager. A chap named Melville—a London barrister. A stand-up fellow in most respects, but stern, as their lot so often are. A little old for Esther, in my opinion, but keep that to yourself. He was widowed some years ago, but when he first met Madame Farr he didn’t take kindly to her words of comfort. He went into a black mood, truth be told. I rather fear his influence has turned Esther against spiritualism altogether. But if anyone can bring her round, it is you, my old friend.
Esther is rather taken with your stories—you must be used to that by now. Even young ladies in the provinces have heard of Sherlock Holmes. Indeed, she fancies herself a bit of a sleuth as a result of reading them. She has even tried to “expose” Madame Farr’s séances before, but with no success—how could she succeed, when they are quite authentic. Just give me the chance to prove it to you. Next weekend we are having a small gathering at the house—I hesitate to call it a party, because it’s only a chosen few. You can meet Madame Farr and see what you make of her. Even if you don’t become a believer, there’ll be plenty of stimulating conversation, good food and wine. Sir Thomas Golspie will be there—he’s an old friend of Father’s. I’m sure you can swap stories of your many adventures.
I knew James had thrown Sir Thomas Golspie’s name into the conversation to entice me. I had read about the man’s adventures in Africa as a youth, and they had in no small part influenced me to join the army, so that perhaps I might see more of the world, as he had. It was an obvious ploy, but one that I gladly fell for. If nothing else, the chance to meet one of England’s most intrepid explorers would make the trip worthwhile. But more than that, I hoped that I could rekindle my old friendship with Crain—so long as he was not entirely lost to Madame Farr’s strange beliefs.
The arrangements had been made via telegram. I was to go to Berkshire by train the following Saturday, arriving at the manor in the afternoon in order to reminisce with Crain before the other guests arrived. There would be an informal dinner on Saturday evening, and then on Sunday afternoon the party proper would begin. I would be home in ti
me for afternoon surgery on Monday, refreshed from a small holiday. What could be more pleasant?
The train’s whistle sounded. I had barely noticed our brief stop at Bracknell, and we pulled away, the station fading from view in a cloud of steam. The majority of the passengers had alighted, and I was left to shoulder the draught alone. There was one more stop. I folded up the letter and put it in my pocket.
* * *
I arrived at a tiny wayside station south of Bracknell, the only passenger to alight. The sky was the colour of tired linen, and threatened rain. Once the train had pulled away from the platform, a deathly silence fell, and it became a desolate thing to endure. I wondered more than once if I had done the right thing in coming; I had spoken with Holmes just two days ago, and he had sown seeds of doubt in my mind, as he so often did.
“You really intend to go?” Holmes had looked at me down his aquiline nose, incredulity writ large upon his sharp features.
“Why ever wouldn’t I?” I’d shifted in my seat as a waiter had cleared away the plates from the excellent fish course. It was rarely that we dined at the Criterion, and usually when Holmes wished to place himself on my good side. The place had long been a favourite of mine, and Holmes had twice reminded me that it was here at the Criterion where I’d first heard of him, and determined to approach him on the matter of shared rooms at Baker Street.
“Because, my dear Watson, to go willingly into the company of practising spiritists is normally to forfeit either one’s reason or one’s wallet.”
“It is not the spiritualists with whom I wish to engage,” I’d said. “Crain is a dear old friend—to me and to Mary. It would be remiss not to accept his invitation.”
“Nevertheless, Watson—this medium. Madame…?”
“Farr,” I’d sighed. “Madame Farr.”
“Quite. I shall make a few discreet inquiries on your behalf. Never fear; if there is anything untoward about Madame Farr, I shall uncover it.”