Sherlock Holmes--The Red Tower

by Mark A. Latham

I made for the door. Simon stood in front of it, and made no attempt to move. I looked up at the much taller man, with his bushy beard and suspicious eyes.

  “Get out of my way,” I growled through gritted teeth.

  He looked past me to Madame Farr, and then askance to Crain.

  “Watson—” Crain started.

  “Not now, Crain,” I snapped. I turned back to Simon, and moved so close I heard him gulp nervously. I felt some small satisfaction as he at last relented and stepped aside.

  Moments later I was at the foot of the stone stairs. I stormed down to the hall. The front door was locked up for the evening, and so I turned and marched through the rear passages, past the kitchen, and out into the cold night. Gravel crunched beneath my boot heels, and a blustering wind assailed me, though at least the rain had subsided to a fine drizzle. I stopped near the stables, seeking shelter under a lean-to, and brushed the rain from my face.

  When I looked up, there was Simon again! He must have followed close at my heels, but made no move towards me. Instead he strode off past the coach-house to some other part of the manor. Was he spying on me? What other cause could he have to come outside at this hour?

  Uncertain of the man’s movements, I walked around to the front of the house, and climbed the steps to the porch to get out of the rain. I stood there for a moment, until my anger subsided. I turned to the house, to what I thought was the morning room, which should have been in darkness. But someone was inside. By the light of a single lamp, I saw the silhouette of a man, his back to me, his attention fixed on something—no, someone. He was in embrace with someone, a woman, who now pulled away. It was Esther’s maid, Sally. He put his hands on her arms, and some words were exchanged, before she left the room with great urgency, leaving the man alone. Eventually, he picked up the lantern and made for the door, and in that moment I gasped.

  It was Melville.

  I stood outside in confusion—at what Madame Farr had said to me, at what I had seen between Melville and Sally. I gazed across the rain-soaked lawn at the rows of gnarled trees and shadowed statues, where I half expected that sneak Simon to be lurking. This was not a happy place. I was full of regret for agreeing to take this “holiday”.

  A bolt withdrew behind me, a key clicked in a lock, and the front door swung open.

  “Are you all right, Watson?”

  Crain had come to find me. I turned and peered past him into the hall before responding, to ensure that the lingering form of Judith was not in sight. To my relief, Crain was alone.

  “I just needed some air.”

  He stood beside me in silence for a moment, and lit a cigarette. I refused the offer of another from his case.

  “I understand, Watson, I do. It can be damned tumultuous when the spirits speak to you. Drags all those buried feelings to the surface, you know?”

  “I’m not sure that’s quite how it is, Crain,” I said. It was hard not to feel angry. Crain had put me in the sights of Madame Farr, and I still suspected he had let slip more than a few details about myself and Mary to the spiritualists.

  “I see. You are still sceptical. That’s understandable—it is an awful lot to ask of you to be otherwise, especially after so long in the company of the rational Mr Holmes.”

  I sighed. “What is the point of any of it, Crain? I mean, even if there’s a grain of truth to it, what good can it truly achieve? I can speak only for myself, but Mary is gone, and I had come to terms with that. This feels a lot like picking the scab from a wound.”

  “The point?” he asked, looking aghast. “Watson, if you are prepared to accept that there is even the slightest truth to what Madame Farr offers, how could you ask such a thing?”

  “I said ‘if’, Crain. I am speaking theoretically. Because in fact, Mary is surely in heaven, as is your mother, God rest them both.”

  Crain’s colour rose. “There is more than one interpretation of the nature of heaven, Watson, and just how closed it is to other… realms, let’s say. I do not doubt for a moment that heaven exists, but we spiritualists take a rather more pragmatic view of the afterlife. Just think of the possibilities! To hear Mary speak once more; to ask if she is in peace, or happy…”

  “And if she is not? And there is nothing whatsoever I can do about it?”

  “But there is, don’t you see? Madame Farr can bridge the gap between this world and the next. She can soothe the living and the dead.”

  “Do you feel soothed?” I asked. I was feeling less than amiable. Perhaps my colour rose as a result of too much brandy. More likely, Madame Farr’s words still stung. “Have you not suspended the very business of living so that you might hang upon the every word of that woman?”

  “That is unkind, Watson. She speaks for Mama, and if there is anything to be gleaned from her messages, I owe it to myself, and to my mother, to listen.”

  I pinched at my eyes. It was no use—Crain was utterly convinced of the spiritualist message. The look in his eyes was evangelical. I saw no point in trying to dissuade him, leastways not at that hour, while we were both intoxicated and with our passions running high. There was nothing more to say than goodnight.

  * * *

  My room was chilly, and I went straight to bed. The servants had left a pitcher of water on the side-table, with a glass already filled beside it, and I drank thirstily to shake away the vestiges of a brandy-induced fug. I pulled the covers high, and soon drifted off. My sleep was fitful, due in no small part to the events of the evening. My mind conjured ghoulish nightmares, of headless shades and bloody chambers; of Madame Farr with her stern, dark eyes and pallid features.

  I dreamt, too, of Mary, more intensely than I had at any time since her passing. My overactive mind conjured me to a vast bridge spanning a fast-flowing, black river. Mary was at one end, calling to me. I ran to her, but no matter how fast or how far, I could not catch her. I could only see her outstretched arms, and hear her calling, “John… Remember… John…”

  I woke with my heart pounding, the sweat freezing at my brow, my stomach lurching as though I were about to tumble from some precipice. My mouth was so dry that my lips stuck together. What had woken me, I could not say, but I had a fearful sense that something was amiss.

  And then I heard something in the darkness. A shuffling noise coming from somewhere in the room. It took all my strength to sit upright. My arms shook and buckled beneath my own weight. What faint silvery patches of moonlight fell through the crack in the curtains seemed to shimmer and slide about my vision. The whole room spun around me.

  I squinted against the gloom, and what I saw, albeit indistinctly, sent cold creeping up my spine. At the edge of the room was a woman. She was small of stature, slim, and dressed in a long white gown, which extended to her small, bare feet. Her face was covered by a white veil, and her blonde hair tied up in plaits encircling the crown of her head, threaded with flowers. It was the way Mary had worn hers on our wedding day.

  I tried to speak, but could not. I was groggy from drink, and now an awful fear came over me, exacerbated when the strange figure began to move.

  She skirted the edge of the room silently. The folds of her flowing gown shimmered like marsh-lights; her hair shone from some illumination of its own creation.

  “Remember.”

  When the voice came, barely more than a breathless whisper, I almost passed out. I found myself gripping the bedclothes tightly to my chest, holding my breath as though any sound, even exhalation, would cause the apparition before me to vanish.

  “Mary?” My own voice was lost in the space of the room, weak and croaking, as though the shadows themselves absorbed the word.

  The spirit did not turn, but merely continued on its path, gliding noiselessly from one corner of the room to the other. I squinted again, but my vision only blurred, such that the woman became a smudge of glimmering light against the blackness, iridescent particles reflecting in the weak moonlight.

  “Mary!” I said again, this time louder. And as I said it,
the shimmering light faded, melding into shadow until there was nought but darkness in the room.

  I urged my legs to move, and at last courage came into my heart. I pulled myself upright, swinging my legs over the side of the bed. The room at once swam about me, and I reached for the bedside table to steady myself. If there was any doubt in my mind as to what I had seen, or even if I had still been asleep, and dreaming, those doubts were dispelled as a familiar scent reached my nostrils. A floral scent, which had once filled our home when dear Mary was alive.

  I fumbled for a match with shaking fingers, finally sparking one to life and lighting the lamp by my bed. The shadows were dispelled, chased from sight by the golden glow of the lamp. I carried it into every corner, searching every nook and cranny even though my head swam and my limbs quivered. Finally, I returned to the bed and sat down. My throat was dry as the Turkestan Plains, and I reached for my water jug, pouring glass after glass until finally my thirst was quenched, and whatever terror had seized me began to subside.

  I felt sick to the pit of my stomach, and fumbled in the drawer of my nightstand. Amongst my handkerchiefs and cufflinks was a silver locket, which I pulled out at once and clicked open. Within were two small photographs, of myself and Mary taken on our wedding day. I could barely focus, and squinted in the dim candlelight. Mary’s hair fair shimmered, and there were the plaits wrapped about the crown of her head, threaded with flowers.

  I forced my shaking legs to bear me on a circuit of the room, carrying the candle to every shadowed corner. I opened the door and looked both ways along the corridor—the landing and stairs were just a short distance left, while a long row of guest bedrooms extended right. The corridor swam, as though I viewed it through aged glass, and I felt again so nauseous that I retreated to my bed in haste.

  Satisfied that there was no mortal soul in the room, I sank back into bed, where finally I noticed upon the pillow beside me a single-stemmed flower. Its scent was delicate, and its appearance was markedly unusual for the time of year.

  It was a white lily.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  AN UNUSUAL GATHERING

  Over breakfast, I seethed.

  Indeed, Crain, Melville and Lady Esther all ate in silence. I gathered that Esther and her fiancé had had some disagreement, for the occasional looks they exchanged were pregnant with agitation. And through the whole awkward affair, Judith sat beside Crain, her manner as impassive as ever. The only comfort I could take at all was that Madame Farr had left early, repairing to her home in the village to “gather her strength”, according to Judith.

  It did not help that I still felt groggy and tired. I eschewed tea in favour of strong coffee, and followed that with glass after glass of water for my parched throat—enough to draw bemused looks from my fellows.

  After breakfast, Lord Berkeley, Lady Esther and Melville set out to church. Esther made some show of trying to persuade her brother to go along, but he refused rather flatly. Esther explained to me discreetly that the local vicar was most disapproving of spiritualism, and had taken so many opportunities to preach against it from his pulpit that Crain now preferred to pray alone.

  I opted to stay at the manor, hoping to engineer some time alone with Crain, but it proved nigh impossible. Crain took himself away to a crumbling old family chapel for an hour as promised, but upon his return Judith took every opportunity to inform him of some “presence” or “vibration”, or else to sit with him and mutter some elaborate prayer to the spirits. Eventually, I had no option but to interrupt, and took it upon myself to be blunt.

  “Crain, might I have a moment of your time?” I asked.

  “Of course. Is something the matter?”

  Judith looked at me somewhat blankly.

  “As a matter of fact, there is. Shall we take a stroll?” I indicated the front door. I had noted that the drizzle had stopped, and thought perhaps the gardens would be the most private venue for our interview.

  “Very well. Judith, you had better fetch an umbrella, just in case it—”

  “Actually, Crain,” I said, “this is a private matter.”

  “Well, Watson, I don’t need a sixth sense to feel the negative energy around you. This is exactly the kind of thing that Judith excels at.”

  “I’m sorry, Crain—and I mean no offence to the young lady—but I really must insist we speak alone.”

  Did Judith’s eyes narrow, just a touch? I looked at her anew in that moment. Her build, her movements. If there was trickery involved last night—and I certainly preferred to think it so rather than the alternative—then Judith was the most likely culprit. Yet I found her a rather dull-witted girl, and I saw little malice behind her eyes. An act? Or was she merely a puppet of the far more cunning Madame Farr? But what a risk it was! I did not think I ever gave the impression that I could be trifled with, but my long acquaintanceship with the recently returned Sherlock Holmes should have given any villain pause for thought.

  As Crain dismissed Judith, gently, I watched her leave. She was, in truth, most unlike the spirit I had seen, but then, I had encountered a fair number of masterful disguises in my time. And yet I had searched every nook and cranny of my room by the light of morning, and had found no trace of ingress or egress. Whatever, or whomever, I had seen, had vanished into thin air.

  Crain walked with me across the gravel drive, along a rough path that twisted between ancient trees. The gardens were still and quiet, but for the occasional cry of a peacock permeating the last of the low morning mist.

  “What’s got you so rattled, Watson?” Crain asked.

  I did not know how to explain, or how much I should say. As I searched for the right words, I felt anger rising within me.

  “You have!” I blurted. “You and your blasted spiritualist friends. Holmes told me I shouldn’t have come, and I think he may have been right.”

  Crain stopped, his face a picture of surprise. “He did? You never mentioned that. But honestly, what have I done?”

  I was furious with Crain, and blamed him for my state of confusion. Old emotions, long buried, bubbled within. I knew I should approach it rationally—give Crain the chance to explain, to defend himself—but I could not.

  “Those things Madame Farr said to me last night. Not every detail is a matter of public record—she could not have gleaned them from my stories alone. So, logically, it follows that someone close to me—someone I trust—told her.” I glared at him angrily. Me, a humble London doctor, growling at a wealthy heir like a terrier squaring up to a mastiff.

  “And you think I…? No. Watson, you must calm yourself.”

  “Calm? How can I be calm, when there are tricks being played upon me? Cruel tricks at that!”

  “There are no tricks,” Crain said, his own tone becoming sterner. “Certainly not on my part, and I very much doubt on the part of Madame Farr—who, as you say yourself, is my friend.”

  “And am I not then your friend, should my cause be at odds with Madame Farr’s?”

  “Don’t be silly. You are an old and very dear friend, which is why I invited you here. It is why I want you, more than anyone, to see Madame Farr’s work in the purest light. It is why I went to great pains not to say anything to her, or even to Judith, that might in the slightest bias them, even unconsciously, with personal knowledge of you. I swear to you, Watson: what Madame Farr revealed to you last night did not come from me.”

  “Then swear on something you hold dear, that I might trust in my own senses again.”

  Crain gave a puzzled frown. “Very well. I swear on the life of my dear sis—No. You deserve a true oath, and you will know better than anyone that what I say now is in good faith. I swear it on Mama’s soul, God rest her. I did not knowingly pass information about you to anyone in the spiritualist mission, nor even to anyone in my own house.”

  I faltered. I knew in my heart that Crain would not take his mother’s name in vain, for he venerated her memory more than all the saints and angels in heaven. I nodded. Perhaps Mada
me Farr had gathered her intelligence solely through my stories and merely guessed at the rest. Perhaps Crain had discussed me with someone else—his sister, maybe—and Judith or that Simon fellow had eavesdropped. I could hardly blame Crain for that. Holmes’s warnings still echoed in my mind, and I could not believe I had been visited by a ghost until all other possibilities were eliminated. How I wished he were here.

  “Watson, I think you already have the answer,” Crain said gently. “You said that someone close to you must have passed information to Madame Farr. And they did.”

  “Oh?”

  “Watson, she is a medium. It is my firmest belief that Mary spoke to her.”

  I clenched my fists. Crain was sincere. I could see it in his eyes. But still I could not believe it.

  “I can see you will need some time to get used to the idea,” he said. “Don’t worry—many people go through this at first. The early contact is often traumatic. The rational mind rebels against the idea of the supernatural. But it exists, Watson. Madame Farr has convinced me of it, and if you open your mind, I’m sure she will convince you too.”

  “Have you… have you ever seen your mother? Since… you know.”

  “Only once. More an impression, really. A sort of figure of light, drifting as though through smoke. It was down by the river on the estate—there’s a cottage there where Esther and I used to play as children. Mother would take us there for picnics. It was such a happy place; a happy time. Despite what Sir Thomas thinks…” He drifted, eyes glazing over in some reverie.

  “Sir Thomas Golspie?” I asked. “What has he to do with it?”

  “It does not matter. Yes, Watson, I have seen her. Indistinct, but I am convinced it was she. And had I not listened to Madame Farr, it may never have happened. But wait… is that what all this is about? Have you seen something?”

  I felt heat rise beneath my collar as I reddened. “Nothing that cannot be attributed to an excess of rich food and too much cognac before bed,” I replied hastily.

  “It would not surprise me, you know. A heightened state of awareness, coupled with the location—you realise, of course, that your room abuts the Red Tower.”