Sherlock Holmes--The Red Tower

by Mark A. Latham

  “The journey was arduous, and oft-times my guardians thought I would not last the trip, praying desperately to the spirits to spare me. When finally we reached our destination, we were met by a dozen silent, skull-masked warriors, who materialised from the jungle like ghosts. Uuka negotiated with them for some time, and finally they acquiesced. Only then did I learn the horror of my situation. The other three Wasimbu departed, while my stretcher was hoisted aloft by the Tagullah warriors. As I was carried away, I looked back, and could barely moan in dismay as one of the warriors stepped towards Uuka and slew him. I shall never forget his face. He stood there, accepting his fate with nobility as the knife was drawn across his throat. His sacrifice was the price that had to be paid for the service of the Tagullah, because by accepting me into their embrace, they would face great danger on behalf of the Wasimbu.

  “And so, in the weeks or perhaps months that followed, I was inducted into the Tagullah mysteries. I saw more of their ways than any white man has ever seen, or perhaps ever will again. Their shamans conducted intricate rituals over me. They fed me potions, stuffed my infected wound with poultices made of herbs and other, fouler things. They cured me of ills that even our own doctors would have been hard-pressed to treat. But it came at a terrible price.

  “As soon as my fever broke, I was put through the initiations usually reserved for the young recruits sent each year to the Tagullah enclaves. I was made to drink poisons, and to sleep naked on bare earth, inuring me to the dangers of the jungle. I received my marks of death…” With this, Sir Thomas unfastened the topmost buttons of his shirt, revealing a small glimpse of a puckered, swirling scar upon his chest. “I took part in a ceremony in which I mixed my own toxic brew, which I then had to drink. If I made it correctly, I would suffer a day-long hallucination filled with terrors, followed by a lengthy spell of torpor. If I made a mistake, I would not wake from sleep. Some of the boys alongside me suffered that very fate.

  “When I awoke, it was to the sound of drums. I was told by the headman—the Tagullah Devil—that I had died, and had been reborn, and now my soul belonged to the Hungry Night, that pantheon of a thousand demons ruled by Landa, the crocodile spirit, with his bloody jaws, and Ngatadobi, the limbless messenger. I saw those entities as clearly as I see you now. I was renamed Mahlubandile. I was lost in the customs and ways of the Tagullah for an interminable time. I lost all sense of who I was. I was trained as a warrior, painted like a demon, and I took part in ritual acts that I would rather forget, but which I see every night in my dreams. I spent as much time as I could drunk on pombe, wondering if I would ever return to my homeland, until finally I forgot my homeland altogether.

  “Mackenzie found me, of course. What seemed like a lifetime under the dreamlike influence of the Tagullah had, in reality, been less than four months. Mackenzie had led the expedition to Cape Town, and had gathered enough men to come and find me. When he did, I did not know him. He said… he said he could not tell me apart from the Tagullah, at first. He said I was mad, and perhaps I was. Perhaps that is why I remember nothing of my journey to Cape Town, or indeed anything until I awoke on the ship a day’s sail from the Cape.

  “But I never forgot what I became, or the fate that was decided for me by the demons of that land. I learned of the Hungry Night. I saw the spirits and the darkness they bring. I saw things that no man should ever see; things I wish I could… un-see.”

  “That is why you wanted no part of Madame Farr’s séance,” I posited.

  “You could say that. I have no belief in her petty spiritualism, Dr Watson. But I have every belief in spirits. Oh, I can see in the eyes of Mr Holmes that he thinks me mad. Perhaps I am; but who could not be, under the circumstances? Madame Farr is a dangerous woman, because she knows not with what she dabbles. In my experience the spirits, even the benevolent ones, require a sacrifice. They do not—cannot—assist mortals through any will of their own. They are bound, and they are bound by blood. A sacrifice, Doctor. I have seen… I have seen young boys slaughtered in order to bring back the spirit of a sainted ancestor. I have heard the voices in the Hungry Night, a cacophony of howls, of demons and ghosts, awaiting the spilling of blood, that one of them might be bound to the service of a witch-doctor, and exert their power over our world just for a moment. It is all the spirits can desire. All they can hope for, if hope is even the right word.”

  I swallowed hard. “You speak of human sacrifice. An exchange of life for… what?”

  “For a service. In order for the chief’s great-grandfather, or whoever, to bless the crops or imbue the tribe’s warriors with wisdom and strength, they must send a willing soul to the other side. The night requires it. What Madame Farr peddles is a fantasy, a yarn spun by simpletons to assure God-fearing men that there is life everlasting. So afraid are we of our own mortality that we embrace any succour, no matter how ridiculous. But let me tell you, gentlemen: we ought to be afraid. During my ordeals among them, I many times prayed for death. But by the end, I prayed for more life. I will hold death at bay for as long as I am able, because when my light is extinguished, it is not the afterlife of a Christian nation that awaits me. It is the enfolding shadow of the Dark Continent, and the cold embrace of the Tagullah’s Thousand Demons.”

  There was deathly silence for a moment. The room had seemed to grow darker and colder as Sir Thomas spoke, and now I could not repress a shudder.

  It was Holmes who broke the silence. “What you have described, Sir Thomas, is a rather unusual view of the world, an understanding of blood sacrifice, dark ritual and, crucially, of poison-making. Beliefs and skills that would make you singularly better placed to poison Lady Esther Crain than the likes of Madame Farr.”

  “Holmes!” I said, aghast at the accusation.

  Sir Thomas did not look at all shocked, or angry; only sad. He buttoned his shirt, and took another drink. “You mistake my sharing of a terrible burden for a confession, Mr Holmes. As you will—it is in your nature to be suspicious. I could never have a family, Mr Holmes. How could I? How could I share this darkness with a wife, and children? How could I risk their souls? It is the destiny of the Tagullah to walk a path alone, for otherwise the demons they serve might claim those they care about. It was not a calling I took voluntarily, but it is a calling nonetheless. I take my responsibility to my tribe—yes, my tribe—seriously. I use my knowledge to help people where I can, to cure ills, to give counsel. I have used my contacts at the Royal Society to bring a little of Africa home for me, to surround myself with potions and unguents, and all the trappings of a Tagullah wise man. I have vowed that, when my time comes, I will return to the Tagullah, to die as I have lived. Not as Sir Thomas Golspie, but as Mahlubandile. Do you see? No, I did not kill Esther; how could I have? I loved her as dearly as if she were my own daughter. Theobald understood this.”

  “But the manner of Lady Esther’s death,” Holmes pressed. “You recognise what I described? You know what might have caused it.”

  “I know several potions that could achieve the effect, and one in particular, perhaps. And that one can indeed be found in this house. But it is kept under lock and key at all times, and the number of people who would even know what to look for is few indeed.”

  “Then let us speak of those few people. Not to be indelicate, Sir Thomas, but you were seen yesterday afternoon handing a package to James Crain. It does not require my powers of deduction to work out that you have supplied him with a potent drug, of a sort not often seen in this country.”

  Sir Thomas’s shoulders sank. “You are right, of course, Mr Holmes. But you must know that I was trying to help him.”

  “How so?”

  “The pills are made primarily of the powdered bark of the iboga, with a few minor additions to aid digestion and reduce the more… chaotic… effects that its use can stimulate.”

  “Ah!” said Holmes. “So you used your own particular brand of medicine to wean James Crain from more conventional opiates?”

  “You are correct
, Mr Holmes. The use of tribal medicines has barely touched this land as yet, but I have long been aware of their benefits. The iboga is used in ritual magic in West Africa. It is a powerful stimulant and, in large doses, an equally powerful hallucinogen. Crucially, it does not produce the cravings and sickness that one might experience from misuse of, say, opium. Indeed, it has been known, in my experience, to provide some release from the addictive qualities of opiates and their ilk.”

  I raised an eyebrow at Sir Thomas’s use of “experience”, but said only, “So Crain had taken to drugs, and you were hoping to cure him of an unhealthy habit, whilst keeping him under their influence?”

  “It was working, Dr Watson. When Agnes passed away, James was beyond consoling. He would spend days at a time wandering in her footsteps, doing all the things alone that they used to do together. He was a young man with his life ahead of him, money and influence, but he began to throw it all away. And he used his wealth to acquire opium, in large quantities. You are his friend—you must know this.”

  I nodded, now feeling very guilty that I had not intervened to help Crain much sooner.

  “He would not quit the habit on my account, but I did persuade him to seek oblivion elsewhere. And as soon as he switched from opium to my own preparation, I gradually began to weaken the formula. Now, he is taking half the potency that he needed at first, and barely notices the difference.”

  “But Crain is addicted,” I said. “We have it on good authority that he has never given up his dependence upon this drug.”

  “That is more a fault of his character, than of the root,” Sir Thomas said, sadly. “I have never seen such despair in a man as when James lost his mother. God, we all took it hard—she was a fine woman. The very finest. But James… it gnaws away at him every day, and has done for years. There’s a void in that boy that no drug can fill, though not through want of trying on his part.”

  “What about Lady Esther?” Holmes interjected. “Did she have need of your… ‘medicine’?”

  Sir Thomas’s entire body tensed. “She did not. Esther was always the strong one. She looked after her father, and helped run the estate while James fell to pieces. She busied herself, learning every aspect of a man’s business, and was damned good at it too. She was the glue that held the family together, and now…” He turned away from us, that we might not see how affected he was.

  “But the circumstances of Lady Esther’s death… they are not terribly dissimilar to your experiences with the Tagullah,” Holmes said. “You told us that you brewed the fateful potion yourself. You know what would make a survivable dose, and what would be lethal, correct?”

  Sir Thomas nodded.

  “Then could it be that Lady Esther was poisoned by that very same poison? That she was driven to violent waking terrors, such that her heart would stop?”

  “It is possible… No. What am I saying? How could it be possible? I swear that I was not responsible, and no one else could access my stores.”

  “No one?” Holmes arched an eyebrow.

  Sir Thomas turned to us, looking very pale. “Come, I’ll show you.”

  We followed him through the house, past more displays of African ephemera, mannequins adorned with tribal garb, cases full of weaponry, masks and sinister-looking fetishes. We passed by the kitchen, and through to the rear doors, which Sir Thomas swung open to reveal a large glass-house, of a type most unlike any I had seen in England.

  Heat and humidity streamed from within. Sir Thomas entered and turned up the gaslights, and at once we were met by an astonishing array of exotic blooms, including many mature trees, wrapped around with creepers. A fine mist rose dreamily from grates in the stone floor. Sir Thomas beckoned us through the aisles between the specimens, past a row of more familiar flowers including, I noticed, lilies of every colour, and finally to a large shrub. From its base, long blade-like leaves protruded in a fan shape, interspersed with delicate red flower clusters. It was perhaps the least impressive of the flora on display, but had clearly been given pride of place.

  “This is it, gentlemen,” Sir Thomas said. “Probably the finest specimen in England.”

  “Boophone disticha,” Holmes said. “The windball plant.”

  “Very good, Mr Holmes. The scales of the bulb are used in a variety of medicines that I myself take—they often prove a more effective analgesic than anything prescribed by our modern apothecaries. The rest of the bulb, however…”

  “Is one of the deadliest poisons known to man,” Holmes finished for him. “Leading to its other common name of ‘poison bulb’. It is sufficient to bring down a fully grown lion, it’s said.”

  “It can, I have seen it,” said Sir Thomas. “Applied to an arrow or dart, it is the most effective weapon of the tribes of Central and Western Africa.”

  “And the bulbs… where are they?”

  “I harvest them each year, very carefully, and store them under lock and key. I am not a careless man, Mr Holmes.”

  “Oh, I don’t doubt it. But when was the last time you saw your stocks of poison bulb, with your own eyes?”

  Sir Thomas frowned. “I can see I shall have to prove it to you. Come along then.”

  Again we followed Sir Thomas, who led us back towards the sitting room, but instead took a right-hand door into a small library. One wall was adorned with glass cabinets, filled with more relics—save for one, which contained eight shelves neatly lined with jars and phials.

  Holmes at once perused the labels on the jars. “Sir Thomas, whatever the outcome of this investigation, I must commend you on a truly first-rate collection. If I had but a sample of some of these compounds, I could fill a good many gaps in my knowledge.”

  “If you bring Esther’s killers to justice, Mr Holmes, you may take what you like.”

  Holmes bowed, trying not to show how obviously thrilled he must have been at the sentiment. Sir Thomas took up a set of keys and unlocked the cabinet. He then reached to the middle shelf and took out an iron strongbox, placed it on the library table, and unlocked that also.

  “My most dangerous ingredients are here,” he said. He opened the lid, and searched around for a particular jar. He frowned, shook its contents, and peered at it again. Then he began to shake, first the hands, then all over. He thrust the jar into Holmes’s hands, and pulled out several other jars, filled with various different powders. Finding no comfort in what he saw, he staggered to the nearest chair and fell into it, head in his hands. “My God,” he croaked. “It is my fault.”

  Holmes held the jar up to the light. I saw the label neatly written, Boophone disticha. The jar was perhaps a quarter full of a brownish powder.

  “The contents are depleted?” Holmes asked.

  Sir Thomas nodded. “It should be full.”

  “Who else knows where the drug is kept?”

  “A handful of people. Fewer now that two of them are so recently deceased.”

  “Let me pose the question another way, Sir Thomas. Who among the weekend party knew about the poison bulb?”

  Sir Thomas looked up, brow furrowed. “James, of course. Theobald. Esther herself. And I suppose her fiancé, Melville.”

  “Holmes—” I began, but he cut me short at once. I felt a great anger and excitement wash over me. I had suspected Melville from the start, and had been dissuaded from that opinion only at Holmes’s insistence. Did my friend feel guilty that he had perhaps made a mistake for once? I could not tell from his expression.

  “The girl,” Sir Thomas added. “Judith? Yes, she came here with James several times. Was it she? That witch!”

  “Do not excite yourself, Sir Thomas,” said Holmes. “Think—the keys. Are there other copies?”

  “None.”

  “And is this set always carried on your person?”

  “Most of the time.”

  “But not always?” Holmes persisted.

  “Not when I sleep, but even then they are in my room.”

  “Very good. Unless one knows what to look for
, Boophone disticha is virtually undetectable to English science. A tiny amount might induce nightmarish visions. It could, theoretically, be enough to kill someone with a weak constitution. A larger dose would certainly be lethal. We have already discussed what the most potent dose would do. Presumably you have discussed this poison with others in the past. Theobald Crain? His son? His daughter?”

  The old man nodded wearily. “Those three are my family. I have told them my story more than once, and have given them the tour of my greenhouse, discussing the various plants there. I can’t believe that James would murder his sister, or his father. But who else? Unless… that Farr woman. Or the timid thing who follows James about. Could they have encouraged him to tell my secrets? Damn them!” He tried to stand, and almost fell back down. “I should have left my secrets behind in Africa,” he groaned, his flash of anger now turning to despair. “Oh, what have I done? I am responsible!”

  “Maybe, or maybe not,” Holmes said. “One thing for which you are responsible, however, is the mental state of James Crain. And given that he is, at this time, acting most abnormally, and is as well versed as anyone in your particular brand of pharmaceutical remedy, a cloud of suspicion blackens around him.”

  “I say again, James would never harm his sister.”

  “He threatened to disavow her more than once, and in his disturbed mental state could have decided to do more than that.”

  “The pills I gave him were helping!”

  “The effect on his behaviour is still profound,” I said.

  “That is not the drug. He is grieving for his entire family. He has never been the most resilient sort, but now… I did not supply him with those pills knowing that we were on the cusp of this tragedy. I would not advise anyone to take such drugs whilst in a state of intense distress. Who knows what he might be thinking?”

  “Precisely. One might wonder if James Crain is in the grip of a temporary madness inculcated by a heady mix of despair and iboga pills. But do I think he murdered his sister? It is difficult to say, but I would rather think not—nothing I have heard would truly suggest his quarrel with Lady Esther was sufficient to drive him to murder. One might, however, think he had cause to do away with his father…”