Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine, Volume 7

by Marvin Kaye

  “I have to concur with Mrs Hudson. What were you doing there, good fellow?” I asked.

  “You remember, Holmes, that the odour we encountered on the carpet at Dunmore, as well as in the coffin, seemed familiar. Well, it came to me during supper that the odour was chloroform. A vapour used as a modern anesthetic. The experiment there confirmed my suspicion. That device that we removed from the coffin is called Schimmelbusch’s mask. It is a mechanism used to hold a chloroformed cloth in place over the patient’s face while undergoing surgery. There are many devices used nowadays for such a purpose but this instrument is still in employ.”

  I could hardly contain my grin. I rushed across the room to shake the hand of my colleague. “Brilliant, Watson! We have our explanation.”

  Lestrade stood by with a look of confusion. “Explains what? I should like to know.”

  “It now becomes obvious, inspector. Both means and motive.” I paused to light a pipe, both for dramatic effect and also in the hopes that the fragrant tobacco would serve to alleviate the rotten aroma unleashed by my friend’s chemical foray. “What Watson has made plain is that Captain Emmet-Jones is not dead.”

  “The Devil, you say,” Lestrade ejaculated.

  “It would seem, my dear Lestrade, that Captain Emmet-Jones made the acquaintance of a young Doctor while in the service. He was engaged to a woman he did not love, but agreed to marry her to gain access to her wealth. He was in love with another, however.”

  “The maid, Nelly,” Watson added.

  “She was no more a maid than you or I, Watson. She was his lover.” I withdrew the photograph that I had extracted from the desk at Dunmore. I had been careful not to let Lord Hemming observe it until we could be sure of the woman’s role. “I am sure that this is she. As you can see by her dress, she was likely not wealthy, but certainly not of the servant class.” Watson and Lestrade drew close to view the picture. “Once Emmet-Jones had Lord Hemming’s money safely transferred to his personal account, he arranged to stage his own apparent demise by allowing his friend, our Dr Knox, to administer an anesthetic.”

  Watson continued the narrative. “To the casual observer, a deeply anesthetized subject may appear quite dead. Of course any physician worth his salt, such as Dr Sheridan, could easily tell, through auscultation with the stethoscope, that the heart was still beating, but Knox was already on hand and cleverly came up with the story of some contagious disease. This would ensure that the household, and no doubt a well-paid undertaker, kept a distance and excluded the possibility of holding a wake.”

  “From there,” I resumed, “it would have been an easy matter to remove the body and rouse Emmet-Jones. When the exhumation was ordered it was assumed the body had been snatched from the grave, when, in reality, it was never present at the interment. The fact that the grave appeared undisturbed should have told you, Lestrade, that this was no routine act of robbery.”

  Lestrade looked down, ears turning a shade of red, but he said nothing at first. He then seemed to brighten and offered, “All we have to do is find this Dr Knox. We’ll charge him with the murder of the caretaker. He’ll sing a pretty tune and, I wager, turn Queen’s evidence on the other two if faced with the gallows.”

  “The rifle that killed the caretaker no doubt will be of military issue,” I added.

  “You will find Knox all right,” Watson said. “In a grave not far from the one slated for Emmet-Jones. He will have been dead nearly thirty years.”

  It was my turn to be astounded. “What are you saying, Watson?”

  “While I pondered the connection between this Dr Knox and the grave robbery, something occurred to me. Do you remember the case of Messer’s Hare and Burke, Holmes?”

  I had to ponder for some moments, but then it struck me. “Yes, Watson, I believe you are correct.” I explained for the perplexed inspector’s benefit, “Hare and Burke were arrested for grave robbery some fifty years ago.”

  “There was a time, I shudder to say,” Watson mused, “when cadavers for the education of medical students were in short supply. Often students had to resort to grave robbery to find specimens fresh enough for anatomic study. Must have been distasteful business. Soon a lucrative industry was born in the early part of the century in grave robbery to supply the medical profession. These men called themselves Ressurectionists, which, in some way, I suppose they were. Hare and Burke decided to run their own supply business out of their boarding home, later to be called by the locals, the Dead House. I must correct you here, Holmes. They were not grave robbers but murderers who sold the freshly killed bodies before they were buried.”

  “An even fresher supply, one would think,” I said.

  “Quite. Their arrest led to the Anatomy Act of 1832 which prohibited such activities as the plundering of graves for medical purposes.”

  “And the Doctor they supplied, Watson?” I asked, now knowing the likely response.

  “Would be one Robert Knox. Brilliant anatomist who performed over five hundred anatomical dissections. Drew crowds from all over to watch his demonstrations, both medical and lay persons alike. He withdrew in some disgrace when the enterprise was revealed but while Burke hanged, Knox and Hare went free. Emmet-Jones’s physician-friend had a sense of humour. He was mocking us all with his reference to Knox and must have thought he would never be found out.”

  “Easy to find him out,” I said, “but I trust not easy to find.”

  I instructed Lestrade to contact army headquarters where the muster list of Emmet-Jones’s regiment would no doubt reveal the true identity of our mystery Doctor. By then, if my Beekman’s timetable was correct, the trio, for no doubt the woman in the photo they called ‘Nelly’ was with them, would be well out of the country via the Night Scotsman. I left Lestrade the task of tracking them further on the continent, letting him take the official credit if they could be found, and promised to break the news to Lord Hemming and his daughter.

  While the official credit would go to no one, as the trio was never located, I was quick to applaud the work of my associate and am proud to publicly state it in these pages.

  His reply, “Elementary, my dear Holmes,” was well earned.

  —Baker Street

  London, 1904

  A LETTER FROM LEGRAND, by David Ellis

  a sequel to ‘The Gold Bug’

  by Edgar A. Poe

  I had received no news from William Legrand since 1843. In the summer of that year relations between us had been abruptly severed when my erstwhile companion had taken grave offence at a fanciful account of our discovery of Captain Kidd’s treasure in South Carolina that had appeared in a Philadelphia newspaper. He blamed me and in truth I could not disclaim all responsibility. For the several years since then no word had passed between us. I reflected often upon our momentous adventure if for no other reason than that my subsequent life has been mainly directed to the oversight of the investments that my portion of our find had allowed me to acquire, notably my latest handsome property here in Maryland, but about his later activities I had no knowledge.

  Accordingly, my astonishment was considerable when, just three days ago, on my return from an unavoidable excursion to Washington, my major-domo informed me that awaiting my arrival was a young lady claiming to be the niece of William Legrand. She had given her name as Madeline de Freville.

  Intriguing as this intelligence was, there was much other urgent business to claim my attention and I needed to also to bathe away the weariness of travel. I sent word that I was unable to receive her immediately but that I should be honoured if she would accept the hospitality of my house and join me at dinner.

  That evening as I descended the broad staircase to the ground floor my ear was charmed by the gentle sounds of a piano. When I entered the music room a young woman arose from the keyboard in a rustle of silk and taffeta that shimmered in the warm candlelight. Small and slender, she was about four-and twenty, with a heart-shaped dark-eyed face framed by shining black hair.

  “
Miss de Freville?” said I as I took her hand. “ I am sorry to have kept you waiting but I am now most happy to welcome you to my home.”

  The fervour of her response took me aback. “You cannot know how overjoyed I am to meet you at last!” she exclaimed. “There is so little time left!”

  “But first I must give you these,” she continued, taking some papers from a wooden box that lay on the piano top. They were letters of introduction from worthy citizens of New Orleans confirming that the bearer was indeed the daughter of a sister to William Legrand of that city.

  “These all seem in order,” I nodded as I returned the documents to her.

  Miss de Freville extracted a small bright object from her reticule and offered it to me.

  “You may find this a stronger testament to my identity,” she said.

  It was a man’s gold signet ring, its circular face engraved with an intricate serpentine pattern. The last time I had seen this curious piece it had adorned the hand of Legrand. From my fob I lifted a gold seal and held it against the ring. The two gleaming faces matched exactly.

  “These roundels were among Kidd’s hoard,” I explained. “Your uncle and I judged them to be from a pair of Spanish ear-rings. We took a fancy to them and retained one each as particular mementos of our discovery.”

  She nodded. “So he told me when he gave the ring to me.”

  Her credentials thus established I offered Miss de Freville a glass of amontillado, led her to an elegant French chair and sought more information.

  “And what of your uncle?” I inquired when she was settled. “You may know that there have been no exchanges between us for many years.”

  A shadow seemed to fall across her face. “He gave me that ring in the foreknowledge of his impending death,” she said sombrely. “I am sorry to tell you that a few weeks ago he was consigned to the family tomb.”

  “But Legrand was not an old man,” I exclaimed. “Was he ill, then?”

  “In a way,” she replied softly. “I profoundly regret that I bring you sad news but you must know everything. My uncle took his own life with a duelling pistol. Moreover, as if that were not calamity enough, he dealt a further terrible blow to the family. Possessed by some crochet, before he died he hid all his wealth deriving form his share of the treasure you found together. Now it is no one knows where.” A desperate tremor entered her voice. “Unless you can help me it will be lost forever and my family condemned to undeserved penury!”

  * * * *

  Madeline de Freville told me her remarkable story as we dined. Even during the brief period I had been close to him Legrand was always subject to violent swings of mood, at times lively and enthusiastic but at others deep in dejection. Later, it seemed, he had become increasingly misanthropic, regarding his fellow man with a mixture of suspicion and contempt. Every slight, real or imagined, fed his mistrust and prejudice. What he saw as my betrayal he had taken as one more evidence of the perfidy of those around him. More and more that black melancholy I remembered so well came to dominate his days and nights. As had happened before, he had withdrawn from the world and become estranged from his family, with the sole exception of Madeline.

  “I am the only child of his youngest sister,” she explained. “My mother died in the year after you recovered the treasure. My uncle took me under his wing and appeared to reserve for me a little at least of the affection he denied to others. In recent years the rest of the family have fallen on evil times. A ship bearing our cargo was lost, a local bank foundered, a crop we were counting on failed. But my uncle remained unmoved. Throughout all he stayed aloof and withheld his help.”

  “I am greatly saddened by what you tell me,” I said. “Evidently wealth did not bring your uncle the fulfilment that has come to me. I have long regretted that my imprudence brought about our bitter separation. Otherwise—who can say?—I might have been able to prevent his sorry decline.”

  I recounted to Miss de Freville what had occurred to drive a wedge between me and her uncle. In 1842 I had been residing near Philadelphia. At a dinner party one evening I had been persuaded to give an account to the company of the unearthing of Kidd’s booty through Legrand’s brilliant analysis of the old pirate’s cipher, found by chance on the Carolina shore. The wine had flowed freely on that occasion and I gave perhaps the fullest exposition of my adventure that I had ever provided. I had assumed, of course, that my auditors were all men of honour. I paid no special regard to a stranger in our number, the guest of one of my friends, save to remark in his physiognomy an uncommon breadth of brow and in his manner an unwarranted disdain. Only later did I recall how intent had been his pale face in the glow from the candles as he listened to my narrative.

  “You may imagine,” I declared to Miss de Freville “both my astonishment and outrage a year afterwards when my attention was drawn to a sensational tale entitled ‘The Gold Bug’ in a local public newspaper setting out a lurid version of the account I had given. The author had not even attempted to conceal his identity and his dishonour. He was Edgar Allan Poe, that guest at my table, and as the world now knows from the Reverend Griswold, a notorious wastrel and shameless villain.

  “I wrote to your uncle to inform him of what had happened and entreating his forgiveness. He rejected my explanation. In vain did I point out that I, too, had cause to be angry. Not only for Poe’s breach of trust, but because by presenting his tale as the narrative of your uncle’s companion Poe made his wretched fictional elaborations appear to come from me. Your uncle replied coldly that he could no longer consider me his friend and that henceforward there would be no further communication between us. It was the saddest moment of my life. From that time I have cursed the name of Edgar Poe!”

  “My uncle did not forget you,” said Miss de Freville. “You were much in his thoughts before he died. Indeed, that is why I am here.”

  Her words reminded me of the questions I had not yet put to her. For what purpose had she sought me? What had she meant by her passionate cry that time was running out?

  She agreed to my suggestion that we adjourn to the library, breaking away only for a moment to reclaim from the music room the box I had remarked earlier. My ample book-lined chamber is where I retire when I need to retreat from the humdrum affairs of the day and require a haven of calm in which to reflect. As well as a collection of volumes as rich as any in the state, it has many reminders of earlier times. One of the walls bears a portrait of William Legrand together with some of his own fine sketches of shells and lepidoptera. Displayed, too, is a navigators’ chart of Sullivan’s Island where Legrand, living like a recluse, had had his refuge and from where, in accordance with Captain Kidd’s enigmatic directions, we had embarked on our expedition to the mainland. Miss de Freville stood for a long moment before the brooding stillness of her uncle’s striking picture.

  “That was painted shortly after our exploit,” I said. “It is an excellent likeness.”

  “I am glad to have seen it” said she “ for my most recent memories of him recall a sadder man whose soul was darkened by bitterness.”

  She sank gracefully into the chair I indicated and I invited her to continue her story.

  “If my uncle’s death—and the dreadful manner of it—came as shocks to the family, the revelations that followed left us all thunderstricken. For his attorney told us that my uncle’s fortune had disappeared. Or should I say rather it had been spirited away!”

  I was astonished. “How could that be?”

  “In the weeks before his death my uncle had roused himself from his melancholic lethargy and become very busy. Characteristically he told no-one what he was about and the family assumed he was devoting himself once more to the matters he had long neglected. How little we knew! In fact, as the lawyer now informed us he had been converting his property into cash but what he had done with the funds was not known. They seemed to have entirely vanished.” She paused. “When the will was read the only bequest was made to me. It comprised this little box and cer
tain documents within it.”

  This was my chance to examine the receptacle Miss de Freville had brought with her. It was about a foot long, four inches tall and five inches across. The wood was unfamiliar to me, being dark, shiny and with a spicy aroma akin to sandalwood. The lid was curved but with a flattened top. This uppermost surface was criss-crossed with silver wire and in the lozenge-shaped panels thus formed was the name LEGRAND in brass characters standing slightly proud. At the front a key of curious design protruded from an elaborate escutcheon. The whole appearance of this object was very singular and somehow rather sinister.

  “What is its history?” I asked.

  Madeline de Freville shook her head. “It has been in my uncle’s possession for many years. He kept it in his study. It is believed he had it made on one of his journeys long ago though no one now recalls when or where it came from.”

  “And the documents in the box?” I prompted.

  “There was first a codicil to the will declaring that my uncle’s wealth had been deposited at locations he forebore to disclose. It would come to me, but only if I could discover the hiding places within six months and a day. If the money was not found then it would rot where it lay. The box also held a sealed letter with your name on it. I was instructed to deliver it to you and enlist your help in the search.”

  “And how did you find me?”

  “It took time,” she said. “I knew, of course, that you had once lived in Charleston and my uncle’s papers included a record of your later address in Philadelphia. I had enquiries made in both places. While this was taking place I was very conscious of the passing weeks and of the pressing needs of my family. My relief at eventually finding your new home here was replaced by despair on learning that you were away on business.” Her eyes widened in urgent appeal. “Oh, it is not for myself that I am concerned. There are my aunts, my cousins and others who will suffer. This perverse punishment is so unfair. He would not acknowledge it but they truly shared my affection for my uncle. With the bequest I can help them. I can try to rebuild the run-down estate and re-establish my family’s position. Much is at stake and of the time allowed me only a few weeks remain.”