My own publications, so much fluff beside these scientific works, filled about a quarter-of-a-shelf at eye level. A glance sufficed to tell that every word I had ever presented to the public was assembled. Every issue of The Strand Magazine that had run one of my tales stood there in order of appearance. The issues of Harper’s, where the same stories had appeared, were also there, as were my longer works.
I pulled out Beeton’s Christmas Annual of 1887 with its yellow-and-red cover, which I have always found a trifle garish. The paper had acquired the softness that comes with many readings, though the volume had clearly been handled with great care. The spine was intact, the edges without cuffs, not a single dog-ear marred the pages. Yet they had been subject to some alterations. Occasionally two or three lines, sometimes whole paragraphs had been underlined with a pencil and a ruler. I scanned a few of the passages thus marked. Invariably, they addressed the methods by which Holmes solved his cases, what he himself has called the “Science of Deduction and Analysis”.
I reinserted the volume and turned to see Holmes with the flask of cocaine solution in his hand. He lifted the flask to the window to gauge how much of the liquid was left.
“I believe I have not exaggerated, gentlemen.” Lestrade’s voice had a self-satisfied ring. “This is a strange sight.”
I nodded.
“Perhaps an accident, but probably a suicide. The man was obviously a tortured soul.”
At this moment, we all heard steps on the staircase and looked towards the door. The steps were fast; others, heavier and slower, were following. Whoever the first person was, his or her approach possessed the vigour to match a sense of vital urgency. We heard the constable at the entrance call, “Miss! Miss, you can’t-”
There followed a crash and a cry of dismay, a few more steps on the boards of the corridor, and a young woman burst into the sitting room. Her mouth was open, her cheeks red. She took in the scene with one swift motion of the head, then her eyes fastened on the body. Her facial muscles seized up and her skin turned the colour of gypsum.
No outcry came, as I and, I daresay, the others expected. She made a few steps towards us. Her features regained animation and an expression of transcendent pain shaped itself upon them, of a pain that seemed to anticipate knowledge of an endless sadness that was to come. Lestrade made a motion to step in her way, but she brushed past him and then me as if we deserved no more attention than two potted plants and knelt down beside the body.
Her hands for a few seconds lay open in her lap as she looked at the dead man’s face, and then finally a sob came, and she stretched out her right arm and traced her fingertips over the inanimate features. I am always at a loss in these situations. Even if one has experienced death in one’s own small circle, one cannot in the moment feel the agony of the bereaved. Thus arises a sense of deficiency, almost of guilt, as if one were sorely lacking in common humanity.
She was twenty years of age perhaps, and was wearing a shop girl’s black-and-white uniform. I noticed a pair of spectacles protruding from her chest pocket, and also a booklet of pins. Clearly, her place of employ was a haberdashery. She was pressing her lips together as tears quivered on her lower lids. Her dark blonde hair was tied into a chignon, but a few strands had escaped and lay against the nape of her neck.
I looked away. The constable had entered and was pressing a hand to his side. He regarded the kneeling girl with an expression of pique. Behind him, Jacob Henslow stood overlooking the scene. He caught my eye and lifted his brows in apology; the second set of steps on the stairs had been his.
Lestrade now looked at me and then towards the girl. People generally believe that I am particularly suited to consoling people in their darkest hours. I helplessly turned my palms outwards, but then stepped over to the girl and touched her shoulder.
“Miss,” I said. She did not respond. “Miss,” I tried again. “Please, we must speak with you.”
Still there came no reaction. The tears were streaming down her cheeks to her trembling lips. Yet I had the distinct impression that my words had registered. There was the sound of someone clearing his throat, and I saw that Holmes was holding out the handkerchief from his breast pocket. I proffered it to the girl. After a second or two, she took it and mechanically wiped her face.
Then she looked at me and also saw Holmes. She gasped as if she had seen a ghost.
“Please, Miss, let us sit down,” I said.
I was relieved when she did in fact rise, though she remained next to the body and continued to stare at Holmes. Henslow at this moment appeared from the bedroom, holding a folded sheet. She nodded at him, whereupon he spread it over the body.
Turning, she walked over to the sofa with rigid steps, as if every movement required conscious effort, then placed herself in one corner. I considered sitting down next to her, but the girl now seemed enclosed in an invisible sphere, and so I, like Holmes, took one of the armchairs. Most people would not have described her face as beautiful. Her nose was freckled and a little too large. There was a certain fullness to her cheeks, her forehead was rather high, and her chin had perhaps more point than was becoming. Yet for some reason her features added up to an impression of endearing grace. She wiped her eyes again and blinked as she looked at Holmes.
“We would read your stories together,” she said in a thick voice. “That’s how we met. In The Little Kettle, near Piccadilly.”
Both Holmes and I remained silent. “He was studying ‘Silver Blaze’,” she continued. “He didn’t even notice me when I came in. He was bent over his copy, letting his tea go cold...” Her voice petered out, and we were left to imagine how the scene unfolded. She had a London accent, but whether by design or not preserved her h’s and t’s. “I’m Fran Atkins,” she finally offered.
“Miss Atkins,” Holmes said, “how long had he been in England when you two met?”
She raised her eyebrows. “Mrs. Henslow told you he was American?”
“On his left hand, there is the kind of ring fraternity brothers at American universities like to wear.”
“Chester would not have liked that you recognised him as American. He was from Boston. The family left during the Famine. His father was still a child.” She cleared her throat. “He had only been in London a bit over a month when we met.”
Holmes advanced a few more questions, all designed to have Fran Atkins delve into her memories. I thought this might in fact benefit her shattered spirits and did not interrupt. The story that emerged in halting words was that of a somewhat bookish English girl and of a young American unsure as to what path to pursue in life, and of how they had fallen in love over a shared passion for my stories. Chester Aherne was the son of well-to-do parents. America is unlike our own society and allows for a rapid rise through the ranks. Thus, the grandson of a poor lad from County Clare had been able to go up to university. Aherne, however, was of a retiring disposition, and though the family fortune was ample, it did not possess the patina of self-evidence that comes with many generations of existence. He had felt out of place with his classmates, whose ancestors had sometimes arrived two centuries before and who would have felt at home at Ascot.
The Ahernes had a business partner in London, and so at the end of his junior term, Chester decided to take a break from higher learning and to gain abroad some insights into the world of commerce. Or rather, this was what he had told his parents that he intended to do. In fact, he only put in token appearances at the office and spent much of his days walking the streets of the metropolis.
His interest in my writerly efforts appears to have predated his departure for the Old World. On his home shores, though, his consumption of Holmes’s adventures had remained within the scope of the ordinary. I am proud to say that my narratives have been quite favorably received by the American public and that many readers there await with some eagerness the publication of a new tale.
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br /> On English soil, however, a transformation set in. When Fran Atkins encountered Aherne, this was already well underway. He had begun an in-depth study of Holmes’s adventures. Some passages that addressed detective work he excerpted into a moleskin notebook and memorised as if they were scripture. He researched Holmes’s methods, studied the sciences required, and conducted experiments. I can see Fran and him before me now, each holding a cup of tea, discussing excitedly the methods by which my friend nabbed the evildoers upon whose trail Lestrade or a client had set him. I suppose it is any author’s fondest wish that his writings may help his readers find a kindred spirit, and such it would be with me and Chester’s and Fran’s acquaintance, were this scene not marred by the future that issued therefrom.
A puzzled expression lay in Fran’s eyes. “There was something about Chester. He wanted to be more than it was his lot to be. Maybe that is why he loved me,” she added when neither of us spoke. “Because I believed this was possible. Perhaps that was a mistake.”
“On the contrary,” said Holmes. “The faith of others keeps us going. Tell me, Miss Atkins, apart from rowing, did he engage in any other sporting activity?”
“You could tell by the calluses on his hands.” She smiled as if at an old trick. “Yes, he also went to a club to box and to practice that Japanese way of fighting - what do you call it?”
“Baritsu.”
“Yes, that’s it. He could break a board with one blow.”
Holmes nodded towards the bottle on the table. “How often did he take that substance?”
“Maybe once a week. I was against it, so often he wouldn’t tell me. You have taken it too, Mr. Holmes.”
Perhaps I should never have mentioned Holmes’s cocaine consumption, I thought, but how was I to imagine that anyone would regard him as an example when it came to this - anyone in his right mind, I could not help but adding.
“I used to, yes, I’m afraid. You mentioned a notebook, Miss Atkins,” said Holmes, changing the subject. “Where did Mr. Aherne keep it?”
“I’m not sure. I did not come here often. We preferred to meet in my room.” She looked towards the Davenport. “I saw it there once.”
Holmes rose and stepped over to the desk. He lifted its top, then went through the drawers. Finally, he turned and shook his head. Fran raised her shoulders, as if to ask what it mattered now. Tears were again filling her eyes. Lestrade began scanning the bookshelves, Holmes wandered into the laboratory.
I also rose. The room’s oblique familiarity produced an effect as if I were standing on a stage. Where would an avid reader of Holmes’s adventures keep such a presumably treasured object? A cascade of images came rushing through my mind, before a notion struck me with a sense of complete certainty. Recalling an early case, one in which Holmes found his match - in a woman, I might add - I walked over to the bell-pull. The wallpaper above the bell-pull appeared unmarred, but when I passed my hand over the wallpaper and exerted a light pressure, a rectangle of about five inches by ten moved inward with a click. Then this rectangle slid noiselessly aside, exposing a small aperture.
“Well done, Doctor!” exclaimed Lestrade, walking over and patting me on the shoulder.
Henslow appeared next to the Inspector. The young man’s eyes were wide. Evidently, the notion that a tenant could have effected such an alteration to the property came as a surprise. Fran raised herself from the sofa.
Lestrade meanwhile had reached into the aperture and extracted a moleskin notebook on which lay a thick packet of American money. Holmes now appeared from the laboratory, and I caught a glimpse of him letting something slip into his trouser pocket.
“Your friend has learned a thing or two from you, Mr. Holmes,” said the inspector.
“He certainly has.”
The inspector laid the money aside, then flicked through the notebook.
“What a hand!”
“May I have a look?” said Holmes.
“Of course. I can’t let you have it, though. This is still a homicide investigation.”
“I understand, Inspector.”
Holmes scanned a page, then another. Fran stood next to him. She now pulled the spectacles from her chest pocket. Henslow and I had also sidled up to Holmes and were peering over his shoulder.
“Yes, this is it.” Fran touched the page, when a sharp bang came from the laboratory and we all spun around.
“Oh dear!” exclaimed Holmes. “I’ll have a look.” He handed Lestrade the notebook. “This will certainly merit scrutiny if the autopsy reveals anything untoward.”
“I doubt it will. But we will take all proper measures.” This latter Lestrade had directed at the girl. He turned to me. “I hear, Doctor, there is a lot going on these days in the field of psychology. Not your bailiwick, I know, but what do you think of the matter?”
“You’re right, I’m just an old sawbones...” I paused to arrange my thoughts. “Most of us have heroes,” I finally said. “Especially when we’re young.”
“Are you going to quote Carlyle to me now?”
“I’m wary of quoting Scotsmen. All I’m saying is that aspiration needs a goal. In this case...”
“Things went a little far!”
“In this case,” I repeated, “one might say there was a genuine desire to do good.”
Lestrade harrumphed and turned to Henslow.
“What do you think, young man?”
“Mr. Aherne was a pleasant tenant,” Henslow replied, choosing his words carefully. “A little peculiar, but I have nothing bad to say about the man. I suppose he was a scientist at heart. They have their idiosyncrasies. I understand next to nothing of these matters.”
Holmes had reemerged from the laboratory and was standing next to the tea table. Now he rejoined our group. “Yes, they do. Mine is fiddling with other people’s chemicals. My apologies for the ruckus. This has been a remarkable morning, Inspector.”
Evidently Holmes wished to be underway, and I had no objections. Fran now appeared somewhat composed. She was still pale and her eyes were red, but she had regained control of her features. She had, it seemed, absorbed the first shock and steadied herself. Where was her home? What losses had she sustained and recovered from before this present one? The flood of sorrow, I knew, crests well after the first breaking seas have come ashore. But maybe she knew that also, I thought.
* * *
As Holmes and I descended the stairs, we saw through the window on each landing two women and a man in conversation by the gate that separated the property from the street.
“That’s the old lady and her husband who were standing in the door when we arrived,” I remarked.
“Yes, I saw them from Aherne’s rooms. They were just coming down the street.”
“What was their name?”
“O’Malley. The Irish seem to have taken over the place...”
We stepped outside and all three turned to face us. The O’Malleys appeared less disheveled than upon our first encounter. She was wearing a dark bonnet and a dark kersey cape, he a scuffed pea coat. They both still looked rather sallow, and an expression of what I could not but think of as worry lay upon their features. The woman with whom they had been in conversation appeared roughly their equal in age, though in stature the three could not have differed more dramatically. While the O’Malleys were rather short and on the full-figured side, their interlocutor stood around five feet ten inches, and appeared as thin as a dysentery patient a week after leaving the ward. She too wore a cape, but no bonnet. Her hair was pulled back into a bun. Unlike the O’Malleys, she had not gone entirely grey, and some blonde strands glimmered in the sunlight.
If the woman’s appearance could have raised questions as to her constitution, these were dispelled when she spoke.
“Good day, gentlemen,” she said in a voice that rang w
ith robust health. “I am sorry we meet under these circumstances.”
We expressed the identical sentiment and introduced ourselves.
“Henslow,” she said, bowing her head. “I understand my son showed you upstairs. Terrible what happened with young Mr. Aherne. I shouldn’t have thought it possible.”
“The realm of the possible is large,” Holmes remarked.
“We will now go to church to commend his soul to our Lord.” She looked at the O’Malleys, who nodded obediently.
Holmes passed over the remark. “How long had Mr. Aherne been living with you, Mrs. Henslow?”
“This was his fourth month, if I’m not mistaken.” She turned to the O’Malleys. “You came in September, right?”
“Yes, that’s right,” Mrs. O’Malley said.
“He came the month before you,” declared the landlady. “So yes, four months.”
“And you noticed nothing unusual about his behaviour?” Holmes asked.
“Not exactly. He did keep odd hours. Sometimes he returned home rather late. On account of this, he would not take his breakfast until ten. He is not the first young gentleman I’ve had as a tenant, Mr. Holmes,” she continued in a tone of self-justification. “I do not condone such behaviour. I offered to introduce him to our church. But I can only offer. I am not their parent.”
“He wus a gran’ lad,” Mr. O’Malley now interjected. “A gran’ lad, out on de town every once in a while, that’s al’...” A stern look from Mrs. Henslow silenced him.
The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories - Part X Page 32
