The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories - Part X

by Marcum, David;

  Holmes stood behind him with a white turban on his head. The oddity gave him the intimidating appearance of being a foot taller. Over the shorter man’s shoulder, I noticed that Holmes held a lidded basket at his breast. From Holmes’s stance, I was reminded of a player braving a scrum, protecting the ball. Akimbo on the Persian carpet, I spied a peculiar musical instrument. At first, I thought it was a clarinet, but it lacked complex valves. It was fluted at one end and lined with a series of holes.

  “Dr. Watson, I assure you everything is all right,” Holmes assured. “There is no need for alarm. Everything is under control.”

  “You are a madman!” the flustered guest declared, still catching his breath.

  “Doctor, may I introduce you to the proprietor of one of London’s finest stationery stores.”

  “I need no introduction!” the man admonished. “Now, sir, kindly allow me my leave!”

  I looked to Holmes, who nodded. I stepped aside. The businessman rushed past me, his square case in tow.

  Holmes retrieved a thin leather strap from the couch and affixed it round the woven basket. After joining the end pieces to form an “X” on the lid, he finished with a mooring hitch and set the object upon the floor. I could swear that I saw it move, but unsure if my eyes were deceiving me.

  Holmes moved to his favorite chair, chuckling and lit his pipe.

  “I’ve been studying various poisons, Watson, relating to our musician instructor’s death. One I wanted to re-familiarize myself with is a cobra’s venom.”

  “Goodness, Holmes. I would have thought you had your fill after the Speckled Band. Don’t tell me that’s what you have trapped in that basket!”

  “I wouldn’t say ‘trapped’, Watson. The reptile was raised in it. It’s more akin to the snake’s residence. This lethal creature comes to me by way of the Indian subcontinent.”

  “Mrs. Hudson wouldn’t be pleased to house this sort of a lodger, I should think.”

  “True, Watson. I plan to return it to its snake-charmer owner shortly. I have been wrestling not as much with what poison might have been used on Mr. Fischer. Given his rapid decline, I’ve narrowed it down to three probable toxins. Still to be clearly resolved are three questions: How was the poison delivered? Who would want to harm the victim? And, what was the evil-doer’s motive?”

  “Are you planning to exhume the body, Holmes?”

  “That might prove difficult, given Lestrade’s convenient conviction that the death merits no further investigation. It would also be stressful for our victim’s mother. Perhaps more at hand, such activity confirms nothing which I haven’t anticipated. We can tender that it is the highest probability that evidence of the poison will remain in the mouth of the victim’s corpse.”

  Chapter IV: Music in the Silence

  We took a hansom back from the docks to Holmes’s flat. We had traveled there in order to deliver the snake to a ship, ready to steam to Bombay by way of the Cape of Good Hope. I hoped that the unusual cargo wouldn’t raise havoc with the journey.

  Mrs. Hudson had thoughtfully prepared tea and twin pillars of finger sandwiches, despite her dismay with a tenant whose behavior included untidiness, noxious chemical experiments, unsavory guests, playing of music at odd hours, and even in-door target practice with his pistol at playing cards. To his credit, Holmes offset his liabilities with prompt and regular payment of generous rent.

  “Holmes, it seems as if you’re making progress, but I’m having trouble following along,” I confessed.

  “Watson, let’s look at the facts as you understand them. What do you glean to date?”

  “Well,” I responded, clearing my throat, “if we assume that a mother knows her son better than most, we can accept he was, until two weeks before his death, in robust health. His being felled in his prime speaks to some sort of poison being employed, perhaps in his food or drink. And since killers who use poison are nearly always female, we can theorize the killer was a woman - perhaps a student - involved somehow with her teacher, and scorned.”

  “An arguably reasonable logic, Watson. I agree with you on certain points, but in this instance, I believe the killer was a man rather than a woman.”

  “Is that not improbable, given the choice of weapon?” I countered.

  “There are other means by which an individual can be dispatched quickly without leaving a trace. One need only turn to Edinburgh, to William Burke and William Hare, who suffocated their victims to enrich their own coffers. But, since our musician was in good health, it’s my belief that even if there were two assailants, Inspector Lestrade would have taken note of a struggle occurring at the young man’s premises. There was no evidence of such. So, I agree that poison undoubtedly was used. We can further deduce the method of poisoning. While cyanide acts quickly, it produces the easily traceable side-effects of convulsions and nausea. Strychnine, while also effective, is improbable, as there is no evidence of Ainsley Fischer’s frothing at the mouth or having muscle spasms. This leaves arsenic as the most likely culprit.”

  “So I’m on the right track, then, Holmes?”

  “In many ways ‘yes’, and in some ‘no’, Watson. Women are just as capable of being as heinous as men, but an overwhelming majority of homicides are committed by males. Moreover, if one reviews killings by poison over the past five decades, more than half were perpetrated by men, from both higher and lower stations. Examples include Edward ‘the Human Crocodile’ Pritchard, Thomas ‘the Lambeth Poisoner’ Neill Cream, the disowned Quaker John Tawell, William ‘the Rugeley Poisoner’ Palmer, and numerous others. Naturally, a woman poisoner provides a more salacious story for journalists who are in the business of exploiting others’ misfortunes. Husbands who beat their wives would be wise to change their ways, or be prepared for the permanent consequences of tainted soup.”

  “I’m still uncertain as to where you are headed with this, Holmes. We don’t seem to have much in the way of clues, though you have the man’s ledger with his students’ initials. Why aren’t we actively interviewing suspects? You seem as deskbound as your brother, Mycroft, despite the urgency of the research needed,” I stated with uncharacteristic reproach.

  “Watson, I appreciate your desire for sweat and industry, which I’m never one to shun when necessary, but clear clues are abundantly evident. I believe that I know the name of killer. It is now a matter of tightening the noose, or in musical terms, bringing the matter to a crescendo.”

  “How is that possible?” I asked, perplexed.

  “Did you notice anything unusual about Mr. Fischer’s musical choices?”

  “Not in particular.”

  “Does the name ‘Blancrocher’ remind you of anything?” he asked, extracting a page from the victim’s folio.

  “No, I can’t say it does...”

  “It’s by Froberger, and considered by some to be the embodiment of sadness. It’s meant to mimic the sound of his friend, Blancrocher, a lutenist, who fell down the stairs to his death. Froberger witnessed the event, and it undoubtedly affected him profoundly. Remembering this haunting piece played on a harpsichord, I began to wonder if Ainsley Fischer might have been secretly communicating something via music to one of his students - perhaps a love interest.”

  Holmes stood, adjusted the edge of his shirt cuff, and began improvising a conductor’s motions.

  “The selection by Bach which I showed you in front of Mrs. Fischer was chosen because if you examine the notes, you’ll find ‘B-A-C-H’ embedded in the third line.”

  “Bach,” I repeated, beginning to understand. “The ‘BACH’ motif-”

  “Precisely, Watson. When I saw Schumann’s Carnaval in the stack of Fischer’s scores, I realized that I was onto something. Schumann relished embedding his pieces with puzzles. In fact, he taunts the listener by placing musical cryptograms within music about a masked ball. If you attend
to what’s played, you will detect references to the town where his fiancée was born, the composer’s name, and more.”

  “By modifying the music played with a student, Fischer could communicate with the pupil surreptitiously in front of a parent or chaperone...” I suggested.

  “Indeed. That’s when I began looking for anomalies. One limitation at first is the series of notes available to spell words, namely “A” through “G”, but there are ways around this, including one technique referred to as ‘the French Method’. In this technique, the encipherment is achieved by using many-to-one mapping, referencing the original “A” through “G” diatonic notes with naturals, sharps, and flats - to provide a musician cryptographer with additional letters.”

  “And, you found an unusual cryptogram within the notes used?”

  “No, Watson, I did not,” he replied matter-of-factly.

  “Then why did you take the sheaves of music?” I asked, somewhat crestfallen.

  “I remembered a quotation from the 1700’s attributed to Mozart. ‘Die Stille zwischen den Noten ist genauso wichtig wie die Noten selbst.’ This may be translated literally as, ‘The silence between the notes is as important as the notes themselves.’ Others have elevated this statement further, interpreting that the composer argues, ‘The music is not in the notes, but in the silence between.’”

  “The silence, Holmes?”

  “Brilliant, Watson. You’ve hit upon it. I began looking for the pauses in the pieces. I spied what I thought was a minor error: A fermata on a note which shouldn’t be there.”

  “Fermata,” I responded, blinking, and admiring Holmes’s aptitude for music, but remembering my years spent more comfortably on a rugby field.

  “A note played just a bit longer, Watson. Normally, it wouldn’t be much to think about, except for Mr. Fischer’s love of music that involves puzzles and games.”

  Holmes drew a box in the air with his index finger and made a slicing motion, cutting it in half.

  “After this initial cue, I discovered in a Mozart piece, out-of-place minim rests added after the ninth and twelfth notes of a phrase. Then, after another series of two fermata, errant crotchet rests occurred after the second and ninth note. The errors continue after another out-of-place fermata later in the piece, followed by half rests after the seventh and eighth notes in a measure.”

  Mrs. Hudson interrupted Holmes’s tutorial, announcing that a gentleman caller had arrived. She presented Holmes with a thick, crème colored card. The font upon it was bold and angular.

  Chapter V: A Music Lesson Interrupted

  A tall man in his forties entered the doorway, holding an alpine-style hat in his hand. He was balding on the top of his head, and his close-cropped hair was a salt-and-pepper gray. His ears were oddly shaped, nearly triangular, and his nose was sharp and thin. He wore garish white socks and woolen pants held up by suspenders too wide to be made domestically. He looked dressed for a hike in the mountains, rather than an amble through London streets.

  “Mr. Huber, thank you for visiting us this afternoon. I trust that your stroll was a pleasant one?” Holmes asked.

  “I have no trouble getting out for a brisk walk, Mr. Holmes,” he responded. “I grew up hiking hills steeper than any in this country,” he responded, clipping the ends of his words.

  “Your calling is appreciated, sir. Dr. Watson and I are hoping that you can provide us some insights into the death of Mr. Fischer.”

  “After the stunt with the snake you pulled upon my cousin, Mr. Holmes, I want you to understand that I am in no mood for pranks. You said that you had some important information regarding my daughter. I find your notice unnecessary. She’s at our home with my wife, completely safe.”

  “Mr. Huber, I assure you that your visit will be a productive one. Doctor Watson and I were just enjoying a debate.” Holmes retrieved his violin and bow. “Perhaps you can help us out. Indulge me with some musical fun from Mozart’s Verzeichnis aller meiner Werke, which Köchel numbered 522.”

  “Mr. Holmes, that piece is one of my least favorites. It is an unamusing abomination.”

  “I’ve added a few pauses which I think give it a better rhythm. Tell me what you think, Mr. Huber.”

  Holmes began playing the piece with vigor. It reminded me of fiddling and struck me as repetitious, but pleasant on the whole.

  “Did you hear that I first added two fermata, and a pause at the ninth note?” Holmes asked the gentleman.

  “Yes, but that proves nothing.”

  “And a pause after the fourth, ninth, and fourth again?”

  “Too soon clever, Mr. Holmes, and too late smart, especially for some who think that they are ingenious. Your game proves nothing.”

  “I prove that you’re an unintelligent coward, Mr. Huber.”

  “A man isn’t a coward for protecting the reputation of his daughter, Mr. Holmes. But, I will grant that you are a formidable nuisance.”

  “I will be apprising Scotland Yard of the facts shortly. In fact, an inspector is on his way,” Holmes said as he checked his pocket watch. “Your cousin has already confessed to providing you the arsenic, as well as the stamps and stationery you sent to Ainsley Fischer, purportedly from your daughter, urging him to write to her as often as possible.”

  Huber pulled a pug-nosed revolver he had kept hidden in a holster underneath his arm and pointed it at Holmes’s chest. Aghast, I realized I was without my trusted Webley, and too far from the culprit to be of any utility. The outcome appeared unavoidably dire. I was in a position to save neither Holmes nor myself.

  “Not before I take care of you med-” Huber began, before being interrupted by the report of a gun. Huber spun and dropped his weapon, clasping his right shoulder. I seized the moment and tackled him to the floor, driving a knee into his ribs. I turned to Holmes and saw smoke rising from the palm of his hand, but, inexplicably, no firearm.

  Lestrade and a policeman burst through the door. The policeman joined me in restraining Huber and affixed cuffs to the man’s wrists, behind his back.

  “‘Meddlers’, I believe, is what Mr. Huber was thinking of calling Dr. Watson and me, Inspector.”

  Lestrade turned his ferret-like face to Holmes and said, “Well, Mr. Holmes, you’ve succeeded in making more work for me. Once again, I’m having to clean up your mess.”

  “Thank you, Inspector, for arriving in the nick of time. Once again, you’ve saved the day.”

  “So, what gives, here, Mr. Holmes?” Lestrade asked, pulling a small note-book out from his vest.

  “Simple, really. Nothing that you couldn’t have figured out for yourself. Mr. Fischer, the music teacher, was wooing one of his brighter pupils, Gertrude Huber, via encoded music. I’ve taken a sheet from Ainsley Fischer’s music books, a piece by Mozart. The key to the code was in the spaces between the notes. He used a cypher with twenty-four letters, rather than twenty-six, in two rows. He threw out the “M” and the “Z” which made following it slightly more difficult. The fermata, shall we say, in errata, were keys to when to listen for the silence. I’ve taken a red pencil and circled them for you, as well as provided a transcription underneath. To stimulate a discussion with this blackguard, I played a cypher of my own.”

  Huber moaned quietly and his face had paled.

  “Inspector, may I suggest you get this criminal to a surgeon?” I said, pointing to the slumped man’s shoulder.

  “Yes, yes, there’ll be plenty of time for that,” he replied, staring at the sheet of paper in Holmes’s hands. In red pencil, Holmes had written at the bottom, “I love u GH”.

  The policeman grabbed Huber by the left elbow and got him to stand. Together, he and Lestrade walked him through Holmes’s door and they headed down the stairs, toward the street.

  “One of these days, we’re going to have to teach Lestrade how to clos
e an open door, Watson,” Holmes said.

  Chapter VI: A Quiet Whiff

  Holmes was reclining, enjoying a quiet whiff from his pipe, as content as a coastal seaman back from a successful fishing expedition. Mrs. Fischer had been apprised of the apprehension, but I still needed elucidation.

  “You have some questions still, Watson?”

  “Cracking the musical cypher early in the game made the case easier, I presume?”

  “Yes. One difficulty, however, was the absence of any poison at Mr. Fischer’s domicile. This completely blunted the scent of Lestrade. I then began thinking not about what was present, but instead about that which wasn’t. I hit upon the idea that the poison could have been applied to the back of a postage stamp and the glued backing of newer envelopes. The victim could be baited, via a ruse - in this instance, the writing materials supposedly coming from Huber’s daughter. But, my initial problem was with the dosage. Easier to poison a man with food or drink in higher quantities, where he keels over at once. This explains Mr. Fischer’s decline over a period of two weeks.”

  “Thus the encouragement to ‘write often’, eh? Remarkably simple, Holmes, once you explain it.”

  “True, but I was still at a handicap. I needed to see if I could trace the stationery to a particular store, then capitalize on a weak link who would have less of a stake in the game. Knowing that immigrants often have strong affinity groups, I hoped that Huber would purchase stationery from someone within the Swiss community, and preferably, someone living in London.”

  “And so, you looked for stationery store owners who were Swiss?” I said.

  “Precisely! You’re following wonderfully. And, I discovered only one, who, as luck would have it, was Huber’s cousin.”

  “The gentleman with the emblem on his jacket and aversion to snakes...”

  “One and the same, Watson! If Huber had kept his cool and feigned ignorance over the musical cryptogram rather than pulling out a pistol, it would have made our work more difficult. Luckily, my bait of the musical message in Mozart’s ditty incited his anger.”