by David Marcum
This we did, at once. If my surprise was evident however, then Mr. Trasker’s was more so.
“But Mr. Holmes,” he exclaimed, “the threat persists. Nothing has been solved.”
“Regarding this, I think you will find that the future holds very little trouble for you,” Holmes said in a reassuring tone. “If you watch again from Miss Lillette’s room tonight, you will see that there is now nothing to fear.”
Miss Lillette was equally surprised, but accepted the situation well. She remarked that our efforts were appreciated and stood next to her brother, watching Querry drive us away at a fast trot.
Once out of sight of the house, Holmes informed Querry of all that we had discovered. “The wire that I received was not from Lestrade, as I saw that Watson had supposed, but from a London company called McMichaels,” he explained. “I saw their mark stamped upon the broken effigy in the church. They were kind enough to furnish me with a description of the recent customer who ordered the wax models.”
“Then the case is solved,” replied Querry.
“There is a little more, yet. I would be grateful if you would wait at Richmond Station while we deposit our bags and I wire Lestrade, before taking us back as far as the cluster of oaks that stand a short way before the house. Tonight should see the end of all this.”
No doubt Querry was surprised, but if so he did not show it. As we reached the outskirts of the town, he regarded Holmes with silent admiration.
I deposited our luggage while Holmes went to the telegraph office. Very soon we were on our way back to the house. I remember well his words to Querry: “It would be as well to keep watch from midnight onwards, and enter when you see that Inspector Lestrade has arrived.”
Querry acknowledged this with a faintly puzzled air. We reached the oaks and watched the trap out of sight before entering the shelter of the trees.
“We have some hours to wait, Watson,” Holmes said when he had ascertained that we could not be seen from the road. “While in Richmond I anticipated our need for sustenance.”
At that he produced ham sandwiches with mustard and two small bottles of ale. We ate and drank later, at twilight, before making our way to a hiding place among the tall grass opposite Oaklands Hall.
We crouched, whispering occasionally, for what seemed an age. From time to time we heard animals in the bushes, and the calls of nesting birds above us.
Full darkness had fallen some time earlier. Now Holmes took out his pocket watch and tilted it to catch the light of the moon. “It is almost time. He will come from the Richmond direction.”
Moments later the quiet of the countryside was disturbed. A landau drawn by two black horses appeared and drew to a halt, a short distance from the house. I saw that my friend had interpreted the situation correctly, for the driver alighted and replaced himself with the stiff figure of a wax model, arranging it so that the limbs and head moved at his bidding. He placed his hat upon the head of the effigy and draped a cape around it, before disappearing inside the coach.
“He must have some experience,” Holmes said quietly, “as a puppeteer or some such thing.”
“It cannot be easy to drive horses from that position.”
“We must proceed carefully. As the coach comes to a halt beneath the window, run over and hold the horses’ heads. I will account for the man inside.”
As we left our concealment with our weapons drawn I glimpsed Mr. Trasker’s silhouette, framed in the window above. The horses were easily calmed. I held them with my free hand as the coach door was wrenched open.
“Good morning, Mr. Heinrich Werner!” cried Holmes. “Be so good as to come out and present yourself.”
“I will take care of him, Mr. Holmes,” said Lestrade from the darkness.
A man of middle height stood up, to be swiftly handcuffed by the inspector. The four constables accompanying him advanced towards the house.
In response to Lestrade’s violent knocking, Gerrard appeared at the door. The inspector spoke briefly and we were instantly admitted.
Werner was bundled into the sitting room, where we were quickly joined by Mr. Trasker. I was appalled by the sight of him. He was in his nightshirt, and his eyes seemed to have sunk further into his head. He trembled noticeably. His unshaven face was grey, and his movements unsteady.
“Mr. Holmes,” he stammered, “and Inspector Lestrade! And you have a prisoner! Is this the end at last?”
“Not quite,” Holmes replied. “But nearly so. You have but a few moments to wait.”
Mr. Cromer and Mr. Fullerton, in night attire, entered the room, both bleary-eyed and angry-looking from their disturbed sleep. Miss Lillette appeared after them, in a blue dressing gown.
“Gentlemen,” she said in a voice without weariness, “what is the meaning of this? Who is this man?”
“His name is Heinrich Werner,” Holmes answered. “He is part of the foreign spy ring responsible for your brother’s troubles. The effect was greatly enhanced by the regular doses of the strong opiate that have been administered, probably in his food.” He paused, undoubtedly for effect, since my friend could never resist a touch of melodrama. “But then, you are already aware of these things, are you not, Miss Lillette?”
Trasker looked as if he had been struck by a thunderbolt. “Lillette!” he cried, “Is this true? Dear God, no!”
Her mask slipped immediately, for there was now no escaping the truth. “I saw the power that is in Germany and will sweep through this island and subdue it,” she spat viciously. “I have spent much time in that country, and have become as one of its people. Did you know, Rodney, did father tell you, that my mother, his second wife, was German? Oh, you would never have believed it, for she posed successfully as an Englander, but her heart was always in her homeland. She would have given this country up for her own in an instant, and so would I.”
“But, to make your own flesh and blood suffer...” I said in astonishment.
Her face and voice were now unlike those of the woman who had welcomed us to this house. Gone was the pleasant smile, the gaiety and the warmth, replaced by a stone-faced glare and eyes of obsidian.
“Only our father connects us,” she said harshly. “It is nothing.”
Querry, who had entered quietly, gripped her arm from behind. A small pearl-handled pistol fell half-drawn from her dressing-gown to the floor near Lestrade’s feet. She screamed her anger at us in German.
The inspector picked up the weapon and gestured to the constables. Both prisoners were taken from the room.
“I acted as soon as I received your wire, Mr. Holmes,” he explained. “The constables are local men who have brought a police wagon. Those two will be in the cells within the hour. We hid in the woods until the coach made its appearance, as you suggested.”
“I was aware of it,” my friend replied. “Dr. Watson and I were concealed quite close to you. I saw you once, and your companions twice, but I must congratulate you nevertheless. I could not predict how matters would end, once Miss Lillette had been exposed.”
“She is the head of the ring, then?”
Holmes nodded. “Her arrival was delayed, which is how Derringsham’s attempt came about. Since then, she has manipulated everything. The gradual poisoning of her brother made him susceptible to the apparent supernatural appearance of the coachman.”
“But to what purpose?” I asked.
“She wished to have her brother committed to an asylum. Once he was out of the way, she could search for the hidden list undisturbed. To simply kill him would have brought the unwelcome attention of a police investigation.”
“But the list is still missing,” remarked Lestrade.
“A problem for others to solve,” Holmes smiled. “Our part in this is finished.”
The afternoon of the following day found us in the Stranger’s
Room of the Diogenes Club.
“You first suspected her, of course, when Querry mentioned the man he saw her speaking to at the gate,” Mycroft said when he had considered Holmes’s account.
Holmes nodded. “That night the coachman failed to appear, after the arrival of Watson and myself. He could only have known of our presence if he had been warned by someone inside the house. Querry was adamant that there had been no other strangers in the area, and recognised Werner as the man seen talking to Miss Lillette.”
“Trasker has taken this rather badly. His nerves were always unsteady, but repeated doses of that drug, together with the constant reappearance of a man who he thought he had killed, came close to unhinging him completely. I have arranged for his servants to take temporary positions elsewhere, and for his horses to be cared for at a neighbouring farm, while he embarks upon a long sea voyage to recuperate.”
“Let us hope that he does so completely,” said I.
“The list, I take it, was not found?” Holmes enquired.
Mycroft looked out on Pall Mall for a long moment, and to my surprise turned back to us smiling. “I had Oaklands Hall searched thoroughly. Nothing was discovered, so it is unlikely that it ever will be. I do not think it something that we should trouble ourselves about, however, particularly as the traitor in the Foreign Office has now been dealt with.”
It struck me as strange, that Holmes’s brother should dismiss so important a matter lightly. His expression, and his secretive air, stayed in my memory as we returned to Baker Street.
They came to mind again after breakfast next morning, as my friend passed me one of the early editions that he had been reading.
“What do you make of this, Watson?” he asked, as he had many times before.
I read that Oaklands Hall had burned to the ground in the early hours, only ashes remained.
I looked up, and met Holmes’s expressionless gaze.
Neither of us spoke, but we knew each other’s thoughts.
The Adventure of the Arsenic Dumplings
by Bob Byrne
Part I - The Yard is on the Case
“You’ve surely made a mistake, Mister Holmes. She’s guilty as can be.” Inspector Peter Jones shook his head regretfully at the news that Sherlock Holmes had taken on Lisa Fanning’s parents as clients. Jones, whom we assisted in the matter at the City and Suburban Bank, seemed more assured now than he had in that particular affair. “The cook made dumplings for the family and they were full of arsenic. It’s clear as day.”
Lisa Fanning, whose name was pronounced “Lie-suh,” had been the live-in cook for barrister Robert Shaw and his wife. One evening, she had made dumplings for the couple, as well as Shaw’s father, Orlibar. The three, along with Fanning and an apprentice, had taken gravely ill. Tests revealed arsenic in the food and she was arrested.
Holmes, leaning back in his chair, fingers steepled together in front of him, was unconvinced. “Jones, how often have I demonstrated that jumping to conclusions based on the initial facts is a grave error?”
Lisa Fanning’s parents had come to Baker Street, insisting their daughter was innocent. Of course, they were hardly indifferent on the matter, but I was struck by their heartfelt pleas. One thing we had learned from them which hadn’t been reported by the press was that the maid, Theresa Steele, seemed to be jealous of Lisa’s standing in the house. Jacob Fanning told us that he had visited the house at the very time his daughter was sick from the poison, but young Steele had informed him that Lisa was out running errands for Mrs. Shaw.
Holmes had commented after their departure, “The maid may be a key, though it’s possible she is just a frivolous girl who plays games for her own amusement.”
The Scotland Yard man got to his feet, smiling at Holmes. “Sometimes the simplest solution is the correct one, Mister Holmes. Theories and fancy deducting aren’t always needed.”
I rose as he moved to the door and put on his coat, clearly feeling he had the case in hand. Holmes returned the smile but remained seated. “That remains to be seen, Jones.”
I wished the inspector well and after he had left, Holmes moved to the window and looked down upon Baker Street. “Watson, I am sure that all is not quite as it appears. It is possible that the young Miss Fanning ate just enough of the dumpling to make herself sick without risking death, but there is no reason yet to suspect that.”
“Jones certainly believes she is guilty.”
My friend shook his head. “Yes, he does. I think that our after-dinner time would be well spent reviewing everything the local press has reported on the case.” With that, we rummaged through the week’s various newspapers, which were kept piled in Holmes’s bedroom until he brought them into the sitting room and went through them, cutting out various pieces and pasting them into his index. Delving into the Shaw poisoning, we passed our evening.
When I came down the next morning, I immediately noticed the chill in the room as I entered. “Holmes!” I protested. “If you are already up and about, is it too much to ask that you light the fire?”
“Good morning, Watson. What was that?”
“Holmes, really! Sometimes I don’t know why I bother talking to you at all.”
“Yes, Watson, I’ve wondered that sometimes myself,” he said dryly. “It’s a bit drafty this morning. Could you light the fire?”
I sighed loudly, to no effect, and then rang for Mrs. Hudson to bring up breakfast. I set about getting the fire going, warming up the room and, not for the first time, reflected that sharing lodgings with Holmes could certainly be exasperating.
“Watson, there are some interesting characteristics and several players in this game. It is not at all the clear-cut case Scotland Yard seems to believe.” He looked at me with a blank expression and added, “It rarely is.”
Mrs. Hudson arrived with eggs, sausage, toast and jam, and potato cakes. Holmes immediately came to the table and attacked his sausage. “Mrs. Hudson, you once again outdo yourself in providing a hot, nourishing repast.” She glanced at Holmes, startled, unsure whether he was being sincere or not. But he continued to eat with relish, so she thanked him with a smile and went back to her rooms. I had given up trying to understand Holmes’s eating habits. He would go days without food when diving into the depths of a case. But he could also, with no seeming provocation, show the appetite of three men. There was so little that was predictable about the man’s personal habits.
“A few items of note that bear looking into, Watson. Once arrested, young Miss Fanning found that the public had turned against her, as is often the case. Stories of past improprieties have surfaced. Were you aware that Miss Fanning attempted to poison an earlier employer?
“Good heavens, Holmes!”
“Calm yourself, Watson. I don’t know if you’re upset that she may have committed such an atrocity, or because an innocent woman is being accused of it. We shall choose to believe the latter and that the press is painting her black. I have the Irregulars on the case.”
The Baker Street Irregulars were Holmes’s makeshift police force/informants. They were ragged street urchins who could go places and hear things that an adult could not without engendering suspicion. I knew that Mrs. Hudson would be outraged when they ran through the entry hall and up the stairs to report their findings to Holmes, bounding along behind their erstwhile leader, Wiggins.
“But this morning, we shall visit young Miss Fanning. Inspector Jones has cleared the way for us, though he assured me that it will be a waste of our time.”
“Such guarantees from the authorities have been somewhat less than reassuring on more than one occasion, eh Holmes?”
He arose with a chuckle, patting me on the back and moving to don his coat.
Part II - The Gray Walls
Thus, I soon found myself in Clerkenwell Prison and I felt a shudder run along my spine. I h
ad witnessed a great deal of barbarism while in Afghanistan. Men had endured terrible sufferings and hardships. But each time I stepped foot inside the walls of a prison, I endured a secret horror. To be deprived of freedom and liberty seemed to me to be a fate that could be worse than even death. True, it was often for relatively short periods of time, when compared to the span of a lifetime. But that didn’t diminish the oppressiveness of such places. The tall stone walls, the bars, and the general air of hopelessness that hung over every area made me vow to never find myself incarcerated in one of Our Majesty’s prisons. As we neared our destination, I wondered at how young Miss Fanning could endure it. If she truly was innocent, as we believed, what terrible feelings of despair must be going through her mind?
The guard escorted us into a small chamber, with a table in the middle of the room. There were two chairs on each side of it. The guard, a short, powerfully built man with a thick handlebar moustache, remained on station next to the open door, staring straight ahead. Holmes was examining the room with only mild interest, and I followed his glances, noting nothing of importance.
After what seemed a long time, but could have been no more than two minutes at most, a matron pushed Lisa Fanning into the room. The matron unkindly steered Fanning into one of the chairs and sat down in the one next to her. I looked at Holmes to see if this would be acceptable to him.
“Madame, I am here to converse with my client. Your services will not be needed.” He said this with a peremptory tone, though not a harsh one. However, the matron clearly did not like his attitude, nor his choice of words.
“I don’t know who ye think ye are, mister, but I’m in charge of this criminal and I’m not leavin’ her side.” The woman had a piercing voice, which did not fit her sturdy build. She was not going to be intimidated in her own realm. Or so she thought.
“I’m afraid I must disagree with you. You will, in fact, leave her side right now!” This last was said with a solid blow of his closed fist upon the table, which he was now leaning over. “If you like, you may stand outside the door and await the finish of our interview. But you and the guard by the door will depart immediately. I will have the warden summoned if you like. I have no doubt that he will then order you to do as I have requested.”
