by David Marcum
“But,” broke in Tobias Stokeville, tears forming tracks in the soot on his cheeks, “he knew what a headstrong and devoted child I was, and that I would never leave their sides while they lived and there was even a glimmer of hope. That much he had assumed correctly, although his next actions I cannot reconcile myself with.”
“Father called upon our Ayah,” resumed Thomas, “who had helped look after both Tobias and I since we were in the cradle, and ordered her, ‘Tell the boy we all are dead, as we surely will be before many more breaths are drawn. Tell him we have died, otherwise he’ll never leave, and the infection is sure to find him. Take the money from my safe, and your mistress’s jewels, and flee from this blighted spot. Go, and may God go with you both.’ And neither he nor mother saw their son alive again. Either of their sons, for by the time my fever broke, they had both gone beyond all mortal help.”
“We know,” said Holmes, “that this loyal servant brought both Tobias and what material wealth she could carry to form his inheritance across to England.”
“She also carried with her the traces of that sickness, which she had struggled valiantly to hide,” groaned Tobias. “The poor, dear woman never saw England’s shores, and when I stumbled down the gangplank in this colder, wetter land to meet my cousin, there was no-one from my old life by my side.”
“And no-one who knew the truth of your departure.” Holmes turned once more to Thomas. “And what of your miraculous recovery? I can think of only three people who have returned from the dead, and two of those were in the Bible. You are now the fourth.”
I had been to India, of course, and had seen horrors in my time in the field hospital at Maiwand, and even in the base hospital at Peshawar. Yet still I was ill-prepared for what Thomas Stokeville said next.
“I was practically in the morgue, sedated purely to quieten my screams in the night. Yet even under such heavy medication, I still awoke to a rat chewing at my nose, while its brother made hungry work of my cheek. My yells of agony were how the exhausted and overworked nurses realised I was not only alive and fighting back, but also assured them I hadn’t succumbed to the secondary infection of leprosy which was now rife, as the parts those poor wretches lose are already dead, and dead things feel no pain. Well, this hurt, and I let them know it. I’ve added to the scars in a few scrapes over the years, because what’s the point in protecting a face like this? Though I’ve learned that in civilised society, it is often best to conceal the worst of the ravages.”
“I was just admiring the work,” admitted Holmes. “You rebuild the nose and cheek with some type of putty, I perceive. I sometimes have use of such methods, and I shall forward you a list of alternatives with more flex and mobility to them. Some are of my own devising and are quite unique. It ought to curtail the need for that thick make-up, for while it pastes over the joins quite effectively, it is easily washed away, and will transfer itself easily to other surfaces if you are not careful.”
Catherine Stokeville clapped a hand to her mouth, exclaiming, “Tobias’s shirt!”
“Indeed. But you would expect brothers to embrace after so long a separation. But we are ahead of ourselves, for as we left brother Thomas’s recital, he was in the clinic in India.”
“Recovered, finally, but with no money to support myself, since all that our poor Ayah hadn’t managed to rescue was swiftly looted. I worked my board, learning from that local doctor who saved most of my face from further infection. I took on any task that might help, from orderly to scrubbing the wards, to assisting in operations; although my earliest duty was to hunt down and despatch any rats, and I think that to say I took to it with a vengeance is highly apt. Our Dr. Kamran wasn’t a kindly old country practitioner with a pat on the head and some nice tasting medicine to hand. He could be brutal and brusque, because he said that disease wasn’t polite and sometimes needed a tough opponent.”
Holmes nodded his approval of this sentiment, noting, “So continents apart and unaware of either’s actions, or even existence in one case, both brothers took on board the skills of their guardians.”
“Following old Kamran’s apprenticeship, I thought to leave old India and the heat and dust behind, and finally see something of my parents’ home, and our Empire’s great beating heart. Though you may surmise looking like this wasn’t the easiest passport. So I worked my passage on a rattle-trap old boat, mainly down in the dark, up to my knees in oil and brine, bailing out the water just about as fast as it could come in. The rogue of a skipper reckoned if I’d survived plague and ferocious rat attacks and walking around with a face that would frighten death itself, I’d survive anything that nature might throw at me. So he kept me on practically as a mascot, and a walking good luck charm.”
“Well, you were his good luck true enough, Tommy,” insisted the nurse, patting him fondly on the shoulder as she passed by in search of more bandages. “For when the captain fell sick, who was it who kept him alive till that floating death-trap of his crawled into dock here? It certainly wasn’t that drunkard of a ship’s doctor.”
“Ah, but does luck not call on luck?” laughed Thomas. “For if I hadn’t carried him into the nearest place where I could find a handful of pills and some bandages, I wouldn’t have found you tending like an angel to every miserable reject from this great city’s hospitals and poorhouses, Josephine, my darling dearest. And between her and them, gentlemen, I’ve never yet managed to venture far enough to see the sights or experience the culture that make London famous throughout the world.”
“Well, looking like we do,” smiled the nurse, “this is about the only place where we might possibly pass as healthier than the patients we tend, dear husband.”
In response to this latest revelation, Catherine Stokeville let out a peal of laughter, clasping her hands in delight as she cried, “Oh, how many errors have I made in judging this situation? I do not have a rival - I have a sister! Or the nearest I have ever had to one.”
“But,” said I, “while I now gather the letter that had caused Tobias such rage was the first contact between the two brothers in nearly two decades, how did Thomas find his kin after all this time?”
“You, yourself, had already heard of Tobias Stokeville, my dear fellow,” Holmes prompted.
“From his charitable works for the local hospitals,” I agreed.
“And I, being a doctor,” began Thomas Stokeville, “although not perhaps qualified sufficiently in the orthodox manner to hang my shingle at the door, but a keen amateur nonetheless, had also heard of this benefactor, and in so doing came to realise that I had found not only the ideal man to assist in my mission here, but also the brother I had thought never to see again in this world.”
“I have set up a trust in the clinic’s name,” said Tobias, rubbing now self-consciously at his begrimed face as he drew various official looking documents from his case. “For although it cannot operate officially as such without the medical board’s approval, those who cannot or will not attend hospital still have their needs, and the investments I have put in place will easily pay the rent and other bills on these premises, or yet bigger and more modern facilities should the occasion arise, while such an establishment is still needed. I had to be very crafty in hiding the notification from my bankers that the funds for the trust had been transferred, dear Catherine.”
With a laugh, she scolded, “Too crafty, dearest Tobias. Too crafty by far, for I might never have connected a fund to maintain a building in the docks with any other secret, had you not removed the letter and denied its existence. As for what you three are striving to achieve here,” she said, striding across to look directly and unwaveringly into her brother-in-law’s face, “I think it is marvellous! Your parents must have been exceptional people to instil such decency and kindness in both their sons. Oh, how could I ever have misread those eyes as anything but gentle and filled with wisdom? My dear sir, how can I ever apologise for the
way I screamed and fled from you that day?”
“I have seen cruelty and mockery. Your reaction comes nowhere close to those, for you had every reason for fright as some looming stranger accosted you repeatedly on the same day. But while I was a stranger to you, your face and your deeds were already known to me. For when Tobias told us of the wife he lived every day for, we begged him to bring a picture so that we might see our sister-in-law. The portrait from his locket does you little justice, dear Catherine.”
“Enough justice at least that you recognised me from it, even when I thought myself disguised.”
“In the first instance, I was only curious as to who it was I spied following so furtively after my wife and brother, and what her intentions might have been. Then it slowly dawned on me that the face you were trying to hide beneath that ridiculous hat was familiar. And with that realisation, I wanted nothing more than to speak with you, but thanks to my clumsiness you took fright and fled. I knew where you and Tobias lived, of course. Thus, finding you on that train was a simpler business by far than finding the words to say to you. Clearly Tobias had told you nothing of our connection, and I recognised that it was his place, not mine, to share such news with you. That decided, I would have stepped off that train and left you in peace had you not accidentally seen my face again.”
“And even after discovering me spying, you did not tell Tobias?”
“Again, it was not my place. I urged him to break the silence, and he swore he would when he was sure in himself. I fear I grew impatient to know all about your lives together. Knowing where you lived, it was easy to catch the late night train and to look upon your home under cover of darkness. Yes, Catherine, you did see me from your window that night.”
Tobias Stokeville ran a weary hand through his hair, sighing loudly. “And to think all this sneaking about and intrigue might have been avoided if you had just trusted me, Catherine...”
Sherlock Holmes shot to his full, considerable height, his cane rapping the floorboards with a crack like a pistol shot. “Oh, no, Mr. Stokeville! No, that will not do at all. It was your behaviour that laid the seeds of this pretty little mystery, and you cannot chide your wife for trying to solve the puzzle you presented her with.”
The young man held up a nervous hand, continuing, “... and had I just trusted you, my darling Catherine, from the outset; as I had of course intended saying.”
If my friend felt remotely abashed, he hid it easily. “Better,” said he, with a curt nod. “Mr. Stokeville, you were drawn to your wife by her kindness and nobility of soul. Now you are a man who has based his living on his instincts, and you should have trusted your own natural feelings as regards that lady. In choosing to devote yourself to her, you have made the most valuable investment of all. For despite every indication to the contrary, her own intuition was to trust that your actions were for the good. I hope you shall not ignore those very wise instincts in future. No, I see you have learned well. Then if you are quite finished with your ministrations, Watson, I believe our work here is done, and we should return to Baker Street refreshed after our excursions.”
“Home it is, then, via King’s Cross Station,” said I, flourishing our left luggage tickets. “Mr. Stokeville - rather under this roof I should say, Dr. Stokeville - should you or your wife ever require any help that an ex-army doctor can reasonably provide, you will let me know?”
As we stepped outside, leaving that dazzling room behind to return back into the grey mundanity beyond, Catherine Stokeville hurried after us, protesting, “Mr. Holmes, I do not know that I can ever repay you for the ease you’ve brought me...”
“You already have,” replied my friend, “by giving me something to occupy my mind, and thus saving me from the tedium of an otherwise dull journey. Good day to you, Mrs. Stokeville.”
It was not until later that same night, as we sat in familiar comfort before a blaze in the Baker Street hearth, that I gave in to my compulsion to ask, “Out of all that we saw and heard today, from what must have been a terrible final sacrifice borne out of love, to an extraordinary reunion from beyond the grave, and a beacon of succour for those with no hope at the heart of a wretched den of poverty and vice, can you truly claim you took away only a momentary release from boredom?”
“And why should that trouble you, old fellow?”
“Well, you make it all sound so trivial.”
“You know me better than that, Watson,” said he, raising a drowsy lid to affix me with a cool, grey stare. “Mental stimulation is as far from trivial to me as is possible. You cannot have forgotten so soon the effects that its deprivation once threatened. No, I thought not. However, if you are looking for a more fitting sentiment to provide an apt conclusion to the chronicle you are already contemplating committing to paper, I will offer this: as we pass along life’s rock-strewn bye-ways, occasionally there is reward enough in simply offering help to a fellow traveller.”
The Adventure of the Highgate Financier
by Nicholas Utechin
“I simply do not agree with you,” remarked my friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes as he selected a second slice of breakfast toast.
“But Holmes, your argument is insupportable,” I replied. “It is only two weeks since we were in Dartmoor; since then, to my certain knowledge, you have been consulted by a Viscount and two Cabinet ministers, to mention nothing of the Scotland Yard panic over the Chaldecott library three days ago. Surely, then, crime is indeed on the increase, and you are the main gainer from that state of affairs.”
“I suppose my consulting income rises and I add a few reference items to my scrapbooks,” he replied wearily, “but where comes the challenge of anything the slightest bit out of the ordinary? The Viscount was a fool and you yourself suggested that the two ministers offered us a problem that Mycroft could have solved without pulling himself up from the recesses of his armchair. I admit that Mrs. Chaldecott’s books provided us with something more recherché, but, as we discovered, nothing that an evening trip along the Metropolitan line and ten minutes in the British Museum could not solve. No, what I call for - what I always call for, I suppose - is a single ounce of cleverness from the British criminal.”
It was a cry, of course, that I had heard many times from Holmes, although his star had never shone brighter as the last decade of the century drew towards a close. He was, however, absolutely unique among professionals of my acquaintance, such that if a week went by without something utterly tortuous and demanding arising, he would complain bitterly and strain as if upon a leash.
On these occasions, I took it as my role to keep the conversation going and attempted to assuage Holmes’s annoyance, as a benevolent uncle might his petulant nephew.
“What of the death of Thornton Derwent, then?” I riffled through the pile of morning newspapers that washed across our breakfast table, trying to find a story that had caught my eye.
“Nothing of a criminous nature there, I fancy, Watson. Took ill in his bath, did he not?”
I found the small paragraph in the Telegraph.
“Holmes, I am but trying to be of some help to you. It is, at the very least, a death, and there is certainly nothing else similar reported in the papers today.”
Sherlock Holmes could not have appeared less interested.
“‘News came late last night,’” I read aloud, ‘that the well-known and successful financier Mr. Thornton Derwent, of Highgate Village in north London, was found dead in the early evening, having apparently suffered a heart attack while bathing. Mr. Derwent, senior partner of the City bankers Derwent, Thorpe and Chalmers, was found deceased in his bath by his manservant. He was fifty-nine and enjoyed a profitable and occasionally adventurous career in the financial world; indeed there had been recent rumours in the markets that a major takeover was underway. Mr. Derwent, a widower, leaves one son, Jocelyn.’”
“Yes, I saw it: rarely has th
e word ‘tedious’ been so relevant to a newspaper story,” said Sherlock Holmes and moved towards his chemical table.
On such occasions, when I had no urgent business of my own to which I needed to attend, there was nothing for it but to put some of my notes in order and then give that mound of newspapers which Holmes insisted be delivered to us each day one further perusal.
It was, however, no more than an hour since our desultory conversation had taken place than we heard the front door crash open below, some words of protest from our landlady, and then hurried footsteps upon the stairs. The door to our sitting-room was flung wide and a young man of dishevelled appearance stood framed beneath the lintel. Without saying a word, he tottered forward and poured himself a large draught of black coffee. Holmes waved him towards a chair.
“It would be a good idea if you explained yourself,” said he. “Did your father not die of natural causes?”
Our intruder took a deep breath and sought to calm himself.
“You are impressive indeed, Mr. Holmes.”
“It was the Highgate ticket stub.”
“So you are Jocelyn Derwent?” I ventured. “We were reading of your father’s passing this morning. The paper carried no implication of foul deeds.” I spoke intensely, hoping that the young man would not notice the gentle smile of anticipation that played about Holmes’s features.
“Dr. Watson, Mr. Holmes, I am positive it must have been murder. I must admit that I do not know how the deed was done, but it must be so. My father enjoyed good health and there was nothing in his medical history that suggested he was prone to heart failure. And I know that he was in high spirits; the newspaper reports make general mention of a forthcoming financial windfall, but he was on the brink of making solid a deal that would have brought his company more than one-hundred-thousand pounds, and himself even greater esteem in the City. May I tell you of the circumstances in which he was found?”
