Unquiet Spirits: Whisky, Ghosts, Murder

by Bonnie MacBird

  This took me back to my own school days, hardly as distinguished, perhaps, where I had been tagged ‘The Beagle.’ I never liked it either.

  ‘Incidentally, a gentleman, as defined by the school, was one who did not complain. And so Fettes wanted to wean all its boys from the notion that comfort was expected from life. It was a rigorous and physically challenging regime. The day started before 7 a.m. with an ice-cold bath in the little tin tubs placed in each room.’

  ‘In winter as well? That is not Spartan, it is barbaric.’

  ‘Indeed. The tubs were filled at night in preparation for the morning. Sometimes a thin crust of ice would form on the water during the night, and when this happened, the boys were instructed to break the crust with their hairbrushes, and to get in and wash. It was a habit said to awaken and sharpen the senses.’

  I little thought Holmes ever had need to ‘sharpen his senses’, but rather to dull them upon occasion, so acutely was he attuned to his surroundings.

  ‘Physical fitness was important,’ Jennings continued, ‘and team sports were mandatory. It was thought that if the boys channelled their energy in this way and learned to compete in concert with others, that it would mitigate their natural aggressions and tendencies to violence or pranks. Solo sports such as tennis were discouraged as they were thought to lead to selfishness. However, boxing was a big part of the programme.’

  ‘Holmes boxes to this day.’

  Jennings smiled. ‘How he came to it may interest you. Trouble arose because young Sherlock had no interest whatsoever in team sports, and refused to participate. Various punishments were attempted, but he was clever enough not to let on that isolation and library assignments were not the onerous task they would be for many, but rather a welcome distraction. When he was sent to the library on some ludicrous research task, he would appear to be disconsolate and contrite, but would secretly complete the challenge in a trice, and then spend the rest of the time researching matters of interest to him.’

  ‘How do you know that?’ I asked, fascinated.

  ‘Because I was also the librarian and was tasked to supervise this “punishment”. The school little realized that I sided with this recalcitrant rebel. I must say, however, that his choice of topics was idiosyncratic in the extreme. Railway developments, arcane details of criminal law, the geologic properties of soil in different areas of Britain, bloodstains, bodily decay after death – oh, and chemistry, a clear favourite. Those are a few that I recall.’

  I laughed, thinking how Holmes appeared not to know or care that the earth revolved around the sun, but was nearly at the professional level in chemistry.

  ‘I once went so far as to complete his assignment for him. I catalogued some obscure political data on the Plantagenet monarchy as he spent the time devouring the recent publications by Mendeleev and Meyer on their periodic table of the elements. He claimed it was the most exciting reading since English chemist John Newlands had discovered patterns in the weight of elements which seemed to remind him of the octaves in music.’

  I smiled at this. ‘There is a small laboratory in our sitting room in Baker Street,’ I added, forgetting for the moment that I did not, at that precise time, live at 221B. I ventured another quick look at my watch. There was at least an hour more before the photograph would be ready.

  ‘Sherlock excelled at his schoolwork, and after a very short time, several boys grew to resent his intellectual gifts, particularly since he took no pains to “hide his light,” shall we say.’

  I laughed.

  But Jennings grew sombre. ‘Funny now, perhaps, but it set off an incident that I will never forget.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘It was just prior to Christmas in 1870 and the boys were sitting their exams as well as preparing to return home for the holidays. Sherlock at fifteen was already a taciturn young man; I alone was privy to his witty flashes of humour. His time at Fettes was lonely, although perhaps I make too much of this. The truly introspective man does not require the boisterous companionship of his peers.’

  ‘Agreed. But what is the story you wish to relate?’

  ‘Well, as I said, it was the eve of departure for Christmas. The valises were packed and ready, and aligned outside each boy’s door, awaiting a morning collection. Some of the boys had very early trains.

  ‘Sherlock had duly placed his small valise at the door to his room but later discovered it missing. All the others were still in place.

  ‘He immediately surmised the perpetrator and marched down the hall to confront one Master August Bell Clarion, who had been the ringleader of those who had tormented him since his arrival in September. Sherlock had made that arrogant bully look the fool on more than one occasion.’

  August Bell Clarion! The name dealt me a solid blow. The very boy who had been the disreputable friend of Donal McLaren! Holmes had certainly reacted to the name.

  Jennings pressed on. ‘He also proved August had forged several other students’ papers for a fee. In any case, that night he discovered his possessions strewn around, clothing ripped and his books set aflame in the small fireplace in the room. August and three other boys were lying in wait, having stupefied themselves on a bottle of whisky one of them had smuggled into the room to celebrate the end of exams. Being unused to the strong spirits, the boys were quite literally out of their heads.’

  ‘Barbarians! But how do you know this?’

  ‘It was witnessed by another student. Sherlock tried to rescue one of the books, which apparently meant a great deal to him, and unable to do so, turned on August Bell Clarion in a fury, pulling the bully off his bed where he stood crowing before his rapt audience in triumphant disorder. Down to the floor they went, fists and feet flailing.

  ‘A battle ensued, four against one, and could have been a disaster had not the young pupil who had witnessed his entry into the room run to call for help.

  ‘I was the one who answered the call, and separating the perpetrators from their victim, I then whisked Sherlock away to my rooms, where I attended to a sprained wrist and various minor injuries.’

  ‘Ruffians!’

  ‘I wrestled with myself on whether to wake the headmaster and inform the school, which was my responsibility, but something told me this would not be best for young Sherlock Holmes. He did not return home for Christmas as he did not want his family to see him in that state. He informed them that he wished to stay on to complete some chemistry experiments.

  ‘I remember asking him if this was a suitable excuse that would not arouse suspicion. He said that not only would it not arouse suspicion, but if he told them the real reason, it would surprise them even less. You seem amused, Dr Watson.’

  ‘Well, I do know that he survived his school days,’ I smiled. ‘But what of his family?’

  ‘I never met them, but I was told they were eccentric. In any case, I returned with him to his dormitory after everyone had left. As we opened the door to his room, we confronted a shambles. It was only then that I saw a trace of emotion from Sherlock.

  ‘In one corner of the room was an open violin case. The violin itself had been removed and smashed against the corner of the bed, and was lying in ruin upon his pillow. He approached it and picked up the pieces. If he did not shed actual tears, he did so inwardly I perceived, for I saw his shoulders shake.’

  I felt a searing pain of sympathy for the child Holmes and regretted my moment of laughter earlier.

  ‘What a shame. Did you ever hear him play?’

  ‘Oh, yes. He practised in the chapel, in the middle of the night.’

  The middle of the night!

  ‘The reason was twofold. One was that the sound was insulated from where the pupils worked and slept, and the other was that the reverberations in that vaulted stone space were particularly felicitous to his music making, and he simply enjoyed the sounds it made there.

  ‘There were those boys and members of the staff who thought Sherlock Holmes a cold-hearted automaton, but when I once
heard him play, I knew otherwise. And after a time, and knowing what to look for, I noticed his kind sympathy towards younger boys, particularly those who were bullied.’

  Ever the champion of the underdog, I mused. ‘What happened when the boys returned from the holidays?’

  ‘During the Christmas break, I had Sherlock’s room changed for an empty one in the junior staff lodging, where one or two overflow students were housed. It was a mean little room, cold and with one small window which needed to be stuffed with a spare rag to keep out the draught, but it was private, and suited him perfectly. It had the added benefit of not receiving the cold baths daily, as it was up four flights of stairs and was frequently “forgotten.” He thrived.’

  ‘But what of this August Bell Clarion? You said there was a witness. There must have been repercussions?’

  ‘The witness, Hemley, a junior boy, was disbelieved by the headmaster. August Bell Clarion’s three accomplices told a well-rehearsed story confirming his version, and described your friend as drunkenly attacking Clarion with no provocation. Although Sherlock’s and Hemley’s stories matched and contradicted this, and the evidence of the opened suitcase was noted, August, or rather his parents, ultimately prevailed.’

  ‘Against the evidence? How?’

  ‘Come to the window, please.’ I did so and the old man pointed to an imposing, modern brick building at the end of the courtyard. ‘That is Clarion Hall, which went up the following year.’

  ‘Then who was supposed to have beaten Holmes?’

  ‘A fifth student, an enormous and obese half-foreign boy, was blamed for the attack and expelled. But what happened after that will interest you profoundly, Dr Watson. As I mentioned, young Sherlock healed quickly and he began pre-dawn workouts in the gymnasium to strengthen his injured wrist, and to develop stamina and flexibility following this attack. He took up boxing, and did so with a particular passion.’

  I smiled. ‘He does few things by half measure.’

  ‘True. As always, when young Sherlock set his mind to learn a thing, he excelled at it. But he refrained from competing until near the end of the school year. He entered the school boxing competition at the very last moment. With apparent ease, he dispatched every one of his early opponents and qualified for the finals, facing, of course, the school champion—’

  ‘Clarion!’

  ‘Precisely. I can see by your smile that you well imagine the result. And you would not be wrong, Doctor. In June, a week before the end of term, Sherlock Holmes took first place in the boxing championship with a single knockout punch to Master August Bell Clarion, which broke that bully’s jaw in two places, and kept him from the celebration for the those leaving for University.’

  ‘That must have satisfied Holmes,’ I remarked with a smile.

  The old man looked hard at me. ‘Yes and no. How well do you know your friend, Doctor? How do you think he felt about this?’

  He was right of course. Holmes was not one to crow over victories. His satisfaction was generally of a more philosophical nature.

  ‘In fact, Doctor Watson, he was immediately contrite and furious with himself for the extreme force he exerted on that critical punch. He felt he had lost control and told me he had been going only for points, not to break a jaw.’

  ‘Were there any repercussions?’

  ‘Fortunately young Sherlock had been accepted at Camford and was out of reach. The construction on Clarion Hall was halted in protest, but that was all.’

  ‘But the building now stands.’

  ‘It was completed later, in memory of a younger brother, Christian Clarion. That boy was even worse than his elder brother, and his parents had to make amends to the school and to send him on a round-the-world finishing tour. Rumour has it that he got into a brawl with another student in Florence, was tossed into the Arno and drowned.’

  ‘I see. And what of the elder Clarion, Holmes’s nemesis, August Bell?’

  ‘Killed in service in Egypt several years ago, I have read.’

  While I wish ill will to very few, this news, which corroborated the laird’s story, was welcome.

  ‘Well, Doctor Watson, does that give you useful insight to your companion? I sense your kind sympathy for him and that is why I have been so forthcoming.’

  ‘It has been most instructive. But there is one more thing. Mr Holmes left Camford early under some kind of cloud, I understand. Do you know anything of that time?’

  Jennings sighed. ‘Well, yes. Which is why I was so happy to read “A Study in Scarlet”, Dr Watson. It seems Mr Holmes has at last found his place in the world.’

  ‘But do you know the details of why he left Camford?’

  ‘I will say only this. When I heard of Mr Holmes’s troubles there I took it upon myself to travel south to appear as a character witness at his trial.’

  ‘Trial!’

  Jennings paused and regarded me carefully. Finally, he said, ‘If Mr Holmes has not told you that story, then it is not for me to do so. There is another to whom you may wish to speak. An old woman who lives in the village of Atholmere. She is the grandmother of the victim in this case. I met her during the trial and was impressed by her wisdom. She, and she alone should give you the facts. Here is her name and address. It is two miles south of Aberdeen.’ He took out a sheet of foolscap and wrote on it, handing me the page.

  ‘Doctor Jennings, I thank you for your time. But I do feel I have been a little improper in learning what my friend may wish to have kept private. This further news—’

  ‘Doctor Watson, that is your choice. But as his closest friend, you should know this one fact about Mr Sherlock Holmes. The Camford event was a scandal. And a very serious one!’

  I paused, curious, but willed myself not to cross the invisible line.

  Jennings waited, his eyes searching my face.

  ‘The trial, there was a “victim”, you said?’ The words came out of my mouth unbidden. ‘Then Sherlock Holmes—’

  ‘Was himself the chief suspect.’

  ‘For what, exactly?’

  ‘Why, for murder, Dr Watson.’

  CHAPTER 29

  Thin Ice

  n route back to Braedern, the perfectly reproduced photograph in hand, I pondered the words of Gordon Jennings. Holmes had fallen under suspicion for murder once since I had known him, when a young policeman challenged how he could possibly know the movements of the killer in a certain blood-spattered room – unless he were the murderer himself. Fortunately an intervention by the better-informed Inspector Lestrade had prevailed, but not without some difficulty.

  But what had transpired at Camford? In any case, I could not travel to Atholmere just then. Holmes had made it clear that the photograph was an urgent priority, although I was not sure why.

  By the time I had taken the train to Aberdeen, and another to Ballater, then hired a carriage, the afternoon darkness had begun to descend around the forlorn castle. The laird’s deadline had been by noon this very day for Holmes to have solved the case. While Holmes was not in the habit of bowing to such ultimatums, I wondered if the laird’s threat carried any weight, and what progress my friend had made in my absence.

  I proceeded to Holmes’s room, and finding the door locked, knocked once. No answer. I knocked again ‘Ye will nae find him there,’ called Mungo, the old servant. He was standing at the other end of the hall, towels and linens in his arms.

  ‘Where is he, then?’

  ‘Do not know. Hiding, is my guess. He got a grand fright last night. And the laird is furious that he has had no report on Mr Holmes’s work.’

  ‘What do you mean a fright?’

  ‘I think he saw a ghost. End of the hall here, just as I warned ye about. The Lady Elizabeth. She is not a friendly ghost. I am fairly certain, Doctor, that he was frighted near out of his wits.’ Mungo seemed to enjoy the thought.

  ‘Mr Holmes does not believe in ghosts, Mungo,’ said I. ‘Nor does he frighten easily. On whose account do you relate this tale?’


  ‘We all heard the noises.’

  ‘What noises?’

  ‘The ghostly cries. Mr Holmes shouting.’

  ‘And did you not run to see what it was?’

  ‘Nary a soul will venture into this hallway at that hour, Dr Watson. I have told ye.’

  ‘That is outrageous. Unlock this door for me, at once.’

  The man hesitated, then complied.

  The bed had not been slept in. But neither was there any sign of a struggle or mischief of any kind. ‘Has anyone seen Mr Holmes since the events of last night?’

  Mungo then said that Holmes had been seen talking to Isla McLaren in the morning. After a half an hour of searching the castle, I discovered Mrs McLaren in the library, seated on the sofa with a book. She looked up and smiled.

  ‘Ah, at last. Close the door behind you, Doctor,’ said she, calmly. In answer to my questions she replied that she understood Holmes had continued his investigations in and around the distillery and that he had last been seen several hours before. ‘I hear there was some noise near your rooms last night. In the morning Mr Holmes questioned me closely about the late Lady McLaren’s ghost, which is said to haunt that area. We discussed this, you must recall? He would not go so far as to say he had seen this ghost but that is what I surmised.’ Mrs McLaren seemed almost amused as she related this information.

  ‘Mr Holmes does not believe in ghosts,’ said I.

  She smiled in a way that irritated me in its complacency. ‘Well, to be truthful, he seemed more angry about whatever transpired there last night than anything else.’

  ‘Where is he now?’

  The lady shrugged. She put down her book and rose. ‘I do not know. The laird was looking for him earlier. I believe Mr Holmes said something about going into town. Shall we ask the servants?’

  ‘Which town?’

  ‘Ballater is the nearest. Perhaps he wished to send a cable. He received several last night.’

  ‘One was from me. I am glad he received it.’