Unquiet Spirits: Whisky, Ghosts, Murder

by Bonnie MacBird

  CHAPTER 35

  You Must Change Your Thoughts

  he next morning dawned even colder than the preceding days. I found that Coupe had survived the night, but had not regained consciousness. He clung to life upon a slender thread. The laird’s condition had not changed and Dr MacLeish split her time tending to both patients. I could do nothing more in service of either man, and so I joined Holmes for breakfast in the dining room. We were alone. It was early and the rest of the household must have chosen to dine privately, for which I could hardly blame them.

  Holmes would not touch food, but after his third cup of coffee began pacing nervously by the windows that overlooked the distillery. It was now fully shrouded in snow. Long icicles had formed in the night and hung outside the tops of the tall windows like glistening daggers.

  The detective was distraught, angry, his mind evidently churning.

  I ventured to interrupt his thoughts. ‘I have packed my things, Holmes. Coupe is in good hands but I hold little hope for him. Both he and the laird are now being seen to by Dr MacLeish. There is really nothing for me to do here, medically speaking.’

  There was no answer.

  ‘I understand the police are due in from Aberdeen this morning. Surely they will find your results remarkable. And then, I hope, we might leave.’

  Still no reply. Holmes was now unmoving, staring out of the window with his back to me. There was a long pause.

  ‘I have failed, Watson,’ said Holmes suddenly. ‘Failed in the most miserably botched investigation of my career.’

  ‘How can you say that, Holmes? You may have missed this Lammas fellow, but look what you accomplished! You have shed light on not one but several crimes stretching back years.’

  ‘But not the one mystery that most disturbs me,’ said Holmes. ‘Not the one I was actually hired to solve.’

  ‘That is not true! You have unmasked that poor girl’s killer. The family now knows exactly how Fiona died. You have found the missing boy. Your investigation has brought to light little Anne’s murder and the bombing of Dr Janvier’s laboratory. As a result of your work here, Charles McLaren, Jean Vidocq, Cameron Coupe – all three of these men will now answer for their very serious crimes. And the laird himself, while perhaps not legally culpable, has received a punishment one might say is suited to his hubris.’

  Holmes stopped pacing and faced me. ‘I take no satisfaction in that! And Charles McLaren and Vidocq, I fear, will both escape prosecution. You wait and see, Watson.’

  ‘Holmes, you well know that justice has been served. Charles has lost his business, and Jean Vidocq at the very least will never again be consulted by the French government after this. Cameron Coupe has received the harshest punishment of all. Surely you can take pride in the remarkable investigative work you have done here.’

  I held out a plate of toast to him. He ignored it. His stubbornness had begun to irritate me. ‘Holmes!’

  ‘You sound as though you were handing out second place in a schoolboy poetry contest to someone who can’t spell,’ he spat. ‘It is a failure, plain and simple. This Lammas—’ He paused. He stopped pacing and cocked his head in a manner I well recognized. ‘Lammas.’

  ‘Holmes? This Lammas?’

  He would not reply but stood deep in thought.

  ‘They – or you – will find him, Holmes. The man is so disfigured he cannot move freely without notice. Eat something. You must regain your strength. Do not underestimate the challenges of yesterday.’

  But Holmes remained at the window, his back to me.

  ‘Alistair McLaren has put out word on Lammas to the police, although I have little faith they will accomplish the simplest of tasks,’ he said in a strange voice.‘He has likely put a great deal of distance between us already.’

  ‘The net will be cast wider. He will be found. Now sit down, Holmes. You try my patience exceedingly!’

  Holmes took a deep breath as if he had had a sudden idea, and turned to face me. I did not at all like the look I saw on his face. It was as though a spider had suddenly crawled out from underneath his breakfast plate.

  ‘What do you know about August Bell Clarion?’ he said sharply.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your remark in the library. When I mentioned that August Bell Clarion was known to me personally. You said “Yes, of course!” As I have never spoken of him to you, how is it that you seem so familiar?’ asked Holmes.

  There were times when his remarkable attention to detail could strain our friendship. I will admit to a pang of guilt, however, about my visit to Fettes. ‘Holmes, you are exhausted, as am I. Let us finish our business here. Give your testimony to the Aberdeen policemen and let us be on our way.’

  ‘Tell me now.’

  I sighed. ‘Very well. I had meant to tell you earlier but we have been somewhat occupied.’ I smiled, hoping to defuse my friend’s anger. It had no effect. ‘While I waited for the photograph to be copied in Edinburgh, I was in the neighbourhood of Fettes, and, having nothing better to do, I decided to walk around the grounds. I had read of it, of course, and you mentioned—’

  ‘You decided to “follow in my footsteps”?’

  ‘Nothing so premeditated, Holmes, I assure you. Idle curiosity, that is all. It is an interesting building. I thought to have a closer look to pass the time. But while I was on the grounds, a gentleman apparently recognized me and approached me.’

  ‘Recognized you?’ said Holmes, incredulous.

  ‘Yes, as Doctor John Watson, from an engraving.’

  ‘That Beeton’s picture looked nothing like you.’ He was referring to a sloppy artist’s rendering purporting to show the two of us in the first published account of our adventures, in the Beeton’s Christmas Annual.

  ‘No, from The Illustrated Police News,’ I said. ‘In any case, he said he knew you. He was very happy, in fact, to learn of your success and that you had found your metier.’

  ‘What gentleman?’

  ‘An older man. He invited me to tea, Holmes. A Dr Jennings.’

  ‘Gordon Jennings! You took tea with Gordon Jennings?’

  ‘Steady on, Holmes. This was not my idea. He was friendly and forthcoming. And he – well, he told me a story.’

  Holmes grew very still. ‘Stop right there.’

  ‘There was no harm done, Holmes. I did not prompt this story. And I was very sorry to hear of the incident.’

  Holmes was staring at me in a way that I liked not at all. I had the sudden sensation that I was standing in the centre of a deep lake and on very thin ice. My friend was an extraordinarily private man. Even though I had not solicited this information it was, nonetheless, not meant for my ears and I knew it. I would need to be careful.

  ‘I am sorry, Holmes.’

  ‘What incident?’

  There would be no escaping. ‘At Christmas. August Bell Clarion was a fellow student who had grown jealous of you, apparently, and he and some friends attacked you and destroyed some things. Your violin—’

  Holmes regarded me with a kind of cold fury. I became aware of the feeling of my heart beating.

  ‘—and the subsequent revenge you took upon him via the boxing match.’ I attempted a smile. ‘Well done, I should say!’

  ‘I do not exact revenge,’ said Holmes. ‘I needed to stop him. That was all.’

  ‘Yes, well, I gather you did, for a time?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Really, it is nothing.’

  ‘Watson, what do you mean?’

  ‘All right. Professor Jennings hinted that there was more to the story, later, at university,’ I said.

  Holmes stared at me. Had I not known the man to be the soul of honour I might have sensed the threat of physical violence. I continued, but with trepidation.

  ‘I stopped him, of course. I let the subject drop.’

  Holmes exhaled sharply.

  ‘See here, I am sorry, Holmes. But I did not solicit this information.’ I looked at my friend. He was terrif
yingly still and I could not recognize the expression that distorted his face. It was a kind of incredulous fury.

  The reaction seemed extreme. But of course the fatigue and horrors of the previous day would have unhinged a lesser man. Guilt at my indiscretion shifted to concern for him.

  ‘You begin to worry me, Holmes. Sit down.’

  ‘You should leave,’ he said softly.

  ‘What? You are not yourself. Come, sit down and let me take your pulse.’

  Holmes stepped away, then turned his back on me to stare out the window again. It was clear his mind was churning. But to what purpose? He sighed as though having made a decision, and turned back to face me.

  ‘Watson, you have overstepped the bounds of our friendship.’

  ‘You are overreacting! Holmes, you have had a terrible shock—’

  ‘Go back to London. Go home to Mary where you belong.’

  ‘I shall do nothing of the sort. I will see these men from Aberdeen with you. And you will return with me.’

  ‘No. Leave at once. If you value this friendship, if you value my feelings for you in any way, then you must leave immediately. Before I do something irrevocable.’

  I had never seen such an expression on my friend’s face.

  ‘Well this is rather irrevocable right now, I would say—’

  ‘Watson! Remove yourself from my sight. I cannot stand to look at you!’

  It was useless to argue with him in this state. I rose from the table, and as I did so, a flare of anger welled up inside me. I suddenly felt the aggrieved party. I flung my napkin down.

  ‘Holmes! You wrong me. And after all this time together!’

  ‘Leave!’ he cried and turned away to face outside the window. His voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Leave me.’

  A short while later I found myself en route to Aberdeen where I would catch an express via Edinburgh to London. The horrors that Holmes and I had uncovered in Braedern were so numerous, and so ghastly that I could scarcely fathom them. But even beyond these was the shock of Holmes’s words to me this morning.

  A mixture of anger, fatigue and sadness made clear thinking impossible and I attempted to sleep during the journey, if only to escape my deep distress. I was of no use to anyone in this state, least of all to myself. But rest would not come.

  I closed my eyes, and the passing Highland snowscape was replaced by a series of vivid tableaux of my time with Holmes, racing together across the moors of Dartmoor, long train journeys spent in companionable silence, laughter at shared stories in Baker Street, the faces of sundry clients, lit alternately by terror, anguish, surprise and gratitude.

  And here my mind stopped manufacturing these images and an ineffable sadness overcame me, replaced by a white-hot surge of anger, blocking out all of these others with the image of Holmes’s grimace of fury this morning. Even allowing for his mercurial temperament, the unfairness of his rage, his misplaced resentment over what had been mere friendly curiosity on my part, his callous dismissal of years of friendship struck me to the core. I could hardly bear it. My novel lay unread upon my lap.

  Exhausted and dispirited, I disembarked in Aberdeen. I consulted the schedules for the quickest route back to London, and thought briefly of cabling Mary. But she had written that she was away herself for a few days, and the thought of returning to an empty house held little appeal. Perhaps I should stop over for a day or two in Edinburgh to sort out my thoughts and to jot down notes on this case while it was fresh in my mind.

  As I pondered this in a restaurant at the station, it occurred to me that my hurt and anger were misplaced. Holmes had been under tremendous strain. Surely his rejection of me was not a personal attack and I began to regret not staying to temper his interactions with the police.

  But I could not return now; he would not allow it. In slightly calmer spirits, I vowed to attempt a reconciliation after a week or two had elapsed.

  Fortified by this plan as well as a good meal, I bought a ticket for Edinburgh. As I sat waiting for the train, I was distracted by a young couple sitting near me. I could not help but overhear their conversation.

  ‘St Andrews will take you back, Richard, once they realize their mistake,’ said the girl. ‘You are destined to be one of their most famous graduates.’

  ‘I shall never graduate now, Polly,’ said the boy. ‘And our parents! What they will say?’

  ‘They will support you, Mother at least. And eventually Father will come around.’

  ‘They will disown me.’

  There was a pause. ‘I will get us some tea. Wait here. You must change your thoughts, Richard.’ She got up to seek refreshments and I took the opportunity to glance at the young man. He watched after her with tears in his eyes. He then slumped forward and buried his head in his hands.

  I turned away, saddened by the young man’s plight. Holmes, too, had left university under some cloud, I remembered. The words of Jennings at Fettes echoed in my mind. Camford. A trial. And an old woman best equipped to tell me the details.

  I reached into my pocket for the scrap of paper on which Jennings had written down her name. Mrs Simpson in the village of Atholmere. Two miles south of Aberdeen.

  I looked up. The boy and girl had moved away. Holmes would never approve of what I was about to do. But I was angry enough – and curious enough – to ignore the thought.

  What had happened to him at Camford? And if it involved this August Bell Clarion, might it not relate to the case at hand?

  This thought banished any reservations I had. I went to the ticket office, and exchanged my ticket for a local. One that stopped at Atholmere.

  CHAPTER 36

  The Ghost of Atholmere

  t was 4 p.m. and dark when I arrived at the small village of Atholmere. Narrow, hilly streets wound circuitously, their rough cobblestones slippery in the chill dampness that hung over the town in a miasma of grey. The yellow glow of gaslight and candles cast small rectangles of light out into the gloom, and a lone fiddle played a mournful Celtic melody in the distance.

  As I made my way to the designated address, I found my already despondent mood affected by my surroundings to a degree that surprised me. Perhaps my fatigue made me vulnerable to melancholy, or perhaps some long buried ancestral memory was at play.

  While I had no living relatives to query, I remembered being told as a child that I had Scots ancestry. But it mattered little now, as the history I was bent on unearthing applied to my friend only. In the back of my mind, I had a strong intuition that there might be some relation to our current case, perhaps through this August Bell Clarion fellow. At the very least, it might offer an insight into my estranged friend.

  At last I arrived at a small house near the top of a hill. From this vantage point one could look out at the loch, stretching off in a greenish black into the distance. In the dim light it appeared to be endless and still, an eerie sight, and one that filled me with an inexplicable dread.

  I knocked on the door. It was opened presently by a small child, a girl of perhaps ten, in such poor and patched garments that she looked like a street urchin. But on closer look, she was clean and well fed, the patches were sewn with care, and she had the rosy cheeks of health. No orphan, then, but more likely a very poor, yet very loved child.

  She stared at me in frank and intelligent appraisal.

  ‘Aye?’

  ‘Hello,’ said I. ‘My name is Dr John Watson. I am a friend of Mr Sherlock Holmes. I am here to meet the lady of the house, Mrs Agnes Simpson. Is she in?’

  She seemed to recognize our names. ‘Wait here,’ said she without pretence of politeness.

  A few moments later I stood warming my hands at a small but welcome fire in a cramped and cosy parlour upstairs. The room was a hodgepodge of castoffs, dark wood furniture which did not match, crocheted antimacassars, dingy paintings of dramatic Scottish landscapes, and a set of curved Indian knives on the wall. Next to one very worn chair was a pile of books which stretched from the floor to the top of the ar
mrest. Several family portraits stood atop an old upright piano. The room, like the girl’s clothes, spoke of genteel poverty but also care and attention.

  I became aware that I was being watched and turned to see a woman in her seventies standing in the doorway. Dressed in the fashion of fifty years earlier, in a long serge gown of deep blue with lace at the collar, and her silver hair draped over her ears in loops, she stared at me with the same piercing eyes as the little girl.

  Mrs Agnes Simpson had once been a great beauty, that was clear. Still graceful and charming, she radiated a warm serenity. ‘Dr Watson, it is, then,’ said she. ‘Your work with Mr Holmes precedes you here in Atholmere. I have read “A Study in Scarlet”, and you are just as I imagined.’

  I smiled and bowed politely. ‘Mrs Simpson,’ said I. ‘I am honoured. I hope my visit is not inconvenient.’

  ‘Doctor, I have been very much hoping to meet you.’ She smiled. ‘I see this surprises you. Sit down and let us talk.’

  Moments later we sat facing each other before the fire. She asked the child to fetch tea. I wanted to launch urgently into my questions as Holmes would have done, but instinct told me to adhere to decorum. I waited as the girl served the tea, placing a plate of shortbread between us, before withdrawing into the shadows. The candles near us and the meagre fire gave off a soft light which did not penetrate the dark corners of the room.

  ‘Well, Dr Watson,’ she began. ‘When I read your account of Mr Sherlock Holmes, his singular gifts, and his profession, I was much moved, and happy that he had found a friend such as yourself. But I was also consumed with questions. You see, I knew of him as a young man, during his student days.’

  ‘Yes, that is why I am here, ma’am. Dr Gordon Jennings of Fettes suggested I speak to you about what transpired at Camford.’

  ‘Did he? You are curious then, about your friend?’ I hesitated and she peered at me with sudden interest. ‘Where is he, at this moment?’

  ‘Elsewhere. He—we are on a case. That is why I have come. I am not sure, but I suspect the family we are investigating are perhaps haunted by something in the past. There was a son, a friend of August Bell Clarion.’