“She’d been acting strange the past few days. But with what happened, I never thought… Hung herself?”
“Yes,” I said. “Someone must go to the police station.”
“Of course.” Crisboy got up. “I’ll go.” He went into the hall and took his overcoat off the peg. “Ahhh. Poor thing.” He went out the door.
About ten minutes later Holmes came down. “How did you know?” he asked.
“The footsteps that you preserved so carefully,” I said. “There were three lines: two going out to the cottage and one coming back. The single one going out was wearing different shoes, and it—she—went first. I could tell because some of the prints from the other set overlapped the first. And it was the second set going out that had the indentations from the walking stick. So someone—some woman—went out after Andrea Maples, and that woman came back. She went out with the walking stick and came back without it.”
“I missed that,” Holmes said.
“It’s easier to tell than to observe,” I told him.
“I had made up my mind about what I was going to find before I went to look,” he said. “The deductive process suffers from preconceptions.”
“It’s a matter of eliminating the impossible,” I told him. “Then whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.”
“I shall remember that,” he said. “I still cannot fathom that Lucy was that jealous of Andrea.”
“She was, but not in the way you imagine,” I told him.
“What do you mean?”
“Do you remember that I suggested that you notice Lucinda’s ears?”
“Yes.” Holmes looked puzzled. “They looked like—ears.”
“Their shape was quite distinctive, and quite different from those of Andrea. The basic shape of the ear seems to be constant within a family. This was a reasonable indication that Andrea and Lucinda were not really sisters.”
“Not really sisters? Then they were—what?”
“They were lovers,” I told him. “There are women who fall in love with other women, just as there are men who fall in love with other men. The ancient Greeks thought it quite normal.”
“Lovers?”
“Andrea preferred women to men, and Lucinda was her, ah, mate.”
“But—Professor Maples is her husband.”
“I assume it was truly a marriage of convenience. If you look at the bedrooms it is clear that Andrea and Lucy usually shared a bedroom—Lucy’s—as they both have quantities of clothing in it. And I would assume that Professor Maples and Mr Crisboy have a similar arrangement.”
“You think the professor and Crisboy—but they…”
“A German professor named Ulrichs has coined a word for such unions; he calls them homo-sexual. In some societies they are accepted, and in some they are condemned. We live in the latter.”
“Holmes sat down in the straight-back chair. “That is so,” he said. “So you think they derived this method of keeping their relationships concealed?”
“I imagine the marriage, if there was a marriage, and Andrea’s adopting Lucy as her ‘sister’ was established well before the menage moved here. It was the ideal solution, each protecting the other from the scorn of society and the sting of the laws against sodomy and such behaviour.”
“But Andrea went to the cottage to have, ah, intimate relations with Faulting.”
“She liked to flirt, you must have observed that. And she obviously wasn’t picky as to which gender she flirted with, or with which gender she, let us say, consummated her flirting. There are women like that, many of them it seems unusually attractive and, ah, compelling. Augustus Caesar’s daughter Julia seems to have been one of them, according to Suetonius. Andrea found Faulting attractive, and was determined to have him. My guess is that she and Lucy had words about it, but Andrea went to meet Faulting anyway, while Lucy remained in her room and worked herself into a jealous rage. She didn’t intend to kill Andrea; that’s shown by the fact that she didn’t open the sword cane, although she must have known about it.”
Holmes was silent for a minute, and I could see some powerful emotion growing within him. “You had this all figured out,” he said, turning to me, his words tight and controlled.
“Much of it,” I admitted. “But don’t berate yourself for missing it. I was familiar with the idea of homo-sexuality through my reading, and several acquaintances of mine have told me of such relationships. I had the knowledge and you didn’t.”
But I had misjudged the direction of Holmes’s thoughts. The fury in him suddenly exploded. “You could have stopped this,” he screamed. “You let it happen!”
I backed away to avoid either of us doing something we would later regret. “I knew nothing of Andrea’s tryst,” I told him, “nor Lucinda’s fury.”
Holmes took a deep breath. “No,” He said, “you couldn’t have stopped the murder, but you could have stopped Lucy’s suicide. Clearly you knew what she intended.”
“You credit me with a prescience I do not possess,” I told him.
“You were fairly clear on what she intended an hour after the event,” he said. “Why couldn’t you have rushed out here before?”
“I don’t know,” I told him. “Until you told me what she had said to you, it didn’t strike me—”
“It didn’t strike you!”
“You spoke to her yourself,” I said, “and yet you guessed nothing.”
“I didn’t know what you knew,” he said. “I was a fool. But you—what were you?”
I had no answer for him. Perhaps I should have guessed what Lucy intended. Perhaps I did guess. Perhaps, on some unconscious level I weighed the options of her ending her own life, or of her facing an English jury, and then being taken out one cold morning, and having the hood tied around her head and the heavy hemp rope around her neck, and hearing a pusillanimous parson murmuring homilies at her until they sprang the trap.
* * * *
A few minutes later the police arrived. The next day Professor Maples was released from custody and returned home. Within a month he and Crisboy had packed up and left the college. Although nothing was ever officially said about their relationship, the rumours followed them to Maples’ next position, and to the one after that, until finally they left Britain entirely. I lost track of them after that.
Holmes left the college at the end of the term. I believe that, after taking a year off, he subsequently enrolled at Cambridge.
Holmes has never forgiven me for what he believes I did. He has also, it would seem, never forgiven the fair sex for the transgressions of Lucinda Moys. I did not at the time realize the depth of his feelings toward her. Perhaps he didn’t either.
His feeling toward me is unfortunate and has led, over the years, to some monstrous accusations on his part. I am no saint. Indeed, as it happens I eventually found myself on the other side of the law as often as not. I am pleased to call myself England’s first consulting criminal, as I indulge in breaking the laws of my country to support my scientific endeavours. But when Holmes calls me “the Napoleon of crime,” is he not perhaps seeing, through the mists of time, the blanket-covered body of that unfortunate girl whose death he blames on me? And could it be that he is reflecting on the fact that the first, perhaps the only, woman he ever loved was incapable of loving him in return?
At any rate, I issue one last stern warning to those of you who repeat Holmes’s foul canards about me in print, or otherwise: there are certain of the laws of our land that I embrace heartily, and the laws of libel and slander ride high on the list. Beware!
A STUDY IN EVIL, by Gary Lovisi
THE FIRST DAY
It was after the advent of my marriage, at a time when I lived away from my former rooms at Baker Street, and my friend, Sherlock Holmes. I had not seen Holmes for months as I was busy in my medical practice. Mary, my wife, was away caring for an elderly aunt, which left me alone for the evening. I was quite prepared to enjoy the pleasures of a tolerable brandy and the l
atest issue of the Strand Magazine when there came a loud knocking to the downstairs door.
“Mrs Hudson?” I was quite astonished to find my old and steadfast landlady from 221B framed in the doorway.
She said not a word.
“What is it?” I asked concerned as I lead her into the foyer.
“It’s Mr Holmes.”
“Sherlock?”
“Aye, doctor.”
“Is he well?”
She looked at me frightfully sad and nervous. The troubled look on her face told me all I needed to know.
“Give me a moment to get my bag and I will be right with you.”
The old lady’s hand suddenly grasped my own with a strength I’d never imaged she possessed.
“It’s not a medical situation.”
“Well then, what is it?”
“Mr Holmes has been arrested.”
“Arrested?” I blurted. “Whatever for?”
“It’s…complicated.”
Well, after dashing off a quick note to Mary, I grabbed my coat and followed Mrs Hudson to a waiting cab. The cabby took Mrs Hudson back home, then myself on to Scotland Yard where it appeared Lestrade was expecting me. The dour visage of the police inspector showed his gloom and bad temper.
“I knew you would get wind of this, even before the papers did.”
“What has happened?” I asked carefully.
“I’m afraid he’s done it this time, Dr Watson,” Lestrade said as he led me to a seat in his private office, closing the door behind him. “Sherlock Holmes has gone too far; from solving crimes, to finally committing one.”
“Lestrade, that is nonsense.” I replied hotly.
“No nonsense this time, doctor. Oh, I am not as slow-witted as you and Mr Holmes make me out to be. I acknowledge that he has bent the rules upon occasion. Upon some occasions bent them quite nicely, and I’ve looked the other way—for justice’s sake.”
“But…?”
“But it has gone past all that now. He’s being held for murder.”
“Murder? That is ridiculous! Sherlock Holmes could no more murder someone that could you or I!”
Lestrade gave me a wry grin that caused me great distress, “Who’s to say what any man will do given the circumstances? Regardless, Mr Holmes has admitted to the murder, doctor, or shall I say the assault that has lead to the death of Lord Albert Wilfrey.”
“He has admitted it?” I replied, my anger deflated.
“Yes, and quite candidly I can assure you.”
I sighed, not knowing at all what to make of such dire news but determined to see my friend at once and get the details of his full story.
“May I see him?”
“Of course, doctor, I’ll take you down to his cell now.”
* * * *
“Holmes!” I shouted, as I ran to the cold iron bars that separated us. I saw that my friend was seated on the jail mattress, as calm as could be, reading a book.
“Watson, I knew you would come.”
“What has happened? Why are you here? Surely there is some miscarriage of justice. A mistake?” I rambled, while Lestrade unlocked the door to Holmes’s cell, and Lestrade and I entered.
“I’m afraid, it is as Lestrade has no doubt told you,” Holmes said in his usual cold analytical manner but there was a softness around his eyes and the slightest tremble upon his lips to let me know he was indeed touched by my presence and concern.
“Please,” I stammered. “I am in need of some explanation.”
Holmes smiled, “Of course, good Watson, and you shall have it, just as I gave it to the inspector here.”
“He admitted it all, Doctor,” Lestrade chimed in eagerly.
“Indeed I did, and why not. It is quite cut and dry. I was called out to the home of Lord Albert Wilfrey upon a question of inquiry. You will remember, Watson, that Lord Wilfrey is a peer of the realm and quite influential, a man of great wealth and power. When such a man calls for assistance or council, it is advised you heed that call.”
“He is dead?” I asked nervously.
“Oh, most definitely dead, I can assure you, Watson; but please, you are getting ahead of things. Let me explain.”
“I feel I need to warn you, Mr Holmes, anything you say here can be used against you at the assizes,” Lestrade stated.
“Of course, Inspector, and I appreciate your reminding me of the fact, but what I say now will be nothing more nor less than what I have told you in your official interrogation of me when I called you to the Wilfrey home.”
“Then go on, Mr Holmes,” Lestrade said.
“It is rather simple and straight forward. Lord Wilfrey and I had a disagreement that escalated quite quickly. Things were said, the situation spiralled out of control, and in my anger and rage I struck him. He went down, hitting his head upon the mantle of the fireplace as he fell back. When I examined his prone form I discovered that he was dead. I immediately sent out one of the servants to fetch the Inspector.”
“Upon examination of the body, doctor, we found Lord Wilfrey had a head wound that corresponds with Holmes’s story, and there were some drops of blood on the fireplace mantle where his head struck,” Lestrade explained.
I was astonished. Holmes a murderer?
“Surely it was self defence? He struck you first?”
“No, Watson, I landed the first and only blow.”
“Then surely it was some kind of accident? You did not intend to kill him, I am sure.”
“No,” Holmes admitted slowly, “but the result speaks for itself.”
“That’s all for a judge and jury to decide, doctor; but for now it’s a murder case all right, murder pure and simple,” Lestrade interjected.
“Poppycock!” I bellowed.
Holmes smiled, “Oh, Watson, you are a true blue friend.”
“And you are no murderer!”
Holmes remained silent.
“Well, what of any witnesses? Did the servants see anything that could help your case?” I asked hopefully.
“Lord Wilfrey and I were quite alone when the incident took place,” Holmes said softly.
Suddenly I was at a loss for words, aware of a gnawing void deep in the pit of my stomach.
“Of course, we will give Mr Holmes every comfort here, until the trial, doctor,” Lestrade offered.
“Until the trial. Are we not to expect he will be released until the date of that trial?” I asked the inspector.
“Afraid not,” Lestrade said sternly. “It is a murder case, after all. Lord Wilfrey was a man of considerable influence and power. Once the press gets word of this…well, you know how the papers are with sensationalism? The Yard can hardly allow a murderer…I mean a man accused of such a murder to be let lose, you understand. When I took Holmes back to his rooms to collect some personal items and books, no doubt that is how his landlady discovered the situation and alerted you.”
I shook my head in frustration and looked at Holmes who only shrugged as if the entire affair was a mere inconvenience rather than the possible end of his brilliant career, and perhaps his freedom and very life.
“Holmes, what of your solicitor? Why is he not here?” I asked.
“I have not called one,” Holmes said simply.
I was aghast and said so, “Then I shall get you one immediately.”
“No, Watson.”
“No?” I said sharply.
“No, I shall conduct my own defence. I am fully capable. In the meantime I shall also get some valuable reading done.”
“Reading? And you have not employed a barrister? You are on charge for murder, your very life is in the balance! I say, Holmes, you seem to have a damn cavalier attitude toward this abominable injustice!”
“Good old Watson! I see you are fired as usual with that righteous emotional fuel you seem to possess in abundance.” Holmes said with a smile. Then he yawned expansively, “And now, gentlemen, I’m afraid you must take your leave.”
“Well, I don’t believe this
entire situation for one minute!” I barked.
Holmes smiled, “I knew you wouldn’t, John, and thank you.”
I looked at my friend carefully then, trying to gauge any sign from him that perhaps his words held some deeper meaning but his face was as stoic and inscrutable as ever when he did not want to give the game away.
“Something is most certainly up with this,” I said boldly.
Holmes only shook his head; “It is what it is. Come see me tomorrow, John.”
Then Sherlock Holmes turned away and sat down upon his bunk. I watched as he picked up one of the many books Lestrade had allowed to be brought into his cell and he began reading. I was rather surprised to see the title of the book was Crime and Punishment by the famous Russian novelist, Fyodor Dostoyevsky.
* * * *
THAT NIGHT AND THE NEXT DAY
I can say with all candour that I slept little if at all that terrible night. With my wife, Mary, still away, and me alone, the quiet of our flat grew to be desolate and alarming. It was as if the very walls were closing in upon me—as they most certainly were closing in upon my friend, Sherlock Holmes.
How had this travesty happened? I could not wait until the morrow when I would see Holmes again for explanation. My mind was awhirl with all manner of fancy theories and conjectures. Why had Holmes admitted the crime? Why had he not engaged a legal agent for his defence? There was more to this than met the eye, I was sure; and yet it seemed to be cut and dry, just as Holmes had stated; and that had me very worried.
And yet, the more I thought about it, Lestrade’s words kept hammering at the back of my mind—of how Holmes had so often bent the rules in his cases—sometimes with even myself believing he had gone far in excess. Could it be possible? Could Sherlock Holmes be a murderer? Did the argument and the rage he felt at Wilfrey cause him to strike out with such dire consequences? It seemed so unlike my friend, and yet… And yet…was he not even now reading Dostoyevsky’s dark tale in his jail cell—a tale that I knew held as the central character a man who takes it upon himself to kill a vile and unscrupulous monster—thus ridding the world of an evil parasite. The book is about a man who believes murder is permissible in pursuit of a higher purpose. Had Holmes descended into some similar errant vigilantism? I was fearful such doubts could take sway over me.
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