The Mammoth Book of New Sherlock Holmes Adventures

by Mike Ashley (ed)

  "The acquaintance? A favour you mentioned?"

  "Of course. The case is so slight we should have the solution long before we take afternoon tea, but this gentlemen is much troubled by the case. Inordinately so. And I dare say that you, being a medical man, are consulted by a great number of people with many a cough, coryza and pimple who, clearly to you, are not particularly ill but seek reassurance from a man with the power to allay their worries."

  "Ah, this case ..."

  "Oh forgive me, Watson, please. You must know the facts. My acquaintance, by correspondence only, is one Professor Charles Hardcastle of Hampstead. He wrote to me a few days ago beseeching me to call on him as he feared his house was being periodically entered by an individual who, in the words of the professor, 'intends to visit an iniquitous injury upon the household.' "

  "Then you are looking for a common burglar?"

  "Perhaps."

  "So it is a matter for the police?"

  "Perhaps not."

  "But something was stolen?"

  "Stolen? No. Borrowed."

  "Borrowed?"

  "Barely, the facts are these, Watson. Professor Charles Hardcastle lives in a large house in Hampstead. It stands, he tells me, in expansive grounds. Living with him in the house are his wife and son, whom is ten years of age. Also residing there are the domestic staff. The professor specializes in metallurgical sciences and has long since being interested in aerolites which are often composed of metals such as iron and nickel.These are of particular significance to him because they are not of this Earth and he hopes to discover within them metals with singular properties. The man is forty years of age, modest, hard-working, financially secure and not given to any outrageous vices. Last Monday the professor worked late into the night in his laboratory, which is housed in a purpose-built annex that adjoins his home; there he conducted certain chemical tests on aerolites. The aerolites are locked in glass-fronted cabinets. The largest stone, which is no larger than a plum, occupies pride of place in the centre of one of these cabinets. At ten to midnight, with his experiment complete, he retired to bed, locking the stones into their cabinets, then carefully locking the door of the laboratory behind him. The laboratory can be accessed from the rear courtyard through twin stout doors which are bolted from within, and through a door which leads directly into the main house. Have you followed me so far?"

  "It is very clear."

  "If you remember Monday's was a hot, dry night. Professor Hardcastle, mindful of his wife's concerns that he doesn't neglect his stomach, took a little supper of milk and biscuits. Then he made his way to bed. Only then did he remember he'd left his pince-nez spectacles in the laboratory, and as he is quite short-sighted he returned to the laboratory to retrieve them. He unlocked the door that leads from the house to the laboratory and entered. As he picked the pince-nez from the bench he noticed that one of his glass-fronted cases lay open. And upon placing the pince-nez on his nose he immediately saw that the largest aerolite had been taken.

  "There had been a forced entry?"

  Holmes shook his head. "The door he had entered by was locked. So were the twin doors to the courtyard: locked and

  securely bolted. The windows all locked, too."

  "An oversight then. He left the door to the house unlocked?"

  "He's most particular to ensure it is locked. The laboratory contains many poisons and powerful acids. He states quite clearly in his letters it is his great fear that his son might find his way into the laboratory and injure himself playing with test-tubes and so forth. Therefore, he's most scrupulous in keeping the door locked."

  "So that is the mystery?" I said.

  He sighed, disappointed. "A very slight one, I'm afraid." "That an intruder stole an aerolite, shooting star, call it what you will? And that he left no clue as to his entry?"

  "But there the mystery thickens."

  "Yes, you remarked the object wasn't stolen, merely borrowed?"

  "Correct. The stone vanished on the Monday night between Professor Hardcastle locking the laboratory then returning to it to retrieve his pince-nez which, he gauges, to be an interval of forty minutes."

  "When did the stone reappear?"

  "It reappeared on the Wednesday morning on the son's bedside table."

  I looked at Holmes in surprise then chortled. "Then it is a childish prank. The son took the stone. Carelessly he allowed it to be discovered."

  Holmes smiled. "We shall see."

  The carriage left the overheated chaos of central London behind. The air became fresher, although the carriage slower, as it climbed the steep hills toward Hampstead. The canyons of town houses and commercial premises gave way to the widely spaced villas and the great expanse of Heath that rolled away beneath a clear blue sky. The clip and clop of the horse became less frequent, too, as it toiled up that particularly steep lane that soars upward beside the prominent elevation of The Spaniard's Inn. Not more than a hundred yards beyond the inn Holmes directed the cabbie to make a sharp right turn into a driveway leading to a large redbrick villa. A single-storey annex of fresher red brick abutted one flank of the house.

  The moment the four-wheeler entered the driveway the garden bushes parted and a man leapt from them. He roared

  with the ferocity of a lion. In his hand he carried a bunch of twigs which he shook at us with extraordinary ferocity.

  "It is time!" bellowed the man. "It is time!"

  I recoiled in shock. "Good heavens, the man is going to attack us."

  He shouted repeatedly, "It is time! Dear God! It is time!"

  "Take care, Holmes," I said as my friend ordered the driver to halt while simultaneously throwing open the door of the carriage. "The man is clearly dangerous."

  "On the contrary, Watson. You'd rarely find highwaymen and footpads dressed in carpet slippers and well pressed trousers. This must be Professor Hardcastle. Oh. My good man, do be careful."

  Professor Hardcastle ran forward, stumbling as he did so to his knees. He was panting. A look of such horror in his face that it aroused my immediate pity.

  The man gasped, his face a vivid red beneath his blond hair. "It is time. It is time ..."

  He struggled unsteadily to his feet and held out his trembling hand. Clutched in his fingers were the fresh green sprigs of some plant. "Mr Holmes ... it is Mr Holmes, isn't it ... of course, it must." He struggled to master his breathing. Then more calmly he fixed us with a glittering gaze. "You see?" he said, looking from one to the other. "It's time." He repeated the sentence in a whisper, "It is time."

  Holmes glanced at the plant, then to me. "Ah, I see. The professor is referring to thyme. He holds sprigs of the herb, thyme. And clearly he's had a dreadful shock. If you would be so good to lend a hand, Watson, we'll get the gentleman to his home, where perhaps brandy should help his poor nerves."

  The brandy did indeed soothe the man's nerves. Once he'd dressed in a manner he deemed fully respectable, and we were seated in the morning room, he told Sherlock Holmes and I his story. At least he endeavoured to, for he was still in a state of shock. His hand trembled terribly. "Mr Holmes. Dr Watson. Dear sirs, I must apologize for my extraordinary behaviour earlier ... but I've never experienced such a shock to my senses before ... I was at my wit's end. I thought my only hope was to seize the scoundrel and strangle the life out him there and then

  in the garden. Oh! Mercy! But if only that were not impossible ... impossible'

  Holmes said soothingly, "Professor Hardcastle. Take your good time, sir. But please tell me exactly what did happen this morning. Speak freely before Dr Watson here. I explained in my note to you he would attend this case with me."

  "Of course. Of course." He breathed deeply to steady his rattled nerves. "I wrote to you concerning the missing aerolite and how it reappeared in my son's room. At the time I was alarmed, but after what happened this morning, I confess, I am terrified. For today, as I climbed the stairs to dress for our meeting, I was met by one of the maids who had been making up my
son's bed. 'Excuse me, Professor,' she said to me. 'I found these on your son's bedside table.' "

  "The aerolite once more?"

  "Yes."

  "And the sprigs of thyme?"

  "Yes, arranged so the stone rested within like an egg inside a bird's nest. The moment I saw the stone and the thyme I don't believe I could have experienced a greater shock if I had been struck by lightning. Well, sirs ... at that very instant I ran from the house dressed in nothing but trousers, waistcoat and carpet slippers. I'd been in my son's bedroom not ten minutes before so I knew the devil had only just placed the stone on the table."

  "The devil?"

  "Yes the devil, the demon ... whatever damned title he must bear, because I tell you this, Mr Holmes, the man who left the aerolite and the thyme leaves in my son's room has been dead these last five years."

  Sherlock Holmes smoked a small cigar as he spoke to a now less distraught Professor Hardcastle who sat in the armchair, the pince-nez upon his nose, his fingers tightly knitted, troubled thumbs pressing against each other. I sat upon a claret-coloured sofa, and, from time to time, made notes with pencil and paper.

  For a moment, Holmes stood meditatively before the fireplace, which was vast enough to roast a whole side of mutton. Lost in thought, he smoked the cigar, blowing out jets of blue smoke, that were caught, even on this still summer's day, by the updraft flowing up the flue, and carried the tobacco smoke away up the huge gullet of the chimney. "Now, professor. A few questions first before we discuss your suggestion that the aerolite and the thyme where left in your son's bedroom by a deadman."

  "Ask what you will, Mr Holmes."

  "Exactly who was in the house at the time the aerolite made its second reappearance?"

  "The domestic staff only. Mrs Hardcastle is calling on her mother in Chelsea. My son is at school."

  "Day school then, he does not board?"

  "No."

  "Your son took the stone from your laboratory, plucked a few strands of thyme from the Heath, then left them so arranged bird's nest fashion for a prank."

  "No."

  "Why so certain? Boys of that age thrive on mischief." "Edward is a perfectly healthy boy, capable of pranks and japes like the next."

  "But?"

  "But he didn't leave the stone."

  "When we first saw you, you were crying out, 'It is thyme, it is thyme.' "

  "Yes."

  "Then it was the appearance of that particular herb that troubled you so?"

  "Yes."

  "And the appearance of the herb, alongside that piece of stone, has special significance for you?"

  "Indeed." Professor Hardcastle sighed, perhaps in the same manner a person who has seen the portents of doom and destruction manifesting in frightful sharp relief about him. From his pocket he brought out a stone as large and as dark as a damson plum and placed it on a copy of The Times newspaper that lay upon a table. "This is the aerolite referred to in my letter. It is of little monetary value. In my collection it bears the name 'The Rye Stone', simply because that's where I found it all of three and twenty years ago. Then I was a boy of seventeen, yet already I had my life mapped out. I intended to make science my vocation, convinced as I was that mankind needed metals of ever-increasing strength for our machines, bridges and railways. At that time in Rye was a very famous and well respected astronomer, a one Dr Columbine, not a medical man you understand, but a man of science. He was the author of many books and papers. Astronomers from all over the world would travel just to speak with him. His lectures always delivered capacity audiences. I attended one such lecture in Rye and was entranced by the man's genius and his vision of the universe. He was a small man with red hair and fiery side whiskers. Indeed he was very small — dwarfish, you might say. Boys would taunt him in the street, all of which he took with good humour, I might add. Small and fiery is how I remember him. He spoke to the audience with that same fiery passion. His eyes would flash like lamps. I immediately enrolled in Rye's astronomical society of which he was its most illustrious member. By degrees I contrived to speak with him: I outlined my own ambitions. He listened carefully, then spoke enthusiastically, exhorting me not to rely on the preconceived ideas found in textbooks. And it was Dr Columbine who revealed to me that the Earth is inundated daily by seemingly heaven-sent pieces of metal ore from the depths of the universe. And couldn't these starborne metals hold the key to our producing new, improved alloys that might revolutionize our industries? Assiduously I began collecting aerolites, accumulating a splendid array of specimens. Then one June night as we worked at his observatory we witnessed the fall of such a shooting star. In high excitement we saw it drop to Earth just beyond the town.You might imagine our excited calls as we two, Dr Columbine in frock coat and hat, myself in blazer and cap, climbed over fences like jubilant school boys, as we sallied forth to find the stone."

  "You say there were just the two of you?" said Holmes.

  "Yes. We found the stone where it had fallen into a clump of wild thyme. It had struck the plants with sufficient force to bruise the leaves releasing the aroma of the herb into the warm evening air."

  "I see."

  "Briefly, to bring the story up to date," continued Professor Hardcastle, "I moved on to university and my studies. And Dr Columbine continued his work in astronomy. But that's when the tragedy occurred."

  "Tragedy?"

  "Yes. Some malady laid Dr Columbine down. I don't know its nature. But, with hindsight, it clearly resulted in some creeping destruction of the brain. It wasn't immediately apparent at the time but the public lectures became yet more fiery, and the man's ideas became even more astonishing. He embarked upon a plan to build the world's largest telescope, which would be constructed upon the peak of Mount Snowdon in Wales where the cleaner air at that altitude is far more conducive to astronomical observation. And with this telescope, of absolutely gargantuan proportions, he would be able to divine what lay at the innermost heart of our universe."

  "Then the man may have been visionary, not ill in his mind?"

  "At first we believed this was the case. That it was his vibrant genius alone that drove him to anger when his plans didn't quickly reach fruition. But then it became apparent to all that he was indeed ill. Ill psychologically. The years passed, yet not a month would go by without his former acquaintances receiving increasingly vicious letters demanding that we sponsor his scheme — with every penny we possessed if need be! Rumours circulated that Dr Columbine threatened eminent scientists with violence if they did not pledge to fund this impossibly large refracting telescope. Indeed, five years ago I received a letter from him, stating categorically that because I had not myself pledged financial support for this instrument he would see to it that he destroyed what I loved most in the world, because I and my fellow men of science had destroyed what he, Dr Columbine, loved most in his world, his dream to build the telescope."

  "The man was clearly mad," I observed.

  "Indeed."

  Holmes said crisply, "You say you received this threatening letter five years ago. How did you respond?"

  "Until that time I'd ignored all his earlier letters demanding sponsorship. On that occasion I reported the matter to the police."

  "And?"

  "They attempted to locate Dr Columbine, but by that time, yet unknown to me and my brethren, the man was penniless and all but resided in the gin shops of Whitechapel."

  "The police failed to find him?"

  "On the contrary, three months later a corpse was pulled from the Thames. It had been in the water so long its identity could only be discerned by the laundry label in the coat, giving

  the owner's name; oh! and there was also an inscribed pocket watch."

  "Which, I take it," said Holmes blowing out a cloud of cigar smoke above his head, "gave every indication that the poor wretch found drowned in the Thames was none other than Dr Columbine?"

  "Quite. The police were satisfied as to the identity of the body, which was later buried in a p
auper's grave in Greenwich."

  "And the threatening letters ceased to arrive. And no one saw hide nor hair of Dr Columbine?"

  "Naturally, the man was dead."

  "So the police surmised."

  "Yes. What doubt could there be?"

  "Every doubt. There's a gardener trimming your hedge wearing a pair of your boots. If he turned up in the Thames wearing those boots, and unrecognizable by any other evidence might not the police surmise that man was you, Professor?"

  "Yes ... well of course, such a mistake might be made ... but ... good heavens how do you know the man is wearing a pair of my boots?"

  Professor Hardcastle, eyes wide with astonishment behind the lenses of the pince-nez, turned to stare out of the window at the gardener, a man of around fifty years, who was scrupulously trimming privet just half a dozen yards beyond the window.

  "Your gardener," continued Holmes, fingers lightly pressed together, "is recently married to a good woman of a character similar to his own, that is both are hard working and anxious to please. Both love each other dearly. Moreover, the man wears a pair of boots once owned by yourself."