The Mammoth Book of New Sherlock Holmes Adventures

by Mike Ashley (ed)

  "Holmes!" I exclaimed, "I have never been so completely at a loss to understand one of your enquiries. What in Heaven's name has this all been about?"

  He laughed. "Do you recall", he said, "that when we had not known each other long you took issue with me over my

  proposition that, by logical deduction, it should be possible to infer the existence of an ocean from a single grain of sand?" "Well, yes," I said, "but I was not then so familiar with your remarkable methods."

  "I fear," he said, "that you are not yet familiar with them. I have been engaged in one of the most enjoyable enquiries that I

  can recall, enjoyable because I have had to infer the existence of something which I have never seen and to construct the pattern of its movements and assess its influence by pure reason."

  "You have left me a long way behind," I grumbled.

  "Consider the patterns, Watson," he said.

  "The patterns on the casket?" I asked. "What of them?" "No, Watson," he sighed. "The patterns of the evidence as it unfolded." He leaned forward.

  "Let us begin at the beginning. The newspapers told us that snow would not lie and grass would not grow upon the Black

  Barrow. I admit I took that for folklore or exaggeration, but you heard Edgar say that it was the case. What did that suggest to you?"

  I confessed to no idea at all.

  "Watson!" he expostulated. "You have been in mining districts; you have seen heaps of coal waste on which grass will not grow nor the snow lie."

  "But that is caused by fires smouldering within the heaps," I said. "Ordinary soil does not smoulder, Holmes."

  "No indeed, Watson, but that analogy led me to believe that something within the barrow might be emitting some influence or emanation that warmed its surface yet discouraged growth."

  "Such as what?" I asked.

  "I admit that, at first, I could see no solution along that line, but then I recalled pitchblende."

  "Pitchblende?" I echoed. "What on earth is that?"

  "It is an ore, of uranium, found in several places. For centuries German miners have been aware of it and afraid of it, for they

  knew that it could cause burns and sickness. Now, you will recall my telling you of my experiments in coal-tar derivatives at the Montpelier laboratories in France, earlier this year?"

  "Certainly."

  "Among my colleagues there was a French scientist, Jacques Curie, a specialist in electro-magnetism. He introduced me to a remarkable group of people who have theories about that substance. One was a Monsieur Bacquerel, another was Curie's own brother, Pierre, and another was Pierre's assistant and fiancee, a determined and intelligent young Polish lady called Marie Sklodovska. All of them believe that pitchblende emits some influence that can affect its surroundings."

  "Good Heavens!" I said. "This sounds more like witch-craft than science."

  "I assure you that they are all very fine scientists, Watson, and it occurred to me to proceed on the basis that they are right and that pitchblende, or something like it, had been hidden in that barrow when it was first set up."

  He paused. "That would neatly explain our first few facts, but what of the disease? Well, Mr Edgar gave us the answer to that, with his clear proof that the bronze casket had been rifled in the night. Edgar's spoiled photographs were also the proof that something was in the barrow that spoiled his plates. He failed to realise it, but the later success of his photography was also the proof that something had been removed from the mound. He was sadly wrong about Sir Andrew's guilt. It was, of course, the younger Lewis. No doubt, as Edgar described, he waited at the inn for his father's return, and Sir Andrew, fresh from his discovery, would certainly have mentioned it to his son. And so Anthony Lewis robbed the Black Barrow that night as a revenge on his father for refusing to meet his debts, and by so doing he brought about his own death."

  "By Jove!" I said, "I begin to see. Everyone who came near was affected in some degree, but he slept with it beneath his bed," and I shuddered at the thought of the luckless youth asleep while the malign emanations that Holmes had described seeped into him hour by hour.

  "Exactly, Watson. I told you that we had stumbled upon a crime in our enquiries, but it brought with it its own fearful sentence. Sadly, the presence of that baleful urn at the 'Goat and Boots' was also responsible for the deaths and other effects in the village, though I suppose we should rejoice at the good fortune of Mrs Henty and young Mary. Evidently the influence of the substance is not entirely malign and, if my friends on the Continent, can refine and control it, it may yet prove a blessing."

  "If it can destroy a malignant tumour it will be an enormous blessing," I said. "But how came Sir Andrew to die of its effects and why does the snow still not lie on the Black Barrow? Is there more of the stuff still in there?"

  Holmes shook his head. "Sir Andrew would have realized his son's crime when he saw what was in the dead man's trunk, and to spare his dead son further shame he hid the urn. Somewhere secure, apparently, for it took ten years for the influence to affect him. When it did he will have realized the significance of the unique decoration on the outer casket. It was a warning that nobody heeded. He could not leave that deadly urn to destroy others. His notes prove that he connected it with his son's death and also suggested to me the remedy that he devised. The bolster confirmed it."

  "Bolster?" I said, "Where was there a bolster?"

  "A wooden implement, Watson, known as a bolster or lead-dresser, used by plumbers for knocking sheet lead into shape, as a moleskin pad impregnated with tallow is used to wipe the joints of leaden pipes and containers. Sir Andrew evidently recalled the leaden lining of the bronze casket and reasoned, perhaps, that it had some inhibiting influence on the ore's emanations. This morning's visit and Mr Swain's photographs confirmed my deduction. Sir Andrew's last visit to Addleton may have been to stand at his son's grave, but it was also to return the stolen urn to the Black Barrow. He was quite right. No one will re-open that mound, the locals keep away and there will never be a road or railway or houses on the Moor. Its poisonous influence is as harmless there as if it was at the bottom of the ocean."

  "I admit that it all makes sense," I said, "but it still seems very theoretical to me."

  "Theoretical!" he snorted. "The pieces of my puzzle have been the words of witnesses who had no cause to lie. All I have added is the unproven, but entirely reasonable, theory of a number of eminent scientists. In the absence of data, Watson, it is permissible to theorize in directions which do not conflict with such data as does exist. It seems that my application of their theory has provided Curie and his friends with further data. In connection with which, Watson, I must ask you not to add this case to your published stories if only because publication might prematurely disclose the reasoning of my French friends and rob them of their just triumph in due course. But I must really write and tell Curie this singular tale."

  I confess that I had no intention of publishing an account of the Addleton affair. I could not fault Holmes's reasoning, but I could not quell a suspicion that it was all rather too logical and was not capable of proof.

  Holmes wrote to Lady Cynthia and to Dr Leary, assuring them that the Addleton disease would never occur again and also to Edgar, explaining his understandable error. That fair-minded man wrote at once to the papers saying that, in the light of new information, he wholeheartedly and entirely withdrew any implication he had made against Sir Andrew Lewis.

  Twenty-five years have elapsed since the Addleton tragedy and science has moved on. I owe my friend an apology for doubting him and I make it here. It was less than two years after Holmes had explained his reasoning to me that Becquerel established the existence of an emission from uranium ore which affected photographic plates. Miss Sklodovska, or Madame Curie as she is now widely known, realized that pitchblende contained something that emitted "Becquerel rays" more strongly than uranium and, thereby, discovered radium, the medicinal use of which has saved countless lives. The Curies and Becquer
el have richly deserved their Nobel prizes for their efforts in turning a freak of nature to the advantage of mankind, and it seems to me that my friend Sherlock Holmes deserves recognition for having made what must surely have been the earliest practical application of their theories.

  As to the deadly aspects of "Becquerel rays", they are now well understood by scientists. Now we know their dangers and, unlike our primitive forefathers, we do not have to fear that they will ever be carelessly unleashed upon the world.

  The Adventure of the Parisian Gentleman - Robert Weinberg & Lois H. Gresh

  1

  More than once in my chronicles detailing the amazing deductions of Sherlock Holmes have I commented on my friend's irritating lack of modesty. Though hating publicity of any sort, Holmes was justifiably proud of his work as a consulting detective. Never a humble man, he could be at times insufferably smug. However, when it came to morality, Sherlock Holmes never let vanity sway his sense of what was right. Never was this fact more clearly demonstrated than in the episode of the Parisian Gentleman.

  It was a quiet evening in early October, 1894. A thick blanket of fog covered Baker Street. The evening edition contained little of interest and I relaxed, half-dozing, on the sofa. Holmes stood in front of the fire, smoking his pipe, a thoughtful expression on his face. From time to time, he glanced to the window. It was quite clear he was expecting a visitor.

  "Are we due for some company tonight, my dear Holmes?" I asked, wondering what manner of trouble would soon be knocking at our door. "Something odd in the paper? Or, perhaps a difficult problem for theYard?"

  "Neither, Watson," declared Holmes, his eyes gleaming with amusement. "Our client comes from abroad. Start thinking about your wardrobe for a trip to the Continent. Tomorrow, we set off for Paris."

  "What?" I said, astonished. "Obviously, Holmes, you've already had discussions with this new patron."

  "Not at all," said Holmes. "I have never spoken to the gentleman."

  "His letter then," I continued. "He mentioned details in his correspondence with you."

  "Nothing of the sort," said Holmes. He dug out a folded piece of stationary from his jacket pocket and handed it to me. "See for yourself."

  The paper was from the French Embassy. Scribbled in bold handwriting were the words, 9 PM at your quarters. Utmost urgency. Privacy Required. The note was signed, Girac.

  "Who is this Girac?" I asked, shaking my head in bewilderment. I knew better than to question Holmes's deductions. Though how these few words signalled a journey to Paris was a mystery to me. "Do you know him?"

  "Only by reputation," said Holmes. There were footsteps on the stairs leading to our rooms. My friend stepped to the door. "A member of the French Sûreté, he is quite famous for his problem-solving abilities. Some call him, I am told, the French Sherlock Holmes."

  A brisk knock indicated the arrival of our guest. "Inspector Girac," said Holmes, as he ushered the Frenchman into our parlor. "I am Sherlock Holmes. And this is my friend and associate, Dr Watson."

  "A pleasure, gentlemen," said Girac in a smooth, deep voice without the least trace of an accent. He was a tall, heavyset man with clean-shaven features, a thick mop of black hair, and dark, observant eyes. His gaze never rested, moving quickly from one point to another in our apartment. "Please excuse the lateness of the hour, but I needed to see you as soon as possible and embassy business kept me occupied until now."

  "Please be seated," said Holmes, waving Girac to an empty chair. My friend strolled back to his place in front of the fire as the Frenchman sat down. "You are here, of course, concerning a new problem involving the Dreyfus case."

  "Mon Dieu!" exclaimed Girac, his eyes bulging in shock. "Can it be there is a spy in the Embassy? My mission is quite secret. Other than the President himself, no one knows why I'm in England." The Frenchman shook his head in dismay. "We are undone."

  "Surely, Holmes," I said, equally startled, "This revelation is magic."

  "Nonsense," said Holmes. "Merely an elementary exercise in logical thinking, Watson. You should know by now that superstition is no match for basic deduction."

  My friend held out the note he had shown me a few minutes earlier. He assumed the pose of a university professor, about to lecture his students. "Receiving this letter in the morning, I instantly knew important events were brewing. Why would Inspector Girac, famous in his own country as a detective and investigator, need to visit me? Only a case of the highest national interest, requiring he use every available resource, would force the Inspector to seek the skills of an outsider. But why me, a foreigner, instead of another member of the Sûreté? The answer had to be that Monsieur Girac harbored suspicions about his comrades. As you well know, Watson, police organizations are normally a tightly knit group. Such apprehensions can only be the result of national turmoil. While I do not regularly follow French politics, I am not blind to news of the world. It was therefore quite apparent to me that Girac's visit concerned the notorious Dreyfus spy case."

  I nodded, immediately recognizing the truth in what Holmes said. The infamous crime had rocked France, unleashing long simmering hatreds. After Dreyfus's conviction for treason, powerful factions in the Army and Church had unleashed blistering verbal attacks on the Jewish population of France. The virulent race baiting had turned brother against brother, friend against friend. The whole country trembled on the brink of revolution. Once Holmes explained his reasoning, the inexplicable became transparent. "But, you mentioned a trip, Holmes?"

  Holmes turned and his piercing eyes stared at the French police official. "Monsieur Girac's note demanded privacy, Watson. He wanted to meet at night, in secret. Not normal conduct for a member of the Sûreté. Besides, though his mission involved the Dreyfus Affair, that matter had already been settled in military court. The officer was pronounced guilty and sentenced.

  "He has been sent to Devil's Island to serve the rest of his life in hard labor. Despite some doubts to the validity of the charges, the case is closed."

  Holmes paused dramatically. The theater had lost a great thespian when my friend chose to become a detective. "Whatever aspect of the case Monsieur Girac wants me to investigate, it is definitely not a minor matter. Since the government refuses to conduct further investigations into the Dreyfus Case, the Inspector's business must concern possible repercussions from the affair. Since he does not trust his colleagues among the Sûreté, it seems logical he requires our assistance in their stead. Such investigations are best conducted at the scene of the crime. Girac comes from Paris, so I assume we are to travel there to pursue our case."

  Girac, his features pale, nodded. "I need for you to return with me to Paris immediately, Mr Holmes. I dare not trust any of my assistants. No one knows who has been corrupted by this scandal. Treason walks at the highest levels of the government and the military. Disaster approaches and only with your help can I prevent it from happening."

  "Pray tell," said Holmes, raising his pipe to his lips, "what is the nature of the catastrophe?"

  "Assassination," whispered Girac, his tone low, as if afraid of being overheard. "I have from reliable sources that a group of Jewish anarchists have hired Jacques Huret, the Boulevard Assassin, to murder the new President of the Republic in retaliation for Dreyfus's imprisonment. I am resolved not to let that event take place."

  "With the assassination of President Sadi Carnot just months ago," said Holmes, thoughtfully, "a second murder could quite possibly plunge France into civil war. I find it difficult to believe a group of Jewish intellectuals would embark on such a risky venture. Are you sure that they are the ones who hired Huret?"

  "Who else has a motive?" declared Girac. He waved a hand in the air, dismissing Holmes's doubts. "The villains behind the crime are unimportant at present. What matters is the deed itself. In the past five years, Huret has been responsible for the deaths of nearly a dozen men. The few clues we've found indicate that he's a man of wealth and breeding. We don't know why such a man would be a killer, as
he certainly doesn't need money."

  "Perhaps," I said, choosing my words carefully, "he kills to prove his mental superiority over his peers."

  Holmes shook his head. "For the true intellectual, such

  games are unnecessary. This flaw in Huret's character will be his downfall."

  "Let us hope so," said Guret. "The man is a master of disguise. No one knows his features or his methods. He strikes like a snake then disappears without ever being seen. Only his victims serve as evidence of his skill.

  "You are famous as a solver of crimes, Mr Holmes. However, the challenge faced here is much greater. Can you, without clues or evidence, prevent a murder from taking place? Can you stop Huret, Parisian man-about-town and professional murderer, from crippling my country?"

  My friend's eyes glistened with excitement. He lived for such moments. "Your assessment of the difficulty of the case is correct, Inspector. Preventing a crime verges on the impossible. Outguessing a dedicated assassin requires genius. The criminal can pick his time, his spot, and his method of execution. There are too many variables to prepare for every possibility. And, from what little I have read about Huret, he is the best of the breed. In the past, he has proven unstoppable. But," and there was more than a hint of arrogance in my friend's voice, "never before has he been confronted by Sherlock Holmes."

  2

  The next morning, Holmes and I set off for Paris. It was a dull, uneventful trip. For secrecy's sake, we traveled on our own, without Girac. Holmes remained deep in thought the entire journey, his eyes closed in concentration. Knowing better than to disturb, I kept myself busy by reading the accounts of Huret's previous crimes left with us by Inspector Girac.

  The more I read, the worse I felt. Holmes had faced many challenges in his illustrious career, but never before had he faced a criminal without a face. Huret was no street Apache roaming the back alleys of Paris. The assassin was a gentleman rogue who mocked the police over their inability to stop him.