Sherlock Holmes 01: The Breath of God

by Guy Adams

  “Not in the sense you mean, sir,” Mann replied. “Certainly he had nothing which could have been posted to him.”

  Holmes removed his small leather tool pouch from his jacket pocket, untied it and removed a pair of tweezers. He picked up a small triangle of black paper from the surface of the desk. “A fragment of the envelope. You’ll note he didn’t use a letter opener – one often tears off the first piece of an envelope when one opens it by hand. Black paper, portentous as well as pretentious.”

  “Who writes using a black envelope?” I asked.

  “Someone wishing to seem satanic!” Holmes dropped the paper fragment into a small envelope of its own, sealed it and placed it in his pocket. It then occurred to him that perhaps, as it was evidence, he should have offered it to Inspector Mann. “Oh,” he said, somewhat awkwardly, “perhaps you should...”

  The Inspector smiled. “Consider yourself a specialist drafted in under my authority. All I ask is that you share whatever you learn. I shall, of course, show you the same courtesy, though I suspect you will have more to tell me than I you.”

  Holmes clapped his hands and patted the envelope where it rested in his pocket. “I shall wring it dry of all it offers,” he promised, “and send you my findings. He sat back at the desk, spreading out his hands on the soft green leather. He was, I knew, putting himself in the position of the now absent Ruthvney. “So,” he said after a moment, “tell me what you have managed to glean with regard to the chain of events.”

  Mann smiled and flipped open his notebook, clearly he had been awaiting this cue. “According to Stevens, the butler, his master was often in the habit of going through his correspondence in the evenings. He observed that Ruthvney had not yet done so just prior to dismissing him for the evening. Ruthvney also complained that the chimney was smoking, asking Stevens to remonstrate with Mrs Pritchard, the housekeeper, for what he saw as a lack in her duties. Stevens insists that the chimney was cleaned regularly, indeed it had been done not eight weeks ago. Though he did make the point that as his master insisted on burning a great deal of paper in it, the soot was prone to build up.”

  Mann looked at Holmes and smiled, pleased to have been able to endorse several of the detective’s assumptions.

  “Stevens was dismissed at a quarter past eleven, I estimate Ruthvney was dead only a short time later. Say half past the hour, quarter to twelve at the latest. All evidence points to his being left to his own devices for only a short time. He was a voracious drinker and yet the brandy decanter – filled by Stevens that evening – shows only a fifth consumed. The fire was also not built up beyond the state the butler left it in and, as you rightly say, he had time to consult his correspondence and yet not burn it.

  “It seems to me that he was disturbed in his reading by someone appearing at the patio door. You will note it was opened at some point in the evening as there are leaf fragments blown in from outside, and I am assured that – whatever the opinion of her master – Mrs Pritchard is fastidious in her duties and would certainly not have allowed a maid to leave such detritus on the carpet.”

  “So it must have been blown in later, a fair assumption,” Holmes said. “What was the weather like here last night? Could the doors have blown open of their own volition?”

  “Funny you should ask that,” Mann replied, “it was, by every account, a calm night. My house is in fact not far from here and I can assure you that it was a temperate and gentle evening. However, Stevens commented that he heard no noise coming from here after his retiring but that...” Mann consulted his notes so as to be precise, “‘given the violence of the storm, the master would have had to make a racket worthy of cannon fire in order to be heard over it.’”

  “A storm, eh?” I said. “Not impossible, there could have been a localised bout of bad weather.”

  “The hall is protected on all sides by trees,” Mann said, “plus it is built in a slight dip in the land. If there is a residence more sheltered hereabouts then I don’t know of it.”

  “Your explanation?” Holmes asked.

  “I don’t have one,” Mann admitted. “I’ve asked the rest of the staff and they all confirm that there was a enough of a storm outside to shake the house to its foundations. A walk in the gardens tells an interesting story also.”

  Holmes inclined his head. “You are an intriguing fellow, Inspector! Do you wish me to make my own conclusions before you elaborate?”

  “All the better to ensure your opinion is objective,” Mann said with a broad smile.

  Holmes got to his feet. “Then by all means let us walk!”

  We left the house via the study, striding across the well-kept lawns in the direction of the forest that faced the rear of the house. Either side of the building was built up into terraces of the sort wealthy landowners like to use to host parties. These terraces were lightly gravelled and monitored by mournful statuary wood nymphs and water-bearing maidens whose shrewish countenances made it clear they would brook no ill behaviour. For all its age and architectural beauty, Ruthvney Hall was a house that made an art out of the death of amusement. It was seriousness personified in every brick, every rectangular window, every perfectly shorn privet hedge. One simply couldn’t imagine having a good time there.

  It was this prim neatness that ensured the path we had to follow was obvious. Certainly Holmes didn’t need encouraging as he set foot upon the wide trail of scattered leaves and branches, a swathe of natural untidiness that seemed to swoop down from the woodland to collide with the bricks of the house itself.

  “Remarkable!” I said, stopping in the middle of the lawns to better appreciate the absurdly methodical line of destruction. “I’ve heard of cyclones of course, particularly in America, but I’ve never seen anything of the sort here.”

  “Indeed not,” agreed Mann. “But the most bizarre detail is yet to come.”

  As we reached the edge of the woodland, a mix of evergreens that darkened considerably beyond the periphery, Mann’s point became clear.

  “It started here,” Holmes said, gesturing at a clear circle pressed into the ground as if something heavy had flattened the grass and earth, “then chased forth in a gentle arc towards the house itself.”

  “You make it sound as though it were alive,” I said.

  “Yes,” he admitted, “or controlled.”

  “Which is impossible,” Mann said.

  Holmes nodded. “It is, isn’t it? Completely impossible.” He tapped at his chin with the crook of his cane, deep in thought. Then he looked up at us both, a big grin on his face. “This is certainly a case worthy of great interest isn’t it?”

  He began to pace around, scanning the ground. After a few moments he pushed into the forest, eyes always fixed a few feet in front of him as he made his way through the undergrowth.

  “On the trail?” I asked, only too aware of the signs that indicated Holmes had a scent in his nostrils.

  “As far as I can tell,” he replied, “three men gathered around that bizarre circular patch. I’m trying to retrace their steps. A shame our inexplicable wind didn’t bring a few rain clouds with it, the ground here is so dry that it’s a devil’s job to follow their tracks.”

  I smiled. I knew only too well that Holmes could read every detail, with or without the ease of a muddy surface. I have always placed a complete belief in Holmes’ abilities, and for all his occasional announcements of fallibility, I have yet to be disappointed.

  “Is there a road near here?” Holmes asked as we got deeper and deeper into the forest.

  “Yes,” Mann replied, “some way to the east. It’s the road we used earlier to get here from the station.”

  “I thought as much, we will likely find ourselves there before long,” Holmes said.

  I had moved slightly ahead during their discussion and a glint in the grass ahead of me caught my eye.

  “I say! There’s something here.” I reached for it, gritting my teeth as I scratched my hand and arm on a cluster of brambles that wer
e in the way. As carefully as I could, not wanting to lose all my skin in the attempt, I pulled out a small signet ring. It was onyx with a five-pointed star engraved in white.

  “Do be careful with it!” snapped Holmes, reaching for a pair of tweezers.

  He pinched it carefully and held it up to the light. “To S.L.M.M.,” he said, “engraved on the inside.” He dropped the ring into another one of the small envelopes he used to store evidence safely and stepped in front of me. “I’d better stick to the front, I think,” he said, jogging ahead. “We don’t want you contaminating all the evidence, do we?”

  “Thank you, Watson,” I muttered under my breath, “a singularly important clue, Watson.”

  I put on more speed in order to keep up with Holmes, but lost my balance due to the persistent weakness in my left leg (the result of muscle damage cause by a jezail bullet during my time in Afghanistan). With considerable embarrassment I found myself falling onto my side in the dense bracken. Mindful of what an idiot I must look to the following Inspector Mann, I pulled myself to my feet with a defensive bluster. I needn’t have made the effort, since quite impossibly I was alone in the forest. Mann had been right behind me, I had been sure of the fact, Holmes only a few feet in front. And yet, turning on the spot, I could see no other soul in that dark forest but me.

  As I turned, the meagre light that fell through the thick branches of the pine trees appeared to pulse like the flickering of sunlight on the sea. The repetitive flashing was somehow both terrible and yet compelling, making my head spin. The thick scent of loam came to me and I seemed surrounded entirely by wet rot and the soft, masticating crunch of dead wood and pulped leaves. There was an animal scent there too, perhaps the long-dead cadaver of a fox or badger, its skin dry, its mouth pulled back in that final grin of the corpse. There was a sweet musk of flesh that has liquified and begun to seep into the soil.

  It was all I could do not to vomit as all of this assaulted my senses.

  I reached out, meaning to steady myself against a tree trunk, to stop this terrible spinning, to find stillness in a world that was moving too fast. My hand connected with the bark and the wet ooze of beetles and worms pressed beneath my palm like grapes exploding in a wine press. Nothing would hold me and nothing would stop the world from revolving around me.

  I gave a short cry as I lost my feet once more, toppling onto my back in the undergrowth, feeling its wet leaves and creepers wipe themselves on my cheeks and reach for the wet sustenance of my mouth and eyes.

  The ground beneath me continued its motion, rippling like the soft ebb of high tide. I could feel it embracing me, the earth cool and damp as it lapped over my arms and legs, pulling me down into it where I would rot and feed the fat, glistening earthworms that I could swear were exploring my hair. As I sank even lower, what little light there had been vanished as the soil buried me, pulling me deeper and deeper.

  Soon I was so far down that I could no longer tell which way led to the surface. Slowly, and with a sharp pain in my chest, I breathed nothing but thick soil and wet clay. I fought to cough the sodden mass from where it clogged my throat but there was nowhere for it to go and I choked. The last sensations, felt just above the pounding in my head, were the touch of the molluscs and beetles that worked their way beneath the folds of my clothes.

  “Watson?”

  My eyes snapped open at the sound of my friend’s voice. I was lying on my back in the undergrowth, both Holmes and Inspector Mann looking down on me with obvious concern. I confess my embarrassment quite got the better of me and my initial response was somewhat tetchy.

  “I’m fine,” I retorted, brushing away their hands and pushing myself to my feet.

  Utterly disorientated, I looked around, assuming I would determine what had happened in a moment, I just needed to get my bearings... I could still taste soil in my mouth and I rubbed at my face, sure there would be creatures still clinging to me. There were not.

  “What happened?” Mann asked.

  To my great irritation I simply couldn’t provide a satisfactory answer. So I provided a lie. “It was nothing,” I said. “I just caught my foot on a root. Shall we carry on?”

  I pushed past them both, meaning to force them to continue our pursuit of the trail. I realised almost instantly of course that I could no more lead than explain what had just occurred. Holmes may be able to discern the telltale signs of broken branches and compressed grass but to me their passage was as good as invisible.

  Luckily my friend circled around me and took the lead again. He gave me a brief look, as if to ascertain I was all right, then kept his eyes to the ground where the trail was so clear to him it may as well have been painted.

  Soon we reached the road we had travelled down earlier. Holmes scouring the verge for further evidence.

  “Is it possible to hire a cab from the station?” I wondered aloud.

  “Indeed,” Mann replied, “though I have already enquired from the station master as to whether any strangers arrived on the late train. He assures me they didn’t. This is a quiet area, Dr Watson, and strangers would find it hard work to arrive unnoticed.”

  “Besides,” said Holmes, “if you planned on paying a legitimate visit to the hall you would drive up to the front gate. If your visit was intended to go unnoticed – as their arrival via the forest would certainly suggest – you wouldn’t ask a local cab driver to drop you here.”

  “Yes, all right,” I agreed, irritated again. “It was a stupid idea clearly.”

  “Not at all,” Holmes said, giving me a friendly glance. “It was simply a consideration that needed to be addressed and then discounted. It’s only by so doing that we get to the truth.” He sat down on the verge. “Certainly they did arrive by a small carriage, there are clear grooves in the grass where they pulled off the road a few feet.”

  “They can’t have travelled too far then,” Mann said. “Only an idiot would use a horse and carriage for a journey of any great distance.”

  Holmes shook his head. “Not so much an idiot as a cautious group of men,” he said, “one of whom smokes a particularly unusual tobacco.”

  He scooped a few strands into another empty envelope.

  “They had smoked during the journey,” he explained, “and knocked out their bowl – most likely on the carriage wheel – here before refilling with enough fresh tobacco to accompany them on their walk through the trees.”

  “A devoted smoker indeed to feel the need for a pipe on that walk,” I said.

  Holmes smiled. “Yes, even I managed to avoid tobacco for the duration.” He got to his feet. “Right, I don’t think we have anything else to learn here. Might I suggest we head back to the station ourselves?”

  “You don’t wish to interview the servants?” Mann asked, sounding somewhat disappointed.

  “Not for now,” Holmes replied, “though I will happily read the transcripts of your interviews if you would be so kind as to share? Watson and I have a long journey ahead of us today and I need time to think as well as pack a travel bag.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  TERROR UNDERGROUND

  Holmes and I said goodbye to Mann and were soon on a train back to London. I had hoped I might be able to persuade Holmes to allow us lunch at a public house before our journey, but he was resolute that the afternoon held tasks enough that the time could not be allowed. When pressed as to what tasks he had in mind, he would not say. I therefore travelled back in something of an irritated mood. Not helped by a lingering sense of unease after my bizarre episode in the forest. I was still unable to understand what had happened. In my capacity as a doctor I have assisted a number of patients who had experienced fainting spells and blackouts, but try as I might I could pin down none of the obvious symptoms in my case. Unless, of course, it was an early sign of something much worse. Worrying about that wasn’t going to help me, however, so I pushed the concern from my mind. After all, it’s not as if I didn’t know an excellent doctor.

  Once we arrived at Liv
erpool Street, Holmes bade me a goodbye and vanished into the crowds. It was hardly the first time I have been abandoned mid-investigation. Still, with the disorientation of earlier lingering I stood on the streets of the city and felt utterly adrift.

  Around me Londoners moved at the only pace they know, hustling to and fro, darting past one another in a complex dance that always reminds me of schools of fish navigating around each other. Stood amongst them I was just another obstacle and was besieged on all sides, both by their impatient shoulders and also by the noise: the constant percussion of hooves on the streets, the shouts of the news vendors, the station announcements behind me. All with that low, bass line of general chatter running underneath it.

  For a few moments I felt unable to move, as submerged by the life around me as I had been by the imaginary soil earlier.

  What was happening to me? I felt one step removed from the world and unable to drag myself back into the sharp, defined city I knew and loved.

  I raised my hands to my head, tapping at my forehead to test for a temperature. My skin was cool.

  I wasn’t surprised, this didn’t feel like an illness. Perhaps I had been poisoned? I thought back to being in Ruthvney’s study, trying to imagine when I might have come into contact with something, perhaps even the same chemical that had affected him so markedly. I could think of no way, I had touched nothing, tasted nothing... If it had still been in the air then surely all three of us would have been equally affected?

  “You just going to stand there?” asked a voice ahead of me. I looked up to meet the gaze of a news vendor, his ruddy skin a sure sign of years of over-drinking. It began with a wee dram to keep the chill off, I thought, then you got a real taste for it. “If you do,” he continued, “you’ll be trod underfoot for sure when the rush hour really starts. You think it’s busy now, you just wait until the offices close. Like ants they is, all running for cover.”

  “I won’t be here then,” I said, feeling foolish, “just getting my bearings.”