The Whole Art of Detection

by Lyndsay Faye

  “The inspector is sorry over his outburst.”

  “He needn’t be. As Charles Cutmore seems to have learnt to his detriment, the returning can be harder than the leaving.”

  “Holmes—”

  “Do you know, as many features of interest as this case held, I find I tire of it dreadfully, my dear Watson,” he announced, wholly returned to his proud and practical self. “A ride back to London with our friend Lestrade and his men and our quarry I think is in order, then a pot of tea at Baker Street and a complete perusal of the morning editions on my part whilst you work upon whatever grotesquely embellished account of our exploits you plan to inflict on the world next, followed by a change of collar and an oyster supper before Massenet’s Manon at eight.”

  So it came about that the good Inspector Lestrade, whose opinion of Holmes’s dramatic demise had been such a low one, came to look upon the matter in another light. Whether he ever again spoke to my friend of that impassioned conversation neither man was confiding enough to inform me; I highly doubt they broached the topic afterward. To this very day, however, when Holmes requires a stout colleague or Lestrade has need of England’s foremost criminal scientist, they call upon one another without hesitation. The horrible death of Crosby the banker was determined by the assizes to be murder and will be tried as such. Thus, though the fates of Charles Cutmore and Helen Ainsley have not yet been determined, they belong to that felonious fraternity who have such ample cause to bemoan the existence of my fast friend, the incomparable Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

  PART IV

  THE LATER YEARS

  The Adventure of

  the Lightless Maiden

  “You needn’t fret over spending the money on stocking up, my dear fellow.” Sherlock Holmes’s steely eyes darted momentarily to mine before he resumed his minute perusal of The Echo. “Elliot’s Fine Tobacco and Cigar Emporium is giving every indication of closing, I grant, but I have it on best authority that they merely mean to move to a more convenient shopfront round the corner on Broadstone Place.”

  “How the devil did you know I meant to lay in a supply of their cigarettes?” I exclaimed.

  Mrs. Hudson had just cleared away the egg cups and the curry dish from our simple breakfast and my friend sat across from me, peering down at his agony columns. It is possible only for one who has seen him at his worst, who has learnt the uncaring lassitude associated with narcotics and depression, to imagine the satisfaction which I glean from a Sherlock Holmes who not only has ample work at his nervous fingertips, but consents to eat and sleep when the work is through. He had not yet dressed, though his black hair was slicked back neatly, and, thanks to the influence of a hot cup of tea, he boasted very nearly the complexion of a normal human.

  “There was nothing noteworthy about the observation, I assure you. I smoke every incarnation of tobacco at a rate some have found altogether alarming, but you are more moderate in this as in all things and generally prefer a pipe or a cigar—when you buy tobacco, it used to be from Bradley’s in Oxford Street, a Virginia Arcadia mixture, and naturally they also supplied your cigarettes, which you needed to purchase only once a fortnight or so. Remarkable restraint, I found that figure—my cap was off to you.”

  I made a seated bow, and he huffed appreciatively before continuing.

  “When I began frequenting Elliot’s owing to its proximity to Baker Street and its high-quality products, however, you discovered that Elliot’s offered a most enjoyable cigarette composed of a medium-bodied Turkish and Virginia blend. You tried it, and found it agreeable. Your cigarette consumption has increased by at least twenty-two percent since then, and ever since Elliot’s began posting ominous notices and discounted prices, you have peered at your case with more obvious alarm—as you did just now; twice, in fact—where it resides upon your desk. I hereby relieve you of your apprehensions: Elliot’s is not closing, merely relocating, and your filthy habits are quite safe.”

  “Well, both I and my filthy habits thank you, in that case. But how did you know about the relocation?”

  “Ah, that took me to rarefied realms of abstract conjecture.”

  “Might you explain them to the layman?”

  “I asked the clerk at the register,” he drawled, and when our mirth over this answer had subsided, I poured us more tea and we settled back into convivial quiet.

  Elsewhere in my continuing efforts to chronicle the unique lifework of Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I have remarked that the year 1895 was one in which the fullest breadth and scope of his remarkable powers were required of him owing to the volume—and likewise the ­complexity—of cases supplicants placed in his capable hands. Thanks to this near-­continual exercise of his faculties, and lacking the significant gaps between exploits which I ever grimly regarded as the fetid pools wherein bred my noble companion’s darkest inclinations, Holmes was for the majority of that twelvemonth the very image of his own best self. Our final case of that year, which I here recount, reflected this change for the better—and though the logician in Holmes was taxed rather less than he would have wished, it nevertheless possessed many of the fantastical elements so dear to his dispassionate heart.

  My mind soon began to drift again after I finished my tea, though this time not to cigarettes. I had so far abused my newspaper as to allow its outer edge to sag against the still-exposed butter dish whilst my eyes lazily traced the patterns Jack Frost had wrought upon our sitting room windows the night previous, when my friend interrupted my reverie with a light cough.

  “You’ll want to finish dressing, Watson,” said he, this time without looking up.

  “Will I?”

  “If my surmise that we two shall soon be entertaining a client proves correct, then yes.”

  “What indications led you to surmise that, then?”

  “She made an appointment.” Winking at me, Holmes rose and pulled a sliver of stationery from the pocket of his dressing gown, passing it to me as he headed for his bedroom. “Just read that over, my dear fellow, and tell me we’re not in for a bit of merriment if nothing better.”

  I carried the letter with me upstairs, and as I did so, I attempted to make use of my friend’s methods in examining it; however, I could deduce only that the sender was a woman who used very cheap paper and resigned myself to the actual contents. These were bizarre enough to give me considerable pause.

  Dear Mr. Holmes,

  Though Harold has said it’s no use and you won’t come, I paid him no mind, for I’ve read so very much about you and I know that a lofty imagination like yours must love nothing better than to marvel at scientific advances. Were you not the inventor of an infallible blood test, as Dr. Watson writes about in A Study in Scarlet? What an immense achievement! My instinct tells me that we might well be kindred spirits in this love of experimental progress, though I admit I am only a participant and not the creative genius behind the study.

  Still I rejoice at feeling a part of something greater than myself, and cannot but hope that the world’s most celebrated criminologist may share my tremendous enthusiasm! Therefore I pray that you’ll do us the honor of witnessing the first spiritualist ever to contact the dead by means of photochemical processes at the Winter Solstice 21st December. Harold claims a note won’t sway you but if you’ll consent to see us in person on the 18th, I’ll make all clear and you’ll be sure to agree to witness a miracle of modern innovation.

  Your servant, expectantly,

  Miss Constance Cooke

  Bournemouth

  Hampshire

  To say that this missive baffled me would be to do it scant justice. For, while my friend was himself a chemist of no paltry skill, his interest in the shadowlands where ghosts and shades abide was slightly less keen than his interest in the intricacies of the international stock market. In other words, always supposing such matters had no direct bearing upon a case of murder most foul, it vacillated between negli
gible and nonexistent. I have seen significant checks made out to Mr. S. Holmes languish upon the sideboard in imminent danger of sopping up cold roast beef drippings rather than being invested, and my friend has just as readily faced down phosphorescent hellhounds as he has less spectral monsters.

  Thus it was that I wore a puzzled expression when I rejoined Holmes downstairs. He had donned a black frock coat and subdued grey check trousers and was lighting his pipe with the only dish warmer our landlady had failed to remove. A moment later Mrs. Hudson appeared and, pouncing, retrieved it with a muttered injunction that further conflagrations would be met with ill grace, and to think of her age, and of the Christmas season. Holmes bade her an unperturbed farewell as she disappeared once more.

  “Why on earth have you agreed to see a pair of charlatan mediums?” I queried, waving the letter. “I am frankly shocked you haven’t already incinerated this appeal.”

  He shrugged, sending an ivory puff of smoke to mingle with the aroma of our crackling fireplace. “Where’s the harm? If they are honest—”

  “You don’t believe that they’re honest.”

  “Conversely, if they are dishonest—”

  “You don’t care a fig about the armies of tea leaf readers and mesmerists and animal magnetism proponents littering our cities and coastal towns. Investigating a crime of that sort would be akin to your proving that objects fall toward the earth when under the influence of gravity—you would reproduce laughably predictable effects and surprise no one. Something concrete made you agree to this meeting. What was it?”

  Holmes’s grey eyes shone with suppressed laughter. “Good heavens, are you deducing me, Doctor?”

  “I don’t need to—I know you.”

  The laugh escaped, but was stilled quickly. “The ink doesn’t match the paper.”

  “Beg pardon?” I glanced down again at the note. Footsteps, one set heavier and one barely audible in its wake, sounded from the staircase; the performers were entering our small stage.

  “The script is written with a high-quality fountain pen, a Waterman turnup nib unless I deceive myself, but the paper is of the lowest quality,” Holmes said at a quieter volume. “It may prove irrelevant, but—Come in!”

  The man who pushed the door wide produced a premonition of vague distaste in me. Doubtless Holmes already knew his life history, but my lesser senses could report only that I would never have approached him at my club for a friendly game of billiards, even supposing the place deserted. He’d dark, meticulously oiled hair which curled gently about his collar, a vivid green waistcoat paired with fawn trousers, and a violet necktie stuck with a small jade stone. Above his smooth chin hovered a hearty and expressive moustache, a scholarly complexion, and a pair of calculating blue eyes which narrowed at the sight of us. All of this ought to have conveyed nothing to me save neutral interest—and yet there was a hint of a roll at his self-satisfied jaw, and a paunch at his affectedly sucked-in waist, that made me suppose him less than forthright about the image he had cultivated.

  “Mr. Harold Slaymaker,” he announced himself, diving forward to shake Holmes’s hand. “I could hardly credit the honor conferred when my fiancée here informed me you’d agreed to meet. A pleasure, Mr. Holmes, and a thrill, if I may say so without embarrassing either of us.”

  “This is my friend, Dr. Watson,” Holmes replied in a neutral tone, though I could see that his half-lidded eyes were absorbing every detail of the stranger’s manner and dress. “We may suppose him equally as thrilled as I am to meet you. My name is Sherlock Holmes, as you say, and I was happy to grant the lady’s request.”

  “I am Miss Constance Cooke,” the young woman said in a voice like a songbird’s earnest warbling, “and so gratified to meet you both, Mr. Holmes . . . Dr. Watson.”

  As our guests seated themselves following a brief nod from Holmes, I studied Miss Cooke, for her appearance was such as to arrest the most disinterested observer. Her features were delicate, nearly elfin, all save for enormous wide-set eyes of darkest ocean blue which glistened even in the humble winter lamplight of Baker Street. Her figure was modeled on a similarly petite scale, dressed in an ivory wool traveling costume which lacked trimmings and verged upon the threadbare, but her hair—never have I seen such an ethereal nebula of pale gold, nearly white curls. Though pinned beneath a small straw hat, it swept out in a delirious arc at the edges, giving Miss Cooke an air that was a remarkable blend of the angelic and the puckish. When I met her lustrous eyes, I found their expression charming and frank, but could see little beyond that despite the depth of their color. I would not go so far as to call Miss Cooke vapid, but I had no difficulty in matching her demeanor with the breezy tone of her note.

  “Congratulations are in order, I gather, Miss Cooke,” Holmes said, surprising me by bending over her hand in a gesture which might have appeared courtly had I not been certain he was examining the ring which adorned that appendage. He then settled into his armchair with his long legs crossed before him.

  “Oh!” she exclaimed, smiling. “Thank you, sir. You are too kind. The wedding was to be a quiet affair some three months ago, only a few family present at the courthouse and then a nice, friendly celebration at our new home. My sister readily agreed to help with the cooking, and my aunt with the flowers, but these ceremonies incur so very many unseen costs, you understand. Harold thought it best if we wait until his financial situation is more stable, following the publication of his remarkable discovery.”

  Her speech was delivered in an innocent, rambling fashion which entirely belied my earlier assumption that she was scheming to deceive us. Miss Cooke, I suspected, could not have deceived us if her life depended upon the quest.

  “You mentioned a photochemical process?” I queried.

  “She did—Constance is always bolstering my spirits, but through no trial has she ever been more supportive. Our very presence here proves her dedication! This is indeed a great breakthrough, following years of labor,” put in Harold Slaymaker. “But just listen to me, talking quite unlike a scientist—I suppose I had better tell it to you from the beginning.”

  “The beginning is often an admirable place to start.” Holmes sighed, his eyes falling shut as he took a contemplative draft of shag.

  “Yes, and my own starting point must of needs be ancestral. I come from a family highly sensitive to the spirit world,” Mr. Slaymaker explained with an air of rueful gravity, as of a man thrust into an avocation by fate, “though the pedestrian methodology my kinfolk employ would likely not appeal to you, Mr. Holmes. Some might call their techniques crude, and others . . . Well, I hesitate to repeat what others have called them.”

  “Harold’s aunt is a very well-known communicator with the inhabitants of the afterlife. She reads tarot in Poole to universal acclaim,” the young lady put in enthusiastically, “and people come from great distances to hear her and see her paranormal collection. She has photographs of spirits that must be seen to be credited, lamps possessing quite unusual characteristics, and a seemingly ordinary sewing needle which can unfailingly divine whether or not a party is telling the truth. And then, Harold’s sister is celebrated the world over for her scrying ball, and his cousin George—”

  “Constance, Mr. Holmes needn’t be bothered with my entire family history. They are enthusiasts, if you will, but hardly scientists,” Slaymaker added regretfully to the pair of us. “They possess a certain talent for detecting emanations, granted. But the dazzling effects they attempt to achieve—all too successfully—class them with the sort of quack prognosticators who give the rest of us a bad name. My own work is a far more meticulous business.”

  “And that is?” Holmes inquired pointedly.

  “The conjuring of spectres,” Miss Cooke breathed. “Or, rather, the spectre. Eva Rayment, the Lightless Maiden of Bournemouth.”

  Mr. Harold Slaymaker proceeded to tell us an extravagant tale I expected at every moment
to be challenged by an irate Sherlock Holmes, but the sleuth sat placidly in his chair all the while. Whether my friend’s toleration of the ghost story or the ghost story itself was more incredible, I could not begin to guess.

  In the seventeenth century, or so local legend had it, the first Rayments came to reside in Bournemouth, and they built a sprawling turreted estate in the densely wooded forest half a mile from the restless seaside. They were recalled as a noble but unhappy strain, much beset by tragedy. Since then, the Rayment clan had all but dried up in those parts, and poor investments made by the modern namesake had caused what was once a fine English manor house to fall into rude dereliction. It was nevertheless known far and wide along the coastline for the wild beauty of its decay, and for the extreme likelihood that spirits occupied its every attic and pantry. Its residents had long since scattered to various country homes and metropolitan lodgings, but anyone might make a tour appointment via the estate agent, for the Rayments in London hoped to sell the place before it was reduced to so much romantic rubble.

  A century ago, when the family seat was still rich with stained glass and gilt-spined tomes and stately tapestries, a hapless but lovely child had been born to the dwindling family. The mysterious little girl was named Eva Rayment, and from her birth she gained a reputation in the surrounding countryside for extreme eccentricity and seclusion. I attempted to mask a pleasant chilling of the blood as I listened—for whatever else Mr. Slaymaker and Miss Cooke were, they made an admirable pair of storytellers, and my fingers soon itched for a pen. The only glimpses caught of Miss Eva were in the murk of twilight, when she would from time to time practice chasing a hoop across the yard after the sun had slipped silently away, or paint the last of the clouds before they melted darkly into so much night sky. She was seldom if ever viewed in daylight, so said the villagers—and if she did appear riding with her governess, she was always swathed from head to toe in gloves and a thick black veil, no matter what the weather.