The Whole Art of Detection

by Lyndsay Faye

  My pulse sped significantly as she spoke. As for my friend, he appeared outwardly composed, but his entire posture vibrated with leashed energy.

  “And you visit your brother periodically, at Dr. Ashman’s practice?” he asked.

  “Oh, yes. When James is there, the doctor sends me word. My poor brother is delusional—raving, sleeping out of doors—and it’s quickly growing worse. I can’t help feeling that if I saw him face-to-face, he might know me again, but Dr. Ashman insists that he has grown most violent, and in his medical capacity, he cannot allow me to actually enter the sickroom. When I hear James’s voice, that beautiful voice that once brought me such comfort—oh, I can’t describe how agonizing it is to hear him scream to be let out when all Dr. Ashman wants is to conduct sessions with him, to compel him to see reason. Perhaps try hypnosis or some other therapy. Anything which might do some good. But by the time James has sweated out the liquor, he is most desperate for more of it, and never has any difficulty escaping after Dr. Ashman has opened the door.”

  “An appalling situation, to be sure.”

  She nodded. “We are considering transferring him to a private asylum, which is the reason I was there tonight—I have met with my lawyer, and money will be no object as regards his care.”

  Nothing I had ever read of Dr. Freud’s could have prepared me for Mrs. Pattison’s statement, and my alarm must have shown on my countenance, for Holmes briefly pressed a warning hand to my knee.

  “When came your brother to such a desperate pass that you could not be allowed in the room with him?”

  “A little over a month ago.”

  “Did you observe him in Dr. Ashman’s company previously?”

  “Yes, many times—the two were very close, and though I had never before been to his practice, they had called on me at my home. At one point, he and James lodged together, so he was in the perfect position to note when my brother truly began to take leave of his senses, though as I said he has always been difficult to manage.”

  “And about a month ago is also when you began giving his allowance to his companion?”

  “Yes. Oh, Mr. Holmes, it was such a difficult decision—but really, there was nothing I could do, for the first time I heard him shrieking to be released, I knew he could no longer be trusted with it himself.”

  “Did Dr. Ashman suggest this arrangement to you?”

  “I can’t recall. He may have done. It is good to speak to someone about this, for I have been nearly at the end of my wits. I am so glad you gentlemen were standing there, and offered to see me home.”

  She began to cry helplessly. Holmes leaned over and patted her gloved hand, and I could not help comparing her with her brother—his overabundance of emotions, his lack of control over them. When we had nearly arrived at Trafalgar Square, she had quieted, and Holmes’s face was suffused with grave intensity.

  “Mrs. Pattison, before your brother is committed, you must be given the chance to attempt to bring him back to some awareness of himself. Your instincts do you credit—perhaps when you set eyes on him, your familial bonds will work a form of magic that no one other than a sister could manage.”

  “Do you really think it possible?” she breathed.

  “I do indeed. You must promise me you will insist to Dr. Ashman tomorrow that unless you can be convinced James truly would do you harm, you will not consent to pay for the asylum. If James is then intractable or sounds volatile, then of course you need not enter his chamber, but you owe it to your sibling to suggest the notion. I and Dr. Watson shall accompany you, so that you may feel quite safe.”

  “Oh, bless you, sir.” Mrs. Pattison folded her kerchief after dabbing a final time at her cheeks. “You are right, I believe, and it is always best to consult the opinions of impartial parties. Yes, I shall do as you say, supposing you promise to meet me in Bethnal Green. It will be late, I fear—Dr. Ashman can never manage to lay hands on my brother until around midnight.”

  “Never mind the lateness,” Holmes demurred, his voice a low purr that set my nerves sparking. “It is vital that you are firm and insistent, and that you make mention of the funds for your brother’s care being absolutely at stake. You may trust that we will meet you outside the house in Ainsley Street without fail.”

  Promising us that she would do as Holmes asked, Mrs. Pattison stepped down from the carriage. Holmes’s profile remained fixed on her until she had shut the door to her residence, and then he banged his fist against the wall of the hansom in what appeared to be triumph, crying out, “Baker Street, driver!”

  “Holmes, what in God’s name is the meaning of all this?” I marveled. “Has the man we know as Horatio Falconer lost his mind entirely?”

  “I think we will find there is more to it than that, Watson,” Holmes drawled, rubbing his hands together like a man who is about to commence a card trick. “I shall not be sorry to arrive home—the temperature has dropped a full seven degrees, I think, since we left the house, and it was low enough in the first place.”

  “You fear foul play,” I insisted.

  “Perhaps my nature is needlessly suspicious.”

  “I have at times known it to be so, but you are generally justified in your misgivings.”

  “You flatter me extremely, my dear fellow. Regretfully, I can confirm nothing until we reconvene with Mrs. Pattison, though tonight I must write to Mr. Falconer—my Irregular confirms that he can be found daily at The Fox’s Tooth, and a wire will surely reach him there.”

  “Do you mean to tell him we have seen his sister, Mrs. Pattison?”

  “I mean to tell him by no means to use his gun no matter what may befall him tomorrow night,” Holmes replied, smiling wolfishly. “Your own revolver ought to be quite enough firepower for our purposes, Doctor.”

  Tense as I am accustomed to being whilst awaiting the climax of some of Holmes’s darker cases, on that occasion my anxiety was palpable. The dismal weather, the loaded gun in my pocket as we left Westminster, Mrs. Pattison’s grief, and the so-called Mr. Falconer’s pitiable confusion—all combined to unsettle me as we bounced and jostled our way back to Bethnal Green on the following night at around eleven o’clock. Holmes, for his part, seemed as imperturbable as a marble bust; but every so often, his excitement would betray him and he would cut glances at the shadowed streets, tapping his knuckles against his thigh in anticipation.

  When we descended from the hack at Ainsley Street, I saw that we were not alone, for all that Mrs. Pattison had not yet arrived—our old friend Inspector Bradstreet stood in the road wearing an impassive stare, his bowler pulled low and his arms crossed against the daggerlike wind.

  “Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson.” He nodded cordially. “Care to share with me what we’re doing out in the cold tonight?”

  “With any luck, arresting a truly audacious criminal mastermind,” Holmes returned cheerily. “We have only to await his target to prevent an appalling instance of fraud—the second I’ve prevented in as many weeks, by the way. I ought to consider specializing. Ah, here is the lady herself.”

  Mrs. Sarah Pattison approached us with eagerness, her trusting expression turning to bewilderment at the sight of the plainclothesman. “Oh, goodness. I came to meet two allies, and find I have three.”

  “Mrs. Pattison, this is Inspector Bradstreet, who is here to ensure that the myriad evils of Bethnal Green do not get the better of us,” Holmes returned. “We are in a dangerous neighborhood, as you’ve astutely noted yourself.”

  “An inspector! How decent of you—many thanks for your protection, sir.”

  “Well, now that we are all acquainted, shall we see what we can do about persuading your brother to mend his ways?” Holmes plunged into the street and we followed, I with my hand on the comforting weight of the gun in my pocket. “What is his full name, Mrs. Pattison?”

  “Did I never tell you? Abergavenny,” she answered. �
�I was Sarah Abergavenny, and he is Mr. James Abergavenny.”

  “Thank you, and might I suggest that you keep well back if anything untoward takes place?”

  “Yes, Mr. Holmes, I shall be most careful.”

  Nodding, the detective rapped decisively on the door. Upon the instant it opened, we could hear a muffled wailing from upstairs which had been undetectable from the street. A tall, hatchet-faced man stood in the foyer, glaring out. His domed head was hairless, his eyes were dark and widely set, and his general appearance was suave and friendly enough save for a coldly appraising twist to his set of full, almost sensuous lips.

  “Whatever have we here? Mrs. Pattison, as you can hear, now is no time to make personal appeals to your brother, though I quite understand and sympathize with your sentimental desire to set eyes on him. But what a crowd you’ve brought with you! Gentlemen, it should be apparent that I’ve a very sick patient upstairs, and one who cannot be cajoled or bargained with—this is no time for social calls, and I’ll thank you to leave Mr. Abergavenny to my care.”

  “My name is Sherlock Holmes, and I am determined that Mr. Abergavenny’s sister see him,” Holmes declared, his foot firmly in the doorway. “I refuse to depart before my wishes in this matter are carried out—Mrs. Pattison will be allowed entrance, and I in her company as witness.”

  “You can do no such thing!” Dr Ashman snapped, bristling. “It would be perilous to all parties, quite impossible.”

  “I think you’ll find he can,” our friend of the Yard objected, showing his badge and a document. “I am Inspector Bradstreet, and I’ve a warrant to search the premises.”

  “How dare you, sir! On what grounds?”

  “ ‘Suspected kidnap’ will do for the moment,” Holmes replied, edging forcefully past the doctor, “although I shouldn’t be surprised over additions to the list, so we shall keep an open mind. Hand over the key to the spare bedroom, if you please.”

  “You’ll harm my patient, and my personal friend, if you upset him further,” Dr. Ashman growled, though now his lofty cranium shone with nervous moisture. “I’ll do no such thing!”

  “Pity. But it won’t delay us long.” Holmes held up his set of adaptable keys, jangling them, as Bradstreet and I elbowed our way inside with the lady well shielded. “Keep an eye on this one, Inspector, and don’t let him budge. Watson, Mrs. Pattison, quickly!”

  We rushed upstairs, then watched as Holmes crouched before the door. The whimpers and cries were much more audible here, and I easily recognized the voice of our client, though he sounded barely intelligible. Fright and despair had so overwhelmed him that he might have been a great hulking wolf, howling in the wilderness against the agony of a steel trap.

  “Oh, my poor James,” Mrs. Pattison fretted, tears springing once again into her eyes. “How I shall hate to see what he has come to.”

  “Yes, the sight of him may indeed surprise you. Just coming, Mr. Falconer, calm yourself!” my friend called, and the cacophony abruptly ceased.

  When Holmes threw wide the door, the man I knew as Mr. Falconer staggered through it with a groan, holding both his dirtied hands to his coarsely matted head. Mrs. Pattison shrieked, shrinking back against the wall with her gloved hand over her heart.

  “Oh! Oh! This is not my brother!” she cried.

  “No, I rather thought not,” Holmes said with evident satisfaction. “Steady on, then! Watson, will you do what you can for him? Though I rather think the best remedy will prove sleeping it off. Mrs. Pattison, your brother has been missing for over a month now, but his continued existence enabled this Dr. Ashman—supposing that is even his name, for the plaque in the window is quite new—to continue leaching away your savings, as no doubt he had previously done sponging funds off your brother when in his cups. I shall discover what truly happened to your sibling, on my honor. Just now, however, I need a word with Inspector Bradstreet. And the use of his set of handcuffs.”

  “There never really was any difficulty in the matter,” Holmes said to me after I had revived poor Mr. Horatio Falconer somewhat and we had sent him, shaken but grateful, away from Bethnal Green in a cab (after eliciting the solemn vow that he would do his best to improve his state before being called upon to give testimony at the trial). “You were right to say that motive was everything, and I very much fear that Mr. Abergavenny will prove to have been long dead before this bizarre tale is ended.”

  “I cannot imagine how you worked it out,” I confessed, whistling for a cab. Mrs. Pattison had gone with Bradstreet and his prisoner to give a statement—indeed, had not stopped hectically talking in circles ever since Holmes had revealed the substitution.

  “You forget that I am the one who deduced that Mr. Falconer was an opera singer—he never told it to me, and I comprehended that his training was genuine.” Holmes sprang easily into the cab and I joined him after giving directions. “I knew our client to be telling the truth when he came to us. Why should he have been taken only to be left in a room, then? His voice was remarkable, but his appearance was carefully hidden by his abductor. Mrs. Pattison’s account was quite genuine, I believe. James Abergavenny truly had fallen upon hard times, his disgraceful habits doubtless greatly encouraged by his supposed ‘friend’ Ashman. Of course, I cannot yet tell you what became of this missing brother. But I can tell you that Dr. Ashman is a charlatan and a villain who probably could scarce believe his good fortune when he discovered a busker in Covent Garden who sounded just like Abergavenny—I told you it was significant that he was left there when set free.”

  “Yes, your reasoning is quite clear now.”

  “In the absence of Abergavenny, the money would vanish unless Ashman could keep up the illusion his friend had run mad. Mrs. Pattison is, you will agree, shockingly credulous, but Ashman took care that she should be exposed to the false brother only once a fortnight, and from behind a closed door. He likely didn’t even allow her upstairs, further masking the true sound of Falconer’s voice. I further surmise that he packed his drugged victim into well-paid cabs to transport him to Bethnal Green, with the excuse he had met with a beggar who needed medical care, or a fallen friend he was returning home, but we may never know that for certain unless Ashman confesses.”

  “It was masterfully done, Holmes—finding the house, working out the nature of the ruse, all of it,” I averred warmly. “But those aspects are not even the most wonderful thing you have accomplished during the case.”

  “Whatever can you refer to?”

  “Saving Mr. Falconer’s life twice.”

  “Once,” he corrected, a single brow swooping quizzically.

  “Twice. Once at our flat, and once just now—he has promised to appear in court sober and sound-minded. Perhaps it is mindless optimism, but for some reason, I believe him. He will be a changed man, entirely thanks to you.”

  Holmes made a scoffing sound, though his cheekbones colored. “My dear Watson, you are the most incurably romantic chap I have ever encountered, and I do not mean that in a complimentary light.”

  Romantic I may well be, but on this occasion I was also correct. Mr. Horatio Falconer appeared at the assizes clean-shaven and well dressed, and not long thereafter we were privileged to see him perform in Bellini’s I puritani. Sadly, however, thanks to Holmes’s relentless investigations, it was discovered that Elijah Ashman had murdered James Abergavenny in a drunken dispute, killing his own livelihood by sheer accident and thereby necessitating the outrageous impositions our client had suffered. Mrs. Pattison’s fortune was thus saved, but her dear brother was lost to her, an outcome which did not dispose her to be grateful to my friend. She claimed to anyone who would listen that she would prefer to think her brother mad than dead, an illogical quirk of sentiment for which Holmes claimed not to blame her in the smallest degree.

  Notes upon the

  Diadem Club Affair

  Excerpted passages from the personal diary ofr />
  Mr. Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective,

  221B Baker Street, London W1:

  Saturday, April 12th, 1902.

  I can conceive of no greater torment than to be subjected to both Mrs. Hudson’s recipe for pork cheese and an audience with Lord Chesley Templeton within an eight-hour period.

  Surely I can be brought no lower than this. And Watson’s absence only confirms the fact that April, heralded by feckless poets throughout many nations (and doubtless at least three continents), is a ghastly month and ought to be treated as such, rather than as a subject of highly unscientific verse. The bards are in this case gilding a lump rather than a lily.

  My friend has determined against all good sense that he should attend a symposium regarding modern pulmonary treatments, and thus will return tomorrow from my own briefly attended alma mater, smelling of local ale and country air. That the man should keep abreast of the latest advancements out of professional interest is perfectly natural, and a yen to learn more about poisons and bullet trajectories and types of stab wounds I should likewise understand. But an entire forum devoted to lungs, and outside London to boot? It isn’t as if he needs to practice medicine. His wound pension is more than adequate to cover his modest gambling habit, his necessities, and the nominal sum I pretend is half the rent here. (The idea of Watson actually paying half of the exorbitant figure I dole out to prevent Mrs. Hudson from complaining about the unending stream of ruffians tramping in and out of her domicile would be absurd.)

  If I am alive to see his homecoming, matters will have progressed better than they have done so far today.

  Mrs. Hudson’s pork cheese recipe is not even particularly offensive, if I am honest with myself—molded minced meat with what I’ve deduced are savory herbs, lemon peel, and nutmeg served cold, doubtless an orthodox methodology—but I cannot be expected to eat such a thing when I consumed a perfectly respectable luncheon the day previous. Neither can I pretend to patience when a wire arrives an hour after my rejecting the slice of congealed gravy, and rather than being able to request that Watson read the message aloud that I might allow the facts to filter effortlessly into their respective slots within my brain, I must accept that the doctor is not present, thanks to an intensive three days spent attempting to cure the common cough.