The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories - Part IX

by Marcum, David;

  “Did you master make any purchases during his visit to London?” Holmes interjected, with such suddenness that Tifton looked to me in surprise.

  “Yes, Mr. Holmes. The day after his return, a large iron safe was delivered to Stag Hall. I had it installed in the study. I can only suppose that, living in such a remote place, my master felt he needed a safe to secure his valuables.”

  “And considering what you have told us of the new staff’s failings, perhaps it was a wise measure to take,” Holmes said, with a satisfied nod. “So, was your master’s mode of behavior also altered following his confinement?”

  “Yes, sir. He lost all interest in his books and artifacts. He began to drink more heavily and - this pains me to even speak of it - he is now consorting with Lillie, the cook, who is not worthy to follow Miss Eleanor in his affections. He has become much more familiar with Jenkins and Bodie - our boy - than he is with me. He barely speaks to me, but sends his orders via Jenkins. He is nothing like himself at all.”

  “Do the other members of the household staff have an explanation for this change?”

  “Only one, sir. Jenkins told me that after bidding Mr. Remington goodbye, Mr. Asher had the cab take him to Highgate, where - I share this in confidence - Mr. Asher spent almost a day in the rain, sobbing at Miss Eleanor’s tomb. That, Jenkins tells me, is how he acquired his illness. I could believe it all... and attribute this queer madness to his terrible illness and his overwhelming grief... if not for those damnable gypsies!”

  I started in my chair. “Gypsies?”

  “Yes. Last week an entire tribe of them came to the estate, with their campfires and strange singing and black magic. When I objected to their presence, Mr. Asher told me to keep silent or seek employment elsewhere. I believe they are the cause of the trouble - perhaps he encountered them in London and they cursed him. I have heard that gypsies do such things.”

  Holmes leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers together. “Do you recall the exact date of your master’s trip to London?”

  “He departed Stag Hall very early on October 11th, and returned late in the evening on October 13th.”

  Holmes rose from his chair. “Mr. Tifton, I think I may be able to put your mind to rest and break this curse. If you will return to Stag Hall today, you may expect us around eleven tomorrow morning. Will your master be at home at that time?”

  “I believe so, sir. He rarely goes out.”

  “Capital! Do not mention your visit here and, when we arrive, I will hand you a card and you will announce us in those terms. Do you understand?”

  Mr. Tifton scowled as he pulled on his coat. “Is such subterfuge necessary?”

  “All magic depends on it. Now, would you like Dr. Watson to escort you to the station?”

  “Thank you for the kind offer, Mr. Holmes, but I was born in London, and though my sight is nearly extinguished, I know the city by heart. Until tomorrow, sir.”

  With a stiff, dignified bow, he took his leave. A moment later, Holmes sprang into action with the eagerness of a hound to the hunting horn.

  “I will need to run some errands before our little trip. No, Watson, it is much too dreary and your wound is aching! Save your energy for our work in the morning.” It was useless for me to ask him how he knew about my pains; I had always been an open book to him. “You can, however, do one thing that would be of vast assistance to me.”

  “And that is?”

  “Clean your pistol.”

  * * *

  Early the next day, we were on the train for Edendore and Stag Hall. Holmes had given me just enough time to seize a cup of coffee at the station, and I confess my eyelids were still heavy when he thrust a scrap of newspaper at me. As was his wont, he had said nothing about the butler’s problem upon his return the previous evening.

  “Read this.”

  It was a clipping from the most garish of our London tabloids, and the entire article was written in such a sensational, gruesome style that I would be embarrassed to reproduce it here. The gist of it was that a body had been found in a disreputable hotel in the city. From the clothing and the contents of the dead man’s pockets, which amounted to no more than three shillings, a box of matches, and a letter, the man was identified as a Mr. Chauncey Rowe. The desk clerk revealed that a man had registered under that name at the hotel the day before. A few other guests in the hotel had noted that at around two a.m. the previous evening, three men, all in a state of great inebriation, were seen going into Room 201, which had been occupied by Rowe. As the singing and roistering had quickly ended, the other guests thought no more about it. The body had been found by a housemaid. She had fainted in the doorway, for the body stretched out on the blood-soaked rug was missing its head.

  “Repulsive,” I muttered, passing the clipped article back to Holmes. “Your choice of morning reading is appalling.”

  “But surely you make the connection?”

  “Between what? Were you called to investigate?”

  Holmes gave a quick nod. “It occurred while you were at the bedside of a dying patient. As you were already dismayed by the sad outcome of your case, I felt no need to burden you with this, especially as it was one of my failures.”

  Now I was more intrigued. “Failures? How so?”

  “I could find nothing to provide data. The clothing was banal and common, with no helpful laundry marks to trace it. The physical body - of a man in his middle to later years, who had never done manual labor - was unremarkable. Several guests in the hotel had seen the three men who came into the room, but could recall no details about them, because they were all bundled in cloaks and mufflers. And, besides, who truly looks at that annoying specimen of London society, the dissolute reveler? One tends to turn away.” Holmes closed his eyes, his lean frame swaying with the motion of the train. “But it was wrong, Watson. So very wrong.”

  “Well, there was a decapitation.”

  Holmes snorted. “The manner of his death was unimportant, though I noted that it was done cleanly, with a sharp sword. Presumably he suffered very little, if at all, for the body and clothing reeked of gin. The bed had not been slept in, and unfortunately for me neither the victim nor the felons engaged in the vice of smoking. The room was bare of any clues, except for the body and one important conundrum.”

  “Which was?”

  “His boots did not fit.”

  “Many people wear boots that do not fit!” I objected.

  “Perhaps - if the footwear is too large. But what man would, under any circumstances, endure a boot that is at least two sizes too small?” Holmes smirked. “He was not wearing his boots when he was executed, and I doubt our friends in the police even noted the discrepancy. But I measured and I know.” Holmes slipped the clipping back into his wallet. “It proved the proverbial dead end. No relatives could be located. The letter - so vague and purposeless that I am certain it was a fraud - could not be traced, as it lacked an envelope or any address other than the salutation to the dead man. To say that I got no further along with the business than Lestrade did is, I confess, rather humiliating. Ah, here is our station. Let us hope for better things in this investigation. And, before I forget, do you feel rather intimidating this morning? Could you beat a man senseless - besides myself, of course?”

  * * *

  The village of Edendore, which was a ten-mile ride from the station, seemed suspended in time, a collection of tumble-down, thatched houses and one misbegotten pub and hostelry, The Blue Dragon. Holmes presented himself to the grizzled publican, who had been dozing beside the fire.

  “Mr. Asher, well, we don’t see him much. Taken sick over his dead lady, I’ve heard, but he was never one to come and share a dram with us, so what should I care?”

  A sharp giggle interrupted the publican’s statement. I turned and saw the flounce of a calico skirt and a lo
ng braid of blonde hair disappearing up the stairs. Holmes leaned close.

  “As you will recall, old friend, the fair sex is your department. See what you can learn from that delightful lady who was so eager to eavesdrop.”

  It was certainly not the worst assignment Holmes had ever given me. I climbed the creaky stairs and found the young woman briskly sweeping the hallway. Her hair was thick and lustrous and her figure was superb, but when she spun around her lovely face was marred by a smile filled with crooked stumps of teeth.

  “Excuse me, Miss,” I said, with what I hoped was a gallant dip of the head, “but have you seen Mr. Asher recently?”

  “Naw,” she drawled, “but my cousin Betty has. She’ll take him away from that ginger-haired tart, you watch. Mr. Asher likes the nice girls, he does! See!” She reached into her ample bosom and pulled out a shining sovereign. “His man Jenkins gave this to me last week, says there’s more if I come and see Mr. Asher one evening, when the butler’s asleep. I think I just might. I could take him away from Lillie, I’d wager!”

  She struck a pose that suggested just how easy such a conquest might be. I decided it was safer to return downstairs, where Holmes was waiting at the door.

  “It seems Mr. Asher has all the ladies in a stir,” I muttered.

  “Indeed it does. With Jenkins as his procurer of female attention.”

  I rolled my eyes, wondering why Holmes had sent me up to speak to the girl in the first place. “It is a sad thing, when you consider it. A man was once loyal to his wife, adored her more than life itself, and now consorts with women of easy virtue.”

  “I doubt Mr. Asher has changed.”

  “But all the evidence suggests that he has. It is obvious!”

  “You of all people should know that I never allow myself to be guided by obvious evidence. Very well, we have about a mile’s walk ahead of us, according to our friend at the bar.”

  It was a rough journey over a thin, rutted road, past dull sheep and bored shepherds. At last we reached the outskirts of Stag Hall. The grounds were wild and overgrown, with a narrow gravel pathway leading towards the sagging Tudor edifice. Everything had clearly seen better days. I pitied the poor Tifton, once the major domo of a fine city house, now reduced to nagging the inefficient, lazy caretakers of this pile. I was just about to express my sentiments when the thick bushes beside us rattled. We both halted, perplexed as to what was about to come through them.

  To my horror, it proved to be a bear, a massive brute of a creature with long claws and thick yellow teeth. It emerged upright, lumbering forward on two legs, swaying to and fro like a drunkard while snorting and snuffing. I snatched my pistol from my coat pocket, and would have shot the deadly beast had Holmes not abruptly knocked my firearm aside.

  “No! Wait!”

  Holmes took a step forward and held his arms over his head, making himself appear even larger. He shouted a word in a strange language and thrust out his right hand, curled into a fist. As close as he was, the bear could easily have knocked him to the ground and torn him to pieces before I could recover my gun.

  Instead, the creature dropped to all fours. Holmes spoke a different word and flattened out his hand. To my utter astonishment, the bear rolled onto its back and waggled its legs in the air, with the same expectant look that a pup gives when demanding a belly rub. Holmes obliged the animal, scratching its fur-coated stomach.

  “Watson, surely you see the collar it wears?”

  I blinked. Indeed, the bear’s neck was encircled with a thick, fantastically worked leather collar. Holmes stepped back and gave another vocal command with a hand signal. The bear sat up and walked to his side, clearly ready to follow where he led.

  “Holmes, how did you...”

  “When I was a boy, a group of gypsies camped near our home. Having just lost an argument with Mycroft - I was about seven at the time - I decided to run away with them. I spent two evenings in their company before my father reclaimed me. In that short time, I was apprenticed to the bear trainer of the tribe. Would you like to see this fellow dance?”

  I shook my head vigorously. Holmes chuckled and removed an apple from his pocket. The bear devoured it greedily.

  “I was saving that for a snack on the train, but you have earned it, my ursine friend. I will never forget the expression on Watson’s face. That memory of it will amuse me for the remainder of my days.”

  I folded my arms and gave Holmes a sour look that I hoped he would also remember for the rest of his life. “So how are the gypsies involved in this?”

  “Let us find out.” Together with our hirsute mascot, we made our way through the brambles to the east side of the manor, where a host of colorful wagons were circled around a fire. Women in bright skirts and jangling jewelry quickly vanished into the wagons as we approached, and a ragged little urchin trotted up to take charge of the bear. A gray-bearded man came forward, his hat in hand, asking our business in broken English. He acted deferential enough, but I noted the long knife stuffed into his belt. Without seeing anyone about, I sensed dozens of eyes watching us, and I wondered how many more weapons were even now being silently unsheathed.

  Holmes assumed his sternest demeanor, demanding to know by what right the gypsies had camped on the property. While the elder’s words were difficult to decipher, I grasped that they had come at an invitation, to entertain the household. Holmes grabbed the man’s arm and pulled him close, whispering in his ear. The man trembled and tried to free himself, shaking his head vigorously, his eyes wide, his entire face contorted in shock. He would have broken loose and fled, but my friend shouted out a word and the bear, which had been lapping at a pan of water, rose on its back legs, bellowed in rage, and waved it paws in the air. The old gypsy dropped to the ground and nodded so hard I thought his head would break from his neck. Holmes knelt and hissed a few more words to the man, then rose and tugged me away.

  “That bear is our best ally,” Holmes chuckled, as we approached the ancient doorway of the house. I was struck even deeper by the decay of the estate. The steps had not been swept, nor the windows cleaned, at least since the summer, based on the accumulation of dust and debris. Holmes rapped firmly and, within moments, the door opened. Tifton was now clad in his butler’s livery, his polished buttons and sharp coat a strange contrast to the squalid setting.

  “Here is my card,” Holmes said. “Please tell Mr. Asher that our business with him is most urgent, and he would do well to admit us without delay.”

  Tifton gave a nervous bob of his head and scuttled off to do my friend’s bidding. I studied the chamber in which we found ourselves, noting the cobwebs, the dust, and the decided lack of attention. A whisky bottle was shattered in one corner and, much to my disgust, a lady’s stocking was draped carelessly across a chair. Clearly, the room was the site of revels that mocked the sacred memory of the late Mrs. Eleanor Asher. I suddenly understood why Holmes had asked me if I felt intimidating. Indeed, it would take all my control not to punch the horrible Mr. Asher on sight.

  Tifton reappeared and led us through a hallway to his master’s study, quickly closing the door behind us. My first thought was that Asher was still in the throes of his illness, for he was wrapped in a heavy dressing gown, his untrimmed beard poking over the woolen scarf around his throat. His hair, thick, grey, and unkempt, spilled over his collar. It would have availed him to have a fire lit in the fireplace, but it sat idle. He coughed roughly and glared at us with hateful blue eyes.

  “Who the devil are you?”

  “Just who we say we are, Mr. Asher,” Holmes replied, in a tone of silken menace, “representatives of the firm Byrnes and Schmitz, to whom you owe the sum of five-thousand pounds. Your bill has been overdue for almost a year now. If we do not return to London with a substantial payment, things will be rather unpleasant for you.”

  I could not resist smacking my fist agai
nst my palm and favoring Asher with what I hoped was a thuggish stare.

  “You... ask the impossible. My resources as not what they once were.”

  “It is a debt that you owe, nevertheless.”

  “Yes, of course, but you must be reasonable!”

  Holmes drew a step closer. His voice sank. “As reasonable as you were to Peterson, in Virginia, on the shores of the Okefenokee? You do recall that incident?” Holmes tilted his head. “It is not something I think you would want made public.”

  “That was long ago. I was young, I did a foolish thing! And I will give my creditors their money.” He was seized with a coughing fit, and I nearly gave into my medical instincts to offer to tend him. After it ceased, he gave a pained, mournful cry. “Can’t you see that I am dying? No doubt of same illness to which my poor wife succumbed.”

  “And that explains the drinking, the indulgence, the home surrounded by the salacious lures of the gypsies?”

  Asher’s voice emerged as a whimper. “Yes. What else is left for me now? Please, it will all be settled in my will. I have no heirs. Leave me in peace.”

  Holmes gave me a glance, as if we were sharing a thought or plan. I felt myself softening a bit in my feelings. This man was more pitiful than horrendous. Perhaps his butler was correct, in that some curse had been laid upon him, depriving him not only of his life, but his dignity and morality.

  “If it were up to me, I would leave you to rot,” Holmes said. “But my employers are not so generous. You will need to send surety. A hundred pounds will do. I see you have a safe.”

  A large green safe was tucked into the corner of the room, between a suit of armor and a dusty cabinet of curiosities. Wheezing and stumbling, Mr. Asher crossed the room toward it, Holmes in his wake.