Sons of Moriarty and More Stories of Sherlock Holmes

by Estleman, Loren D.

  On glancing through my notes for that memorable year of 1895, I find recorded the details of a case which may be taken as a typical instance of this disinterested and even altruistic attitude of his which placed the rendering of a kindly service above that of material reward. I refer to the dreadful affair of the canaries and the soot marks on the ceiling.

  It was early in June that my friend completed his investigations into the sudden death of Cardinal Tosca, an inquiry which he had undertaken at the special request of the pope. The case had demanded the most exacting work on Holmes’s part and, as I had feared at the time, the aftermath had left him in a highly nervous and restless state that caused me some concern both as his friend and his medical adviser.

  One rainy night towards the end of the same month, I persuaded him to dine with me at Frascatti’s and thereafter we had gone on to the Cafe Royal for our coffee and liqueurs. As I had hoped, the bustle of the great room with its red plush seats and stately palms bathed in the glow of numerous crystal chandeliers drew him out of his introspective mood. As he leaned back on our sofa, his fingers playing with the stem of his glass, I noted with satisfaction a gleam of interest in those keen grey eyes as he studied the somewhat Bohemian clientele that thronged the tables and alcoves.

  I was in the act of replying to some remark when Holmes nodded suddenly in the direction of the door. “Lestrade,” said he. “What can he be doing here?”

  Glancing over my shoulder, I saw the lean rat-faced figure of the Scotland Yard man standing in the entrance, his dark eyes looking slowly around the room. The police agent caught sight of us and pushed his way through the throng.

  “He may be seeking you, Holmes,” I remarked, “on some urgent case.”

  “Hardly, Watson. His wet boots show that he has walked. If there was urgency, he would have taken a cab. But here he is.”

  “Only a routine check,” said Lestrade, drawing up a chair. “But duty’s duty, Mr. Holmes, and I can tell you that I’ve netted some strange fish before now in these respectable places. Whilst you are comfortably dreaming up your theories in Baker Street, we poor devils at Scotland Yard are doing the practical work. No thanks to us from popes and kings, but a bad hour with the superintendent if we fail.”

  “Tut,” said Holmes good-humouredly. “Your superiors must surely hold you in some esteem since I solved the Ronald Adair murder, the Bruce-Partington theft, the—”

  “Quite so, quite so,” interrupted Lestrade hurriedly. “And now,” he added, with a heavy wink at me, “I have something for you.”

  “Ah!”

  “Of course, a young woman who starts at shadows may be more in Dr. Watson’s line.”

  “Really, Lestrade,” I protested warmly, “I cannot approve your—”

  “One moment, Watson. Let us hear the facts.”

  Lestrade continued: “Well, Mr. Holmes, they are absurd enough, and I would not waste your time were it not that I have known you to do a kindness or two before now, and in this instance your word of advice may prevent a young woman from acting foolishly. Now, here’s the position.

  “Down Deptford way, along the edge of the river, there are some of the worst slums in the East End of London but, right in the middle of them, you can still find some fine old houses, which centuries ago were the homes of wealthy merchants. One of these tumbledown mansions has been occupied by a family named Wilson for the past hundred years and more. I understand that they were originally in the China trade and when that went to the dogs a generation back, they got out in time and retired into their old home. The recent household consisted of Horatio Wilson and his wife, with one son and a daughter, and Horatio’s younger brother Theobold, who had come to live with them on his return from foreign parts.

  “Some three years ago, the body of Horatio Wilson was hooked out of the river. He had been drowned, and, as he was known to have been a hard-drinking man, it was generally accepted that he had missed his step in the fog and fallen into the water. A year later his wife, who suffered from a weak heart, died from a heart attack. We know this to be the case, because the doctor made a very careful examination following the statements of a police constable and a night watchman employed on a barge.”

  “Statements to what effect?” interposed Holmes.

  “Well, there was talk of a noise that seemed to come that night from the old Wilson house, but the nights are often foggy along Thames-side and the men were probably misted. The constable described the sound as a dreadful yell that froze his blood in his veins. If I had him in my division, I’d teach him such words should never pass the lips of an officer of the law.”

  “What time was this noise heard?”

  “Ten o’clock at night, the hour of the old lady’s death. It’s merely a coincidence, for there is no doubt that she died of heart.”

  “Go on.”

  Lestrade consulted his notebook for a moment. “I’ve been digging up the facts,” he continued. “On the night of May seventeenth last, the daughter went to a magic-lantern entertainment accompanied by a woman servant. On her return, she found her brother, Jabez Wilson, dead in his armchair. He had inherited a bad heart and insomnia from his mother. This time there were no rumors of shrieks and yells, but owing to the expression on the dead man’s face, the local doctor called in the police surgeon to assist in the examination. It was heart all right, and our man confirmed that this can sometimes cause a distortion of the features that will convey an impression of stark terror.”

  “That is perfectly true,” I remarked.

  “Now, it seems that the daughter Janet has become so overwrought that, according to her uncle, she proposes to sell the property and go abroad,” went on Lestrade. “Her feelings are, I suppose, natural. Death has been busy with the Wilson family.”

  “And what of this uncle? Theobold, I think you said his name was.”

  “Well, I fancy that you will find him on your doorstep tomorrow morning. He came to me at the Yard in the hope that the official police could put his niece’s fears at rest and persuade her to take a more reasonable view. As we are engaged on more important affairs than calming hysterical young women, I suggested that he call on you.”

  “Indeed! Well, it is natural enough that he should resent the unnecessary loss of what is probably a snug corner.”

  “Oh, there is no resentment, Mr. Holmes. Wilson seems to be genuinely attached to his niece and concerned only for her future.” Lestrade paused, whilst a grin spread over his foxy face. “He is not a very worldly person, is Mr. Theobold, and though I’ve met some queer trades in my time, his beats the band. He trains canaries.”

  “It is an established profession.”

  “Is it?” There was an irritating smugness in Lestrade’s manner as he rose to his feet and reached for his hat. “It is quite evident that you do not suffer from insomnia, Mr. Holmes,” he said, “or you would know that birds trained by Theobold Wilson are different from other canaries. Good night.”

  “What on earth does the fellow mean?” I asked, as the police agent threaded his way towards the door.

  “Merely that he knows something that we do not,” replied Holmes dryly. “But, as conjecture is as profitless as it is misleading to the analytical mind, let us wait until tomorrow. I can say however that I do not propose to waste my time over a matter that appears to fall more properly within the province of the local vicar.”

  • • •

  To my friend’s relief, the morning brought no visitor. But when, on my return from an urgent case to which I had been summoned shortly after lunch, I entered our sitting room I found that our spare chair was occupied by a bespectacled middle-aged man. As he rose to his feet, I observed that he was of an exceeding thinness and that his face, which was scholarly and even austere in expression, was seamed with countless wrinkles and of that dull parchment yellow that comes from years under a tropic sun.

  “Ah, Watson, you have arrived just in time,” said Holmes. “This is Mr. Theobold Wilson, about whom Lestra
de spoke to us last night.”

  Our visitor wrung my hand warmly. “Your name is, of course, well-known to me. Dr. Watson,” he said. “Indeed, if Mr. Sherlock Holmes will pardon me for saying so, it is largely thanks to you that we are aware of his genius. As a medical man doubtless well versed in the handling of nervous cases, your presence should have a most beneficial effect upon my unhappy niece.”

  Holmes looked at me resignedly. “I have promised Mr. Wilson to accompany him to Deptford, Watson,” said he, “for it would seem that the young lady is determined to leave her home tomorrow. But I must repeat, Mr. Wilson, that I fail to see in what way my presence can affect the matter.”

  “You are overmodest, Mr. Holmes. When I appealed to the official police, I had hoped that they might convince Janet that, terrible though our family losses have been in the past three years, nevertheless they lay in natural causes and there is no reason why she should flee from her home. I had the impression,” he added, with a chuckle, “that the inspector was somewhat chagrined at my ready acceptance of his own suggestion that I seek your aid.”

  “I shall most certainly remember my small debt to Lestrade,” replied Holmes dryly as he rose to his feet. “Perhaps, Watson, you would ask Mrs. Hudson to whistle a four-wheeler, and Mr. Wilson can clarify certain points as we drive to Deptford.”

  • • •

  It was one of those grey, brooding summer days when London is at its worst and, as we rattled over Blackfriars Bridge, I noted that wreaths of mist were rising from the river like the poisonous vapors of some hot jungle swamp. The spacious streets of the West End had given place to the great commercial thoroughfares that resounded with the stamp and clatter of the dray horses, and these in turn merged at last into a maze of dingy streets. As we followed the curve of the river, I noted the neighbourhood grew more and more wretched the nearer we approached to that labyrinth of tidal basins and dark evil-smelling lanes that were the ancient cradle of England’s sea trade and of the Empire’s wealth.

  I could see that Holmes was listless and bored to a point of irritation and I did my best, therefore, to engage our companion in conversation. “I understand that you are an expert on canaries,” I remarked.

  Theobold Wilson’s eyes, behind their powerful spectacles, lighted with the glow of the enthusiast. “A mere student, sir—but with thirty years of practical research,” he cried. “Can it be that you too—No? A pity! The study, breeding and training of the Fringilla canaria—a rare species I have helped develop—is a task worthy of a man’s lifetime. You would not credit the ignorance, Dr. Watson, that prevails on this subject even in the most enlightened circles.”

  “Inspector Lestrade hinted at some special characteristic in your training of these little songsters.”

  “Songsters, sir! A thrush is a songster. The Fringilla is the supreme ear of nature, possessing a unique power of imitation which can be trained for the benefit and edification of the human race. But the inspector was correct,” he went on more calmly, “in that I have put my birds to a special effect. They are trained to sing by night in artificial light.”

  “Surely a singular pursuit.”

  “I like to think that it is a kindly one. My birds are trained for the benefit of those who suffer from insomnia and I have clients in all parts of the country. Their tuneful song helps to while away the long night hours; only the dousing of the lamplight will terminate the concert.”

  “It seems to me that Lestrade was right,” I observed. “Yours is indeed a unique profession.”

  During our conversation, Holmes, who had idly picked up our companion’s heavy stick, had been examining it with some attention. “I understand that you returned to England some three years ago,” he observed.

  “I did.”

  “From Cuba, I perceive.”

  Theobold Wilson started and for an instant I seemed to catch a gleam of something like wariness in the swift glance that he shot at Holmes. “That is so,” he said. “How did you know?”

  “Your stick is cut from Cuban ebony. There is no mistaking that greenish tint and the high polish.”

  “It might have been bought in London since my return from, say, Africa,” Wilson suggested.

  “No, it has been yours for some years.” Holmes lifted the stick to the carriage window and tilted it so that the daylight shone upon the handle. “You will perceive,” he went on, “that there is a slight but regular scraping that has worn through the polish along the left side of the handle, just where the ring finger of a left-handed man would close upon the grip. Ebony is among the toughest of woods and it would require not only considerable time to cause such wear, but also a ring of some harder metal than gold. You are left-handed, Mr. Wilson, and wear a silver ring on your ring finger.”

  “Dear me, how simple. I thought for the moment that you had done something clever. As it happens, I was in the sugar trade in Cuba and brought my old stick back with me. But here we are at the house and, if you can put my silly niece’s fears at rest as quickly as you can deduce my past, I shall be your debtor.”

  • • •

  On descending from our four-wheeler, we found ourselves in a lane of slatternly houses. So far as I could judge, for the yellow mist was already creeping in, the lower end of the lane sloped down to the river’s edge. At one side was a high wall of crumbling brickwork, and set in it was an iron gate through which we caught a glimpse of a substantial mansion surrounded by its own garden.

  “The old house has known better days,” said our companion, as we followed him through the gate and up the path. “It was built in the year that Peter the Great came to Deptford to study shipbuilding.”

  Usually I am not unduly affected by my surroundings but I must confess that I was aware of a feeling of depression at the melancholy spectacle that lay before us. The house, though of dignified and even imposing proportions, was faced with blotched weather-stained plaster which had fallen away in places to disclose the ancient brickwork that lay beneath, whilst a tangled mass of ivy covering one wall had sent its long tendrils across the high-peaked roof to wreathe itself around the chimney stacks. The garden was an overgrown wilderness, and the air of the whole place reeked with the damp musty smell of the river.

  Theobold Wilson led us through a small hall and into a comfortably furnished drawing room. A young woman with auburn hair and a freckled face, who was sorting through some papers at a writing desk, sprang to her feet at our entrance.

  “Here are Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson,” announced our companion. “This is my niece Janet, whose interests you are here to protect against her own unreasonable conduct.”

  The young lady faced us bravely enough, though I noted a twitch and tremor of the lips that spoke of a high nervous tension. “I am leaving tomorrow, Uncle,” she cried, “and nothing that these gentlemen can say will alter my decision. Here there is only sorrow and fear—above all, fear!”

  “Fear of what?” asked Holmes.

  The girl passed her hand over her eyes. “I—I cannot explain. I hate the shadows and the funny little noises.”

  “You have inherited both money and property, Janet,” said Mr. Wilson earnestly. “Will you, because of shadows, desert the roof of your fathers?”

  “We are here only to serve you, young lady,” said Holmes with some gentleness, “and to try to put your fears at rest. It is often so in life that we injure our own best interests by precipitate actions.”

  “You will laugh at a woman’s intuitions, sir?”

  “By no means. They are often the signposts of providence. Understand clearly that you will go or stay as you see fit, but perhaps, as I am here, it might relieve your mind to show me over the house.”

  “An admirable suggestion!” cried Theobold Wilson cheerily. “Come, Janet, we will soon dispose of your shadows and noises.”

  In a little procession, we trooped from one over-furnished room to another on the ground floor.

  “I will show you the bedrooms now,” said Miss Wilso
n as we paused at last before the staircase.

  “Are there no cellars in a house of this antiquity?”

  “There is one cellar, Mr. Holmes, but it is little used, save for the storage of wood and some of Uncle’s old nest boxes. However, this way, please.”

  It was a gloomy stone-built chamber in which we found ourselves. Logs were piled against one wall, and a potbellied stove, its iron pipe running through the ceiling, filled the far corner. Through a glazed door at the top of a flight of steps, a dim light filtered down upon the flagstones. Holmes sniffed the air keenly, and I was myself aware of an increased mustiness from the nearby river.

  “Like most Thames-side houses, you must be plagued by rats,” he remarked.

  “We used to be. But since Uncle came here, he has got rid of them.”

  “Quite so. Dear me,” Holmes continued, peering down at the floor, “what busy little fellows!”

  Following his gaze, I saw that his attention had been drawn by a few garden ants scurrying across the floor from beneath the edge of the stove and up the steps leading to the door. “It is as well for us, Watson,” he said, pointing with his stick at the tiny particles with which they were encumbered, “that we are not under the necessity of lugging along dinners thrice our own size. It is a lesson to us.”

  Mr. Wilson’s thin lips tightened. “What foolery is this!” he exclaimed. “The ants are there because the servants would throw garbage in the stove to save themselves the trouble of going to the dustbin.”

  “And so you put a lock on the lid?”

  “We did. If you wish, I can fetch the key. No? Then, if you are finished, let me take you to see the bedrooms,” said Mr. Wilson.

  “Perhaps, Miss Wilson, I may see the room where your brother died?” requested Holmes as we reached the top floor.

  “It is here,” replied the girl, throwing open the door. It was a large chamber furnished with some taste and even luxury, and it was lighted by two deeply recessed windows flanking another potbellied stove. A pair of bird cages hung from the stove pipe.