Sherlock Holmes

by Martin Rosenstock

  “I doubt this has made you popular.”

  “Far from it. There has already been a great deal of grumbling from various quarters of the extended family. As word has spread that I am heir to Sir Hubert’s fortune, so have a number of relatives begun to voice their complaint. As a matter of fact, this morning I received a trio of letters sent by cousins several times removed, two of whom I have never even met. The content was acrimonious, each letter stating more or less frankly that I ought to share my windfall with the correspondent, who is as deserving of it as me, if not more so.”

  “Nothing can divide a family quite like money,” I observed. “The larger the sums, the greater the divisions.”

  “It made me feel quite unwell, reading those words at the breakfast table. I found I was trembling all over. Hence, I suppose, the lapse in my usually fastidious table manners.” Carstairs gestured at his food-besmirched collar. “I have yet to recover my appetite.”

  “And this talk of you poisoning Sir Hubert?” said Holmes.

  “It originates from his household staff. They, too, are embittered. They are concerned for their livelihoods, of course. Now that Sir Hubert is dead, they will have to seek positions elsewhere.”

  “You are not going to keep them on?”

  “I have not really thought about it. I have no plans to move into his house, that I do know. I will most likely sell it. It is an enormous premises near Hyde Park, much too large and grand for the likes of me. The same goes for the Pole Star Line. I cannot possibly run such a huge business. I am sure there will be candidates eager to take it off my hands. But I believe his staff’s resentment towards me runs deeper than that. It would appear they thought they might be in line for generous disbursements out of Sir Hubert’s estate and they consider me to have deprived them of those. In their eyes, I inveigled myself into our employer’s favour solely in order to become his legatee, when of course nothing could be further from the truth. As I told you, until two days ago I did not have even the faintest idea he had rewritten his will to my benefit.”

  “Hence they have taken to casting aspersions.”

  “The valet, Deakins, is being particularly acrimonious. Yesterday afternoon he drew me aside and said, ‘It would not be difficult for someone who works in close proximity to Sir Hubert to have slipped a certain substance into his nightly sleeping draught – a certain substance injurious to his health.’ I am paraphrasing. He did not put it in quite such bald terms, but the implication was clear nevertheless. No less clear is the fact that many of Deakins’s colleagues below stairs share his view. I have been on the receiving end of countless glares and suspicious glances from them, to such an extent that today I did not visit the house at all. The atmosphere there is now quite obnoxious.”

  “One can hardly blame you,” I said.

  “What everyone seems to be overlooking, in their rush to condemn me, are the circumstances leading up to Sir Hubert’s death.”

  “Which were?” said Holmes.

  “It is widely known, if not well publicised, that Sir Hubert was a committed spiritualist,” said Carstairs. “Frequently he would attend séances and consult the spirits for advice on business decisions.”

  “Surely not!” my companion expostulated.

  “It seems incongruous, I grant you – the hardnosed, ruthless businessman availing himself of the services of psychic mediums. Yet Sir Hubert was ever a man of contradictions. For all that he avowed himself a pragmatist, he always kept upon his person the very first shilling he earned as a young actuary working at Southampton docks. It sat in his pocket in a velvet pouch and he would refer to it as his ‘good-luck charm’. I remember one day he mislaid it, and we turned the house upside down looking for it, Sir Hubert cursing like a navvy all the while. He was near apoplectic until it was found. One might have thought his entire shipping empire was going to collapse unless he got that talismanic shilling back. The same goes for his spiritualism. He would not consider purchasing a freighter or investing in a new trade route without first seeking reassurance from ‘beyond the veil’ that he was doing the right thing.”

  “I presume the spirits were never less than approbatory.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “It stands to reason,” said Holmes. “Such beings are entirely of the medium’s manufacture. Put yourself in that individual’s shoes when Sir Hubert Cole comes to call. A man as eminent, as prosperous as he, sitting down at your parlour table? You are unlikely to intimate that he is anything other than wise and sensible. You will see to it that the spirits, for whom you purport to act as a mouthpiece, concur with his every proposition and flatter his ego. It ensures repeat patronage. His silver will continue to cross your palm.”

  “That is a dashed cynical view,” said Carstairs.

  “Am I wrong? From what I understand about mediumship, the intent is to offer guidance and succour to the living by means of communiqués from the souls of the departed. It is blatant charlatanry, but it provides its practitioners with an income, and they would not endanger that by offending their clients. Hence any counsel the alleged spirits give is going to be nothing but heartening and positive.”

  “Ordinarily I might not disagree with you, sir.”

  “But?”

  “But I attended a séance with Sir Hubert the evening before he died.”

  “And?”

  “And what I experienced there…” said Carstairs. “Well, suffice to say, Mr. Holmes, the spirits on that particular occasion were signally malevolent. One of them was, at least.”

  The young man drew a deep breath.

  “Indeed,” he continued, “I would even go so far as to suggest that it is that same spirit who killed Sir Hubert.”

  Holmes sat back in his chair, arching one eyebrow. An ironical smile played about his lips.

  “That is quite some assertion,” said he.

  “I know,” said Carstairs, “and yet it readily accounts for the tragedy.”

  “How so?”

  “Let me describe what happened. It was on the evening of Friday last that I accompanied Sir Hubert to Brixton, where the medium in question resides.”

  “Name?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “The name of this Brixton swindler?”

  “Miss Ellen Efralstein,” said Carstairs. “She came highly recommended. Although a relative newcomer to the scene, in spiritualist circles she had already earned herself a positively shining reputation. Sir Hubert has read an article in Light lauding her abilities and was eager to make her acquaintance.”

  “Light – that spiritualist rag, correct?”

  “Yes, I suppose. Sir Hubert was a subscriber. As we drove to Brixton, he was in high spirits – no pun intended. Giddy as a schoolboy. He had recently been contemplating the acquisition of one of the Pole Star Line’s main competitors, and he could not wait to see what the spirits might have to say about the advisability of the purchase.”

  “Did you always go with him to séances?”

  “Not always, but sometimes he would bring me along as what one might call moral support, particularly if the medium was new to him. Even he was alert to the possibility of being hoodwinked. ‘A second pair of eyes and ears comes in handy,’ he would say, ‘to help me judge the person’s reliability.’”

  “Are you yourself a sceptic? Or a believer?”

  “I am not as sceptical as you, Mr. Holmes.”

  “I doubt anyone is,” I muttered.

  “I retain an open mind on the subject,” said Carstairs. “‘There are more things in heaven and earth,’ and so forth. It would be a great shame if life were limited only to that which we can see, hear, and touch. The world is all the more interesting for having a tinge of the mysterious.”

  “There are mysteries enough in the everyday,” said Holmes. “One only has to go looking for them. But pray carry on.”

  “Miss Efralstein was herself mysterious. She arrived in the room with a half-veil covering her face, leaving just
her mouth exposed, and she spoke in a husky, attenuated whisper that was in itself somewhat otherworldly.”

  “Was anyone else present at the occasion?”

  “There were half a dozen of us assembled around the table, all told, counting Miss Efralstein. The other three comprised a middle-aged widower and a married couple who had lately lost a child. All three struck me as sincere, decent sorts, keen to make contact with their loved ones.”

  “Indeed. Go on.”

  “It started, as these things are wont, with the curtains being drawn and the gas jet extinguished. The sole source of illumination in the room was a candle flickering at the centre of the table. At Miss Efralstein’s instruction, we linked hands. Then she begged us to banish all doubt from our hearts and open ourselves up to emanations from beyond. Enjoining us to silence, she began to breathe deeply and entered into a trance. Minutes passed, and Miss Efralstein sank deeper and deeper into her hypnotic state. Her inhalations and exhalations slowed almost to a halt, until all at once, with a start, she sat bolt upright.

  “‘Are you there, Great Brown Owl?’ she intoned. ‘Can you hear me, my Red Indian spirit guide?’

  “By way of a reply, a tambourine which sat upon a nearby side-table rattled.”

  “A tambourine,” said Holmes. “I take it that the instrument was not within Miss Efralstein’s reach.”

  “Nor within reach of anyone at the table.”

  “Of course not.”

  Carstairs continued his narrative. “‘Thank you, Great Brown Owl,’ Miss Efralstein said. ‘We are honoured by your presence. Speak through me, I beseech you, so that all may hear your words and reap the benefit of your wisdom.’

  “Now, another voice emerged from the woman. It was deep and sonorous, a rich, masculine voice quite unlike her own.

  “‘Here I am,’ it said. The accent was that of an American Indian, at least as far as I could tell. ‘You have summoned me from the Happy Hunting Ground. What questions do you wish me to pass on to the spirits?’

  “Well, my nape hairs were prickling, gentlemen, I won’t lie. Although I had attended séances before, hearing that voice, so patently not Miss Efralstein’s, reverberate around the room – it was eerie. Eerier still were the answers it conveyed, for they seemed unusually perceptive. The widower learned that his late wife Margaret missed him greatly but wished him to carry on with his life. Margaret suggested that her best friend, a lady by the name of Susannah whose own spouse had died not so long ago, might make a suitable mate and helpmeet. ‘Your wife does not want you to mourn for ever,’ Great Brown Owl said. ‘You must move on with your life, to enjoy the days remaining to you. Susannah will bring you the comforts you deserve.’

  “As for the couple whose child had died – a little girl aged six, taken by scarlet fever – Great Brown Owl told them she was there beside him, playing merrily with her favourite toy, a ragdoll called Annie. This startled both the mother and father, since neither had hitherto mentioned any doll. To compound their amazement, the child herself then spoke through Miss Efralstein. In a kind of lisping treble she said that she was being looked after in the next world by ‘Grandfather Jack’. The mother broke down in tears, admitting that her father, whose name was indeed Jack, had passed on a few years ago, not long after their daughter was born. Whilst alive, he had doted on the infant.

  “It was all, I will say, utterly convincing. Miss Efralstein could not possibly have known these details about her clients beforehand. The origin of the information could only be the spirit world.”

  “Could it?” said Holmes. “Well, perhaps.”

  “But, where the spirits had hitherto offered consolation, what came next was quite the reverse. For it was now Sir Hubert’s turn to make overtures. He cleared his throat and apologised to Great Brown Owl for seeking not contact with a loved one but, rather, more general advice from ‘the all-knowing spirits’. Great Brown Owl intimated that he might ask whatever he liked. Accordingly, Sir Hubert enquired whether he should proceed with the purchase of the other shipping line.

  “There was nothing from Great Brown Owl for several seconds. Then Miss Efralstein began to moan and tremble, and before our very eyes a sticky white substance started extruding itself from her nose.”

  “Ectoplasm, I imagine.”

  “None other,” said Carstairs. “The viscous jelly which manifests in the presence of intense spiritual energy. It poured from her left nostril in a great, thick stream, pooling in her lap. As the last of it fell free, a new voice manifested from her throat. This one, gentlemen, was not the sage sound of Great Brown Owl, nor the high, halting tones of the little girl. This was something else altogether. It was harsh and grating, filled with bile. It was… There is no other word for it. It was evil.”

  I am not ashamed to admit that a chill ran up my spine.

  “What did it say?” Holmes asked.

  “Its message was as follows. ‘Remember the eagle, Sir Hubert. Remember the eagle!’”

  “That is all?”

  “It was enough, it seemed, because Sir Hubert went quite rigid. He was sitting next to me and his hand clutched mine so hard it hurt. His face, in the candlelight, was a mask of horror.

  “‘What is the meaning of this, spirit?’ he barked. ‘How dare you! You have no right to say such a thing.’

  “Miss Efralstein was now shuddering so violently that the legs of her chair rattled upon the floorboards, while the moans coming from her were akin to screams. Between her gasps, the spirit voice issued its admonition one last time – ‘Remember the eagle!’ – even as the other three attendees at the séance began making fretful noises. The medium’s distress was more than a little discomfiting. Sir Hubert continued to bluster indignantly, but nothing more was forthcoming from whichever dire entity currently possessed Miss Efralstein.

  “All at once the candle blew out, and that lady, with a cry, fell back from the table, crashing to the floor. Someone – I don’t recall who – turned up the gas, shedding proper light across the parlour. I helped Miss Efralstein to her feet, but the poor woman was quite incommoded and, with many an expression of apology, she hurried from the room. The meeting broke up in some disarray, and I escorted my employer back to his brougham and we wended our way homeward. Sir Hubert was in a choleric mood throughout the journey, drumming a hand upon his knee and plucking at his jacket lapel, but he would not be drawn on the subject of the spirit’s words. For all my efforts to cajole some sort of explanation from him, I was met with a stone wall. All he would say was, ‘I do not like this peasouper, Alec.’ The fog was, at that time, beginning to amass over London. ‘I do not like it. Not one bit. It reeks of brine and misery.’”

  “Did it?”

  “To him, perhaps, Mr. Holmes. To me it seemed merely a fog. At any rate, when we got back to his house I saw him to bed and went home myself, certain he would regain his mental equilibrium by the morning. Alas, during the night…”

  Carstairs broke off. His fingernails clawed at his eczematous wrists more furiously than ever.

  “During the night,” Holmes said, “Sir Hubert died.”

  “And my tribulations were born. It may have looked like a fatal coronary thrombosis, as the doctor pronounced upon examining the body. To all intents and purposes it was. But the message from that evil spirit induced it, Mr. Holmes. Make no mistake. Those three words, ‘Remember the eagle,’ killed Sir Hubert Cole as surely as a bullet to the heart.”

  This last sentence hung sombrely in the air.

  Then Holmes said, “Most intriguing. I have a few questions, if I may, Mr. Carstairs.”

  “You are going to investigate the matter?”

  “Much depends upon your answers. First of all, what exactly is it that you want from me?”

  “I want you to determine my innocence. I want myself exonerated of all possible blame.”

  “But how may I do that? If some immaterial being is the true culprit, there is no way on earth I can prove it beyond all reasonable doubt. For that
you require a far more esoteric authority than me.”

  “If the famous Mr. Sherlock Holmes is able to clear my name, that will be enough.”

  “Very well. If you insist. My next question relates to the sleeping draught you mentioned. Was Sir Hubert in the habit of taking one every night?”

  “He was,” said Carstairs. “For as long as I had been working for him, he had suffered from insomnia, finding it impossible to sleep without medicinal aid.”

  “Out of professional curiosity, what was it?” I asked. “Hyoscyamus? Paraldehyde? Chloralose?”

  “Sulfonal,” came the reply.

  “And from the valet Deakins’s comment,” said Holmes, “I infer that you are the one who would administer the draught to Sir Hubert.”

  “I would mix a spoonful of powder from the bottle into a glass of warm water and bring this to him on a tray each evening, just before he turned in. That task, which he had previously performed himself, he entrusted to me. His eyesight was not what it used to be and he could not rely on himself to get the measurement of the sulfonal grains right.”

  “Why did he not make Deakins do it for him? Surely it is just the sort of job which falls to a valet.”

  “Sir Hubert hated to show weakness, and he regarded his insomnia as just that, a weakness. Deakins was not supposed to know about it or about the sulfonal. None of the staff was. Of course, they did. There are few secrets a householder may keep from his servants, however much he tries.”

  “Interesting,” said Holmes. “On the face of it, Mr. Carstairs, there seems no case here.”

  Carstairs looked crestfallen.

  “Then again,” Holmes added, “there are certain elements of your narrative which pique my interest. It so happens that I find mediumship inordinately offensive. It is not a harmless pastime, whatever people might say. It exploits the gullible and the vulnerable, for which reason it is abhorrent to all right-thinking people. In addition, I have a fair few suspicions about Miss Ellen Efralstein which I am keen to develop.”