“I don’t think there will be a problem, Mr. Pender,” replied Holmes. “I believe that Mr. Carroll and Mr. Lewis are ready to settle the question of oyster ownership this morning. If you desire privacy, gentlemen, you may step into the other room to conduct your negotiations.”
Silently the two men, one still with a very red face and the other with a very white one, got up from the table and went into the adjoining room. For a few minutes we heard muttered voices. Suddenly there was loud shouting and a bang as the hallway door slammed shut. Charles Carroll rejoined us as we heard Mr. Lewis stamp down the stairs and out the front door.
“Mr. Lewis offers his regrets but will not be breakfasting with us after all,” said our client with satisfaction. “In fact, he has decided to get out of the seafood business altogether. He has a cousin who wants to start a white rose tree nursery. I shall buy him out with a fair price which he can use to invest with his cousin. Bill can work there. Mr. Surlaw, Mr. Lewis considers the debt paid. He asked that you hand the cancelled markers over to Mr. Holmes.”
“It seems a shame not to be able to receive the second half of that contract,” mused Mr. Surlaw. Carl Pender twitched violently. Surlaw sighed and pulled out a sheaf of papers, which he handed to my friend. Sherlock Holmes walked over to the fireplace and dropped them on the flames.
“There is one more point to clear up before we enjoy Mrs. Hudson’s cooking,” said Holmes. “Mr. Surlaw, I need the key Mr. Lewis gave you to enter the warehouse.”
Gaylord Surlaw looked blank. “The key? That duplicate key? I thought I gave that to you last night.”
Holmes smiled and lifted a dish cover. Savory smells emerged. “No, you did not, sir.”
The rascal licked his lips and surrendered. He placed the duplicate key on the table and reached for the crumb-dusted baked oysters. I uncovered a generous dish of egg and chopped oyster omelette surrounded by slices of ham. Mr. Carroll picked up the lid of the last dish to reveal smoked kippers in oyster sauce.
Mr. Pender held out his plate.
“Some day you must tell me which was more difficult for you, Mr. Holmes,” said Charles Carroll. “To un-dish-cover these oysters or to dishcover Mr. Lewis’ plot.”
The Case of the Deceitful Death
During my long association with the consulting detective Mr. Sherlock Holmes I had amassed extensive files on many of the cases in which I played some small part. Among these were many unusual stories. One involved a second stepsister where none was expected. Looking into a case of robbery uncovered the fate of a woman named Maria Rapunzel who had run away from her home. But nowhere in my experience did I find a more intriguing and fascinating case as the one that featured the medium and the dead man.
Holmes received a telegram at our rooms at 221b Baker Street one hot summer evening. It was from Scotland Yard Inspector Peck, a police officer who had consulted with my friend on a previous case involving three ships that arrived on New Year’s Day in the morning. The telegram message was brief.
“Come at once to 1212 Henning Street, East Nisten. Am investigating odd stabbing case. Who would murder a dead man?”
“Make a long arm and hand me yesterday’s issue of the London Blatt, Watson,” said my companion. He turned the newspaper pages until he came to the article he remembered seeing the day before, which he proceeded to read aloud.
“’Medium Declared Genuine, Sir Oliver Looke tells Royal Academy of Science. Sir Oliver Looke, the eminent astronomer and member of the council that advises Whitehall on important advances in science, has announced that in his investigation of Madame Fortuna, the noted medium, he has shown that her psychic powers are not faked, as some have alleged.
“Speaking from the steps of Madame Fortuna’s home, at 1212 Henning Street, Sir Oliver declared that he will read a paper during the next meeting of the Royal Academy proving that the powers of mediums that endeavour to contact the dead really exist and Spiritualism should be considered an accepted religion.
“‘This is a wonderful day,’ said Sir Oliver. ‘Now everyone can rejoice that their loved ones continue to exist after the death of the body and may be communicated with through the efforts of these humble persons blessed with the power to piece the veils which separate us from the departed. I have heard the voice of my own beloved mother, and touched her hand, through the gifts given Madame Fortuna.’ Ha! Claptrap, Watson, pure claptrap!”
Holmes threw down the paper, rose and struck a match for his pipe.
“I’ve said it before, Watson. This agency stands flatfooted upon the ground. No ghosts need apply. One world is enough. Pah! What have I to do with tipping tables dancing around the room in pitch darkness, floating lights, spooky voices and luminous cheesecloth manifesting as your grandmother’s ectoplasm? Spiritualism is famously rife with charlatans, frauds and crooks. Until science can come up with solid, irrefutable proof of its reality, I will continue to class communication with dead people with the existence of vampires, headless horsemen and mermaids.
“But the worthy Inspector Peck has piqued my interest. Go down and hail a cab, Watson, and let us see what mystery haunts 1212 Henning Street.”
East Nisten was one of those old neighbourhoods that clung to the edges of Greater London, fated to be demolished and replaced by modern houses. A hansom cab ride through some of our more historic districts and over the Thames brought us to our destination. It was a tall crumbling red-brick row house, hastily thrown together in the days of the last Stuart monarch. The neighbourhood was under transition. Buildings on either side of 1212 Henning and behind it had already been torn down and the debris cleared away.
We found Inspector Peck waiting inside. He was a tall, thoughtful man with light brown hair and sharp brown eyes who stood to the side in the first floor parlour. I knew little about him except that he was fond of the theatre and boasted a fine tenor voice. Both had came into use during the Three Ships adventure. Behind him were two large windows affording a view of the street. Both were hung with very thick black drapes. On the opposite wall was a large tapestry of a hunting scene hanging over a cherry wood sideboard. On it were three glasses and a pitcher of water. In the middle of the room was a light round table. A simple trumpet and a hand bell stood on its surface. Over the table was suspended an electric chandelier. The table was surrounded by chairs; one of whom held the body of an older man slumped over, his head resting on the table. He was dressed in a drab dark grey suit. Under his left shoulder blade was a small reddish spot. It was the only sign of a wound.
“What did the police surgeon say about the cause of death, Inspector?” asked Holmes.
“That small spot of red marks a wound resulting from the insertion of a long, narrow skewer of some sort through the back muscles. It pierced almost to the heart and filled the sac around the heart with blood. The outer skin closed tight, allowing only a little blood to escape the body. It only took a few moments for internal bleeding to fill the sac around the heart and kill the victim. He probably felt little pain. That is why he never raised an alarm.”
“Please continue.”
“This house belongs to Madame Fortuna, the famous mystic and Spiritualism medium. We have been following her career for several years. Her real name is Sadie Spector. She started as a fortune teller on the promenade of Brighton and worked her way up to Madame Fortuna, consultant to very important people, including members of Parliament. She is in the habit of using this room for her séances. Sir Oliver Looke just declared she is a genuine medium. You read the story in the London Blatt?”
“Yes.”
“Well, so have many other people. Over the past year a great many of them wanted to consult the spirits through Madame Fortuna. Among the clients who gathered for a séance here this afternoon was Mr. Fledge Byrd, his fiancé Miss Mina Nestor, Byrd’s brother Nead, Herr Schlupfwinkel of Berlin and M. Caspar Bougre of Paris. The others are waiting in a
nother room. This body, sad to say, was all that’s left of Herr Schlupfwinkel.
“According to Madame Fortuna, who discovered the death, the sitters arrived for a séance set up at the request of Mr. Fledge Byrd. He had been attending sessions here for nearly four weeks. Each time he wanted to hear from his departed mother, who died six years ago. He was very close to her. Mr. Nead Byrd and Miss Nestor, who was engaged to marry Fledge, usually accompanied him. M. Caspar Bougre was also a previous client. However, Herr Schlupfwinkel had just arrived in London. He had requested that he be allowed to attend one of Madame Fortuna’s séances at the earliest opportunity.”
“So Herr Schlupfwinkel was unknown to the others.”
“That’s right. All the clients were admitted by Madame Fortuna’s servant, Dormir. Mr. Fledge Byrd asked for this session for a reason. His uncle, Mr. Bailus Schell, travelling in France for his health, had drowned on the Cote de ‘Or two weeks ago. Mr. Byrd was most anxious to contact the departed to get information about some papers that were needed in order to settle the estate.”
“Was this contact established?” asked Sherlock Holmes with a straight face.
“After the accepted formula, all the clients and Madame Fortuna sat around the table, their fingers spread out and the tips touching to close the psychic circle. According to Madame Fortuna, Fledge Byrd sat at her right and Caspar Bougre to her left. Next to Fledge Byrd sat Miss Nestor and Herr Schlupfwinkel, with Nead Byrd closing the circle. After Dormir pulled these thick curtains over the windows and extinguished the lights, Kura, Madame Fortuna’s spirit guide, came through. She was asked to allow the spirit of Mr. Schell to come through. That bell rang and the trumpet sounded and after a lot of knocking and banging in the dark, a message came through the entranced Madame Fortuna. The message asked that Fledge and Nead Byrd return in a week for another séance, when their uncle would be ready to communicate with them and answer any questions they might have. According to Madame Fortuna, Mr. Schell’s spirit was still adjusting to the changes brought on by his passing and was not yet strong enough to talk to his nephews directly. After the lights were turned up and nearly all of the parties had left the room Madame Fortuna saw that Herr Schlupfwinkel had not moved. He was discovered to be dead. She sent Dormir for the police. After I arrived I questioned Madame Fortuna who told me this story. Meanwhile the surgeon examined the body. He found something quite unusual. He reported to me what he had found and I realized that this was just the sort of thing you might find interesting. That was when I sent the telegram.”
“What was so unusual?”
“Herr Schlupfwinkel was wearing a disguise. See, here are his false Dundreary whiskers and moustache, a grey wig and coloured eyeglasses, designed to hide his true identity.”
“Have you established his true identity?”
“I have. After the corpse was stripped of its facial adornments the other clients and Madame Fortuna were allowed to view the body, in hopes that one of them might recognize him.”
“And he turned out to be…?”
“Mr. Bailus Schell, the deceased uncle of Mr. Fledge Byrd and his brother Nead.”
“You were right; this is just the sort of thing I do find interesting,” replied Sherlock Holmes. “Did either Mr. Byrd have any explanation for this deception?”
“None at all, Mr. Holmes. They were adamant that they both believed their uncle was dead. I would point out that it was to contact the spirit of this man that Mr. Byrd requested today’s séance.”
“One would think that the hereafter would be the worst place to search for the spirit of a living man. Therefore, we may conclude that Mr. Fledge Byrd didn’t know that Herr Schlupfwinkel was really his uncle Bailus. Mr. Schell must have been recognized by the murderer before the lights were dimmed and the séance commenced.”
“Why would one of those people kill him?”
“That is a good question. Are the sitters still here?”
“Yes. They have been waiting in the next room.”
“I want to examine this room first. Then I would like to talk to the others.”
“Of course. Besides Madame Fortuna, I have not had a chance to question them myself. I’ll have the body removed now.”
“Wait a moment.”
Sherlock Holmes pulled out his magnifying lens and began an examination of the unfortunate Mr. Bailus Schell. He seemed especially interested in the dead man’s hands. He pointed out to Inspector Peck and me the malformed nail of Mr. Schell’s smallest finger on his left hand.
When he indicated that he was finished, two constables carried the body away. Holmes was just beginning on the rest of the room when thin grey tendrils drifted in from the hallway. I heard a faint sound of crackling and smelled the sharp odour of burning wood and cloth. Cries of alarum suddenly erupted and there was a rush of people down the hall heading for the stairs.
“Holmes!” I shouted. “The building is on fire! Come away!”
Instead of fleeing like the clients, Holmes ripped the tapestry from the wall over the sideboard and plunged into the mass of smoke and flames, trying to beat out the fire. Loyally I followed him, grabbing the pitcher of water from the sideboard on the way. A couple of the constables and Inspector Peck joined in. Our efforts proved futile, however, for the blaze was far advanced. The heat and smoke finally forced all of us to stagger out of Madame Fortuna’s house just as the roof collapsed. The fire brigade arrived, a pair of matched black horses throwing sparks when their hooves clattered across the cobblestones. They pulled the brass-laden red fire engine loaded with firemen close to the building. Tongues of fire and brilliant sparks arched upward into the darkening sky. We collapsed on the curb on the other side of the street and watched as the men fought vigorously against the conflagration. The fire was clearly beyond human control and the building could not be saved. The rest of the block was protected by the fact that the lots surrounding Madame Fortuna’s home had already been cleared.
At last it was all over and the crowds moved away from the scene of desolation. As a safety measure, the firemen began to knock down the charred timbers and the friable brickwork by the light of the streetlamps. The sun had gone down long before. The dripping ruin smouldered here and there and the firemen checked to make sure no hot embers survived.
Inspector Peck found us. His face was smudged with soot and dirt, but he swaggered up to Holmes and me as if he was waltzing down Piccadilly.
“There is no reason for you gentlemen to stay,” he smiled. “I sent the others home. I have arrested Madame Fortuna for the death of Mr. Schell and the arson of her house.”
“You are correct to arrest her for arson,” said Holmes. “But she didn’t kill Bailus Schell.”
Inspector Peck frowned. “Mr. Schell was wearing a disguise. Obviously he was investigating Madame Fortuna’s fraudulent business. She saw through the bushy whiskers and killed him before he could expose her tricks. Then she burned down the house, which was slated for demolition anyway, to cover her tracks. There might even be a bit of insurance fraud in it, too. No, Mr. Holmes, I have the right person and no mistake. Thank you for the interest you have shown in this case, but I see little need for you to involve yourself further. We just need to find her servant Dormir. He has disappeared, but I expect we’ll track him down soon enough.”
There was nothing more to be done that night, so Holmes and I found a cab and returned to Baker Street.
Sherlock Holmes was in a bad humour the next morning. My friend paced around the sitting room, interrupting my breakfast by slapping newspapers on the furniture and banging things around on the mantelpiece.
“Aren’t you going to eat anything?” I asked as he threw himself into his armchair.
“Food!” he grumbled. “I am not interested in food. That deluded Inspector Peck has managed to make me as mad as a wet hen. Imagine arresting Madame Fortuna for Bailus Sc
hell’s murder! The trouble with that man is that he has too much imagination. Because of that, shall a cold-blooded murderer get away with such a crime?”
The doorbell rang. In a few moments Mrs. Hudson ushered in a middle-aged man. He was tall, with a trim appearance in his dress and footwear that suggested the Continent. His hair was jet black and slicked down with pomade. His eyes were large and pale blue and his nose was thin. He had a strong chin, however, and his mouth curled up at the corners as if he was continually suppressing a natural laugh. Now, though, his air was quite serious as he handed Holmes his card and sat down on the sofa.
“I am M. Caspar Bougre of Paris, France. You must be Dr. Watson and you, of course, are Mr. Holmes, the great detective. I attended the séance at Madame Fortuna’s yesterday. Inspector Peck gave me your name, sir, and said you had visited the scene of Mr. Schell’s death before the fire broke out.”
“That is correct, sir.”
“I have come to you, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, to ask you to find Bailus Schell’s killer. I knew him for barely a year, but a kinder, more upright man you could never ask to meet. He was only trying to protect his nephew, sir, when he attended that séance, and it was that séance that killed him.”
“Do you mean that you believe Madame Fortuna murdered him?”
“No, no! Let me tell the entire story and perhaps you can pick daylight out from the heavy clouds that cover the truth.”
“Proceed.”
“I am a gentleman of independent means, the son of a chemistry professor connected with the Sorbonne. He made a great deal of money from the patents he filed during his researches into early coal-oil derivatives. I have developed a small reputation from the series of travel books I write. I first met Bailus Schell thirteen months ago at a health spa in Germany. We have met sporadically since, every time our paths crossed during our travels. He was a retired school teacher who had been left some money by his grandfather and so was also independent. He suffered from a heart complaint and had travelled from one watering place to another in search of a cure for over two years. We became friends. Although he had not been home in England for quite a while, he talked a great deal about his family there. His only remaining relatives were two nephews, the sons of his sister. Their names were Fledge Byrd and his younger brother Nead. Their father had been a brewer and upon his death the brothers had inherited the business.
Sherlock Holmes and the Folk Tale Mysteries - Volume 2 Page 23
