Sherlock Holmes and the Folk Tale Mysteries - Volume 2

by Puhl, Gayle Lange

  “Nead in particular had written to his uncle regularly. About three months ago Schell told me that Nead’s letters became full of news about Fledge’s visits to various mediums and the séances he attended. Fledge had become obsessed with getting in contact with his dead mother. They had been very close. Nead even wrote to his uncle about an intimate conversation he had overheard between Fledge and his mother the night before she died six years ago.

  “Nead advised Fledge against giving so much attention and money to the mediums but his brother brushed away the warnings. Miss Mina Nestor, Fledge’s betrothed, supported her fiancé’s actions and would not join Nead in his campaign to bring some common sense to the situation.

  “Nearly three weeks ago Nead wrote to say that Fledge had started visiting Madame Fortuna. Her spirit guide, Kura, supposedly was close to establishing a strong link with the spirit of their mother. Fledge started spending a lot of time at her house. He was beginning to neglect the business and Nead felt a crisis was developing. He asked his uncle for help.

  “Schell sent a letter of good advice to his nephew, but Fledge sent back a haughty note declaring that, as a grown man he did not believe he needed any advice from “such an old relative”. The response hurt Schell very much, although he tried to hide it. I volunteered to go to London and attend a few of Madame Fortuna’s séances in order to get an idea of what was going on. I sat in on five séances in as many days, three of them involving Fledge Byrd. He was always accompanied by Miss Nestor. Nead Byrd came twice.

  “The man was under Madame Fortuna’s spell. He accepted completely every one of her pronouncements, disguised by the trappings of Spiritualism. I am a rational man, Mr. Holmes, and the son of a scientist, and I was dismayed by the power this charlatan held over Fledge Byrd. I admit her tricks were subtle and well presented, but I was never tempted to believe she ever held genuine communication with the dead. Everything that happened could be explained rationally.

  “I felt totally vindicated when I discovered that my room at the hotel had been rifled and a man fitting the description of Madame Fortuna’s servant, Dormir, had been seen outside my door shortly before. At the next séance I attended several messages were directed to me, repeating details that could have easily been obtained by going through my things.

  “I wrote about all this to Schell and he wrote back, asking me to return to the south of France where he wanted to talk over the situation. He met me at the train station and took me off to his hotel. He listened to my summary of the trip and then announced he had a plan.

  “I was to stay in the town for several days and keep my eye on the local newspaper. It would carry a message from him. When I saw it, I would know what to do. His instructions were confusing. He was vague on all details. But there was no mistaking his determination, so finally I agreed.

  “Two days later I read of his drowning in the Mediterranean Sea. I was shocked. I went to the police, who told me only that his clothing had been left in a rented bathing chalet. Witnesses had seen him struggling in the water, but by the time rescuers arrived, his body had drifted away. I didn’t think this was the kind of news that should be learned from a wire or the newspapers, so I journeyed at once to London to tell the Byrd brothers myself. They were very upset.”

  “Is that when Fledge Byrd asked Madame Fortuna for a séance in order to contact his uncle?”

  “Yes. She made the appointment for yesterday afternoon.”

  “Did you recognize Mr. Schell when he was introduced as Herr Schlupfwinkel?”

  “No. I wasn’t expecting to see him, you see. He wore unfamiliar clothes, stooped as though under a heavy burden and had covered his face with that wig and the whiskers. When the police brought us back later to see the dead man’s face, I was as surprised as anyone.”

  “Did you know of Mr. Schell’s crooked finger nail?”

  “Yes. He told me it was a congenital condition. His father had a crooked finger nail and so did his two nephews. But I didn’t notice it yesterday until after the murder. I was sitting several seats away.”

  “What can you tell me of Miss Mina Nestor?” asked Holmes.

  “I just met her the few times we attended the same séance. Fledge Byrd met her when he purchased her father’s brewing business. The old man was ill and had to sell. He died soon after. His wife had passed away years ago. According to what was told me by Nead Byrd, Fledge asked her to marry him soon after the sale, but then got the notion into his head that his departed mother should have an opportunity to approve of the union. Ever since then he had been going from one medium to another, trying to contact his mother’s spirit. A few times he thought she had gotten through, but the messages were proven false. Madame Fortuna was his latest attempt.

  “Miss Nestor supported him in this quest?”

  “Yes. She was very eager to get his poor mother’s approval. Each time the answer seemed to be yes, she urged him to stop searching and accept that his mother had given her permission. But Nead said that Fledge always found some fault and would look for another medium to investigate. But he did tell Nead that Madame Fortuna was his last try. If she was a fake, he would stop looking. But he told his brother that he felt that he could never marry without his mother’s approval.”

  “That must have upset Miss Nestor.”

  “It did indeed. According to Nead, she was pinning all her future plans on this marriage.”

  Sherlock Holmes stood up and fumbled with the pipes and tobacco he kept on the mantelpiece. After a few minutes he turned back to us, his old briar sending tendrils of smoke up toward the ceiling.

  “Will you, M. Bougre, help me get all the principals of this case together?”

  “Certainly I will. Tell me what to do.”

  “Invite Mr. Fledge Byrd, Mr. Nead Byrd and Miss Mina Nestor to another séance to be held at the Hotel Stange in Greater Tutam Street this afternoon at three o’clock.”

  “Who is the medium?”

  “Miss Margery Daw, a most amazing woman I met during a case in Canterbury last year. You were visiting Mr. Miller on the river Dee that month, Watson. She has true gifts, I believe, and I think she could solve Mr. Byrd’s dilemma. I do ask you, sir, to use a name not his own when you introduce Dr. Watson to the others. It is now nearly noon. Off you go, M. Bougre, and please do not mention me at all. I will introduce myself to them at the séance.”

  Our client left and I confronted Sherlock Holmes.

  “What are you up to, Holmes? Just yesterday you were telling me that Spiritualism was claptrap. And I’ve never been to the river Dee in my life!”

  My friend just smiled at me and disappeared into his bedroom. I stood fuming for several minutes but when he didn’t come back I stamped upstairs to my own room. Again Sherlock Holmes saw things I didn’t and knew things that were a mystery to me. He had made me a part of his plans without explaining to me my role. I sat in the armchair by my bed and tried to make sense of what had just happened.

  Bailus Schell had faked his own death, for reasons unknown, and in disguise attended a séance in London that included his unsuspecting nephews and his friend. There he had been stabbed to death. When the police were called, the house of the medium had been torched and totally destroyed. Now Sherlock Holmes had invited the two nephews, the friend of the dead man and the betrothed of one of the brothers to another séance where he had promised that an important and pressing question would be answered by spirits conjured up by a medium using otherworldly powers Holmes didn’t believe existed.

  Had my friend changed his mind about Spiritualism during the last twenty-four hours? It seemed unlikely. Sherlock Holmes’ one outstanding characteristic was a cold and logical mind. Appeals to the dead held no brief in his excellent brain. It would be as logical for him to believe in the powers of a medium as it would be to believe that consulting the pigeons outside our sitting room windows wou
ld gain us useful advice on the stock market.

  And why was I to be incognito? I could think of no answer.

  I shrugged and went downstairs. I found Holmes had gone out, but Mrs. Hudson had laid out a little cold lunch for me, per his orders. He had also left me a note asking me to come to the Hotel Stange at three o’clock, for he wanted me to be at the séance.

  Heartened that apparently I was to play a part in this drama, I arrived at the hotel just at the stroke of three. Inside the manager directed me to room 144.

  Room 144 was a plainly furnished room. The bed that it normally contained had been removed and a round table and eight chairs installed. There was a gas fixture over the table and what looked like new thick curtains over the single window. A chest of drawers stood in one corner.

  The others arrived shortly after me. Mr. Bougre introduced me as “Mr. Chook” to Mr. Nead Byrd, his older brother Fledge and to Miss Mina Nestor. There was quite a family resemblance between the two brothers. Both were powerfully built men in their mid thirties. Mr. Fledge Byrd was a trifle taller and Mr. Nead Byrd had a thicker head of brown hair. Both had the ruddy complexion of the English Norman-Saxon and their handshakes were firm. I did notice that Fledge Byrd had a habit of twisting a ring on his left hand.

  Miss Mina Nestor was a short, somewhat overly plump woman dressed in a welter of furs and satin. Her deep bosom was draped with layers of handmade lace. She appeared to be several years older than her fiancé. She had a broad and plain face and her eyes looked out from under thin brown lashes. As the daughter of one of the most successful brewers in her community she may have been considered a matrimonial prize in her youth, but it was obvious that no man had chose to pluck that prize, and now the years were gathering to her faster than she had expected. The plumes on her extravagant Leghorn hat trembled as she nodded to me. I noticed that she clung to Fledge Byrd’s side as he moved about the room.

  The door opened behind us and the hotel manager handed me a telegram. I tore it open. All it said was “Start without me. Holmes.” He also ushered in a strange figure.

  It was a woman, apparently this Margery Daw Holmes had mentioned earlier. She was tall for a woman and wore a simple green gown. It was draped in an unusual fashion with a grab-bag of multi-coloured silky scarves and shawls. Tassels and fringe hung from every edge and corner. On her fingers were many rings and from her ears dangled a pair of earrings that glinted in the gaslight. Her black hair was covered in a paisley scarf and from deep within its folds burned two bright sparks. The woman’s face was a map of wrinkles and a massive thick nose spread across half her face.

  Behind the manager loomed another guest, an elderly figure dressed in a checked Norfolk suit complete with plus-fours and hiking boots, totally unsuitable for London. His features were obscured by a thick salt-and pepper beard that flowed down his chest like a waterfall. His head was bald with only a fringe of hair surrounding it and his eyes were almost invisible behind black bushy brows. He said nothing, but grinned at everyone.

  The woman stood for a moment, dominating the scene. Then she advanced, her arms raised as if in benediction over us all. Surprisingly her voice, when she spoke, was high and thin.

  “So, you have called upon the amazing Margery Daw to bring you news of your dearly departed ones. Sit, sit, and sit, everyone. You, sir, Mr. Henlay, that was so kind to bring me here, sit in this chair. You are Miss Nestor. You love this man, heh? This Mr. Fledge Byrd. He is very handsome, but he also has a great question that must be answered. You, sir, are the brother. Sit, sit. This man is French, from Paris. Your name is M. Bougre. You know these people. But this man, this fellow with the fine moustaches, you are a stranger to the others. You will sit by me and be my helper. Please, everyone, sit.”

  Soon we were all seated around the table. Miss Nestor was given a chair next to the medium with Fledge Byrd on her right and Casper Bougre beside him. I was sitting at the old woman’s left with Nead Byrd next to me. Mr. Henlay filled the gap. The extra chair was pushed back to the wall and the curtains were drawn over the window. Our odd leader spread out several sheets of blank foolscap out on the table and took up a sharpened pencil with her right hand.

  “I am one who uses what is called automatic writing. My spirit guide, Gallus, uses the pencil and paper. I go into a trance and the messages come through. Please be quiet and do not touch me while I am in trance. You, what is your name?”

  “Mr. Chook,” I answered.

  “You, Mr. Chook, you will make sure that there is always fresh paper under my hand. The messages can be examined afterwards. Now we will begin. Now the lights go.”

  Mr. Henlay turned off the lights and the room was plunged into darkness. There was just enough light coming in through the curtains to discern the vaguest outlines of our party.

  Margery Daw leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. We looked at her in silence, uncertain as to what will happen next. For several minutes she sat motionless. Then her head dropped down to her chest. One hand held the pencil over the untidy stack of paper. Then she groaned and her body straightened up. Her eyes remained shut but her fingers clutched the pencil harder and the point of the lead began to move.

  Swiftly lines were scrawled across the papers. I slid blank pages under the pencil as I removed the filled sheets. For nearly twenty minutes the writing continued with the only sounds being of groans and sighs from Margery Daw. At last her tired fingers faltered and the now-blunt pencil dropped from her cramped hand.

  We sat and watched another moment before she raised her head and blinked around the room.

  “Well, what happened? Look at all these pages! Gallus must have been busy. Please, someone, turn on the lights and pull back the curtains. That’s better. Now, Mr. Chook, let’s see what we have, eh? Here, let me have them. I know a lot of it is gibberish, but Gallus drops in a nugget here and there. When I find something, I’ll mark it, and when I’m done, we’ll string it all together.”

  The writing on the papers was loose and loopy and I could not see how any words could have been formed in the resultant scribbles. Margery Daw poured over the pile, however, swiftly organizing them into a stack of marked sheets. The rest of us stared at each other as she worked. From murmured comments from the Byrds I gathered that they were not used to holding a séance in this manner. Fledge Byrd twisted his ring. M. Caspar Bougre got up and walked around. Miss Mina Nestor rearranged her hat and wandered over to the window. Mr. Henlay pulled out a corn-cob pipe and lit it.

  “How do you know the medium, Mr. Henlay?” asked Nead Byrd. The old man smiled and puffed up a cloud of smoke.

  “I just arrived from Rhode Island.” The stranger spoke in a strong American accent. “I’ve been sent by the Providence Paranormal Society to interview Margery Daw. Professor Clausen Fedders, president of our Society, is convinced she is the most powerful medium in England today. I was with her when she was invited to conduct this séance.”

  “Please, gather around,” Margery Daw said. “I will read the messages. Now, the first is from a woman. The writing is hard to read, but here it is clear. “My son, I love you. You are close to my heart. I am so glad to reach you at last. Remember that talk we had the last time we were together? But you must keep looking. You are strong. You will find the right woman and you will have no questions. This one is not the one for you. Not for you, dear boy. Never, never, never.” That is all that was written.”

  Miss Mina Nestor had become more and more agitated as the medium droned on. Now she clutched her fiancé’s arm. She turned to him, visibly angry.

  “This woman is a fraud, Fledge! How could she deny you the happiness we will have together? Remember our plans. We will travel; we will have a fine home. I will host your parties. Life will be splendid. I don’t believe that message came from your mother. That guide, Gallus, must have contacted the wrong spirit. Don’t believe him, dear one! We will have a wo
nderful life!”

  Fledge looked at her sadly but he also appeared oddly relieved. “That was Mother, Mina. I shall never forget our last conversation just before she died. No one else knew of that talk. I am sorry, dear, but I cannot marry someone of whom Mother disapproves.”

  Mina glared at Margery Daw. “Fraud! Fraud!”

  Fledge Byrd huddled miserably in his chair, twisting his ring faster and faster.

  The medium appeared unmoved. She lifted up another paper. “Here are messages from another. He is newly passed over. He says, “I love you, boys. I always had your best interests at heart. I wanted to show you that this Spiritualism stuff is false so I came to the séance. But I was found out. She stabbed me. The one you love killed me. She carries the proof with her.”

  Miss Nestor became white, then red in the face. She rose from the table and backed toward the door. “Fraud! How dare you accuse me of murder? This woman is obviously insane. I deny it all. I will not stay here to hear such lies!” She opened the door to the hall only to be confronted with two constables standing there.

  “Don’t you dare touch me, you beaks!” she screamed as the policemen put their hands on her arms. Mr. Henlay reached out toward her fancy hat. She shrieked as he drew forth from her headgear a long, sharp hat pin with an enamelled bulb at the end the size of a robin’s egg. Half of the eighteen inches of its shaft gleamed in the electric lights, but the rest of its length and the tip was smeared with a dark brown stain.

  The instant she saw the bearded man holding aloft the fatal hat pin, Mina Nestor collapsed into the arms of her captors.