The Confidential Casebook of Sherlock Holmes

by Marvin Kaye

  “Give me that!” I said. “Well, what does it smell of?”

  “Oh, you don’t want this,” he said. “It’ll prove worse than worthless, especially to the police. You saw which apothecary the villain went to, yes? That’s far more valuable. Go there now and ask the man who’s working if he recalls your man making this purchase.”

  At first, I thought the man was jesting, but he made no move to give me the tiny weapon. Instead, he led me out from the little tunnel, saying, “Now go to the apothecary’s, and then write someone you trust about this tragedy.”

  It was the maddening end to an infuriating day: But I did what he’d said to do. After ascertaining that the young clerk at the apothecary did indeed remember Randall, I trudged home, images of violence and wildlife flying through my mind. Nothing made any sense. I wonder if it weren’t for the water at a public fountain whether I’d have made it home that day at all.

  As I neared my door, I discovered that circus pickpockets (sensitive perhaps to my state of mindlessness) had helped themselves to my last tuppence. I hadn’t lost much, for I hadn’t much to lose, but felt its loss all the more.

  In my room, I poured water from the pitcher and ate some of yesterday’s bread. Dinner finished, but too agitated to sleep, study or even enjoy the entertainment of a book, I gathered a few sheets of foolscap, dipped my pen in the well my father gave me and began my common practice of writing home.

  Has wretchedness a sort of contagion? Just as I’d begun my letter in earnest (neglecting naturally enough to mention nearly all events of the day) my nib point cracked, shearing off the writing end entirely. Ink flew, sending drips which quickly expanded, forming ragged blotches on this affordable but too-absorbent paper. I had no other nibs. Careful not to stain my cuffs, I removed them, rolled my sleeves above my elbows and experimented with the stub in the margins. Not only was it rough, the tines were woefully uneven. So the pen, if one can call it that, skipped, dropped ink and did everything save write. I decided for the nonce I preferred to buy food, lodging and postage rather than nibs.

  Discarding the soggy ruins of my letter home, I rummaged around in my drawer, found a quill which had seen better days, and with a pen knife trimmed it into fair working order. I began again, and found myself not writing home at all.

  “My dearest Madeline,” I began—

  I hope this letter finds you well and rested in Body and in Spirit. Kindly convey my respectful regards to your Jane, without whose caring presence I could not in conscience have left you today, so concerned was I, and am I still, for your Well-Being, which means the World to me. I will not refer more to matters best forgotten save to say that I am in possession of facts relating to Randall’s whereabouts in the later hours of the day. He travelled next to a certain small Druggist (where he is well-remembered in his finery), and immediately thereafter he met with Vittoria privately at the circus, thereafter which I am sorry to say the Performer took a spill which cost her her Life. That Vittoria has lost her life is quite Public a matter, and shall likely be a topic of wide discussion throughout our City tomorrow. As for Randall’s movements, I am sharing this Intelligence with you alone.

  Please take care to whom you speak about these matters, for your safety, my dear cousin, and that of your beloved Jane and even myself. However, irregardless of your Kindnesses to Him, I wonder now if your chances are not improved that the young Earl will keep to his new agreements concerning the usurious terms of the loan to your Uncle near the time of your father’s Passing.

  I will not say that I failed you to-day, for I kept to my word as you exacted it. Yet my conscience does not rest easy, so I ask you in this or any other matter to take Pity upon a man’s pride and to realize you will do me a grave Disservice if you might ever require my Help or Assistance, my Efforts, Valuables or Influence, yet neglect to call upon me to render unto you that Service which painfully I feel owing.

  With a love that grows daily stronger,

  Your humble servant,

  John H. Watson

  I‘d just written these lines when there came a gentle tap on my shoulder.

  “Come,” said Holmes, softly. “You’ll need to refill that pen in a jot regardless. Let us go and pay our respects.”

  The word jolted me from my reverie. “Respects?”

  “For the living, my man. We’re going for the sake of the living! We’ll talk as we walk.”

  So saying, he shut my notebook, took the pen from my hand, closed it and installed it in my pocket as a gift. Before I could respond to this astonishing gesture, he put a coat and then his arm about me, wrenched me to my feet, and marched me out the door.

  We had travelled a ways down Baker Street when I stopped in my tracks.

  “When did the sun set?” I asked in wonderment.

  “When it usually does,” he replied drily. “At sundown, I believe. Come on.”

  “Yes, but—” I reached for my watch, forgetting that Mary had recently left it with the watchmaker for cleaning and adjustment. How long had I been in a trance, writing and before that fretting? “Really Holmes, I need to know.”

  “You need to know when the sun sets? An age-old question, my dear Watson. Walk and I will reveal all.” At that moment we turned onto Oxford Street, and I relaxed as Latimer’s Bootery came into view, knowing I could soon read the clock which stood like a Hydrocephalic street lamp before the Capital & Counties Bank.

  Holmes continued talking. “Judaism is quite keen on the time of sunset—all their celebrations, indeed each new day begins at sundown. According to custom, it is officially sundown when one cannot tell the difference between a black thread and a red one. I rather admire the precision of that, don’t you?”

  I would have found this interesting, I imagine, for I do now when recalling it, but all I could do then was stare at the bank’s impressive, free-standing clock. It said four. Could this be right? The clock must be broken, surely! But the gunmetal-blue second-hand swept freely round the pearly enamelled face. I checked the sky: black as ink. The street stood empty of citizens but for ourselves: the sole survivors of a man-eating eclipse.

  “I say, Holmes, is it four A.M.?”

  He nodded, and handed me as if from thin air a bundle made of a large, clean white handkerchief. The man was like a magician. I untied the cloth and found a slice of bread, a hunk of Cheshire cheese and three madeleines. The repast looked golden in the lamplight. As an after-thought, my stomach distinctly rumbled. It came to me that Holmes must become lost in thought as I had tonight, but far more often. Of course, he had no wife to worry over him. Before I was able to say, “But what of Mary?” Holmes answered my concern.

  “You needn’t run home just yet. I’ve sent word to Kensington some hours ago.” I eyed him questioningly. “If you must know, I gave a note to Mrs. Hudson when she brought the tray. One of the Irregulars stood outside to collect it.”

  “You jest!”

  “No, I sent Wiggins, who I’ll wager sent Simpson in his place, who sent the new boy.”

  I hesitated to ask why he believed Mary received his note, and why I should suppose she wasn’t worried again by now, and where on God’s earth he expected we’d be welcome at his hour. Half-jokingly I said, “But that was an aeon ago . . . It is still May?”

  “Yes, but now it’s next May,” he joked. From his jacket he pulled a cherrywood pipe and a slip of ivory paper. This last he handed to me. I recognized at once the narrow elegant penmanship of my dear wife’s hand.

  “Dear Mr. Holmes,” I read. “Good of you to get word to me. Now that John is in your most excellent care, I feel at last assured and unburdened. Further, I shall expect him just as you say: in the morning, in need of rest but happily denying it. Tell him his watch is due back on the morrow. Cordially, Mary M. Watson.”

  “Now, Watson, this memorial vigil ends at sunrise,” the consulting detective said. “There’s no Hebrew ruling on sunrise, but Shakespeare notes specific birds which usher in the morning. So as we walk—for a
lark, if you will—please tell me a few things.”

  I walked and ate, letting him formulate his questions. The Cheshire cheese was crumbly and sweet. The air just off the Thames felt moist and gusty, like many a damp Spring night, and I knew, were I alone making this journey to a dead man’s house, it would seem more melancholy, indeed.

  “I’m not sure how much you wrote in that notebook just now,” Holmes said, “and, of course, I can’t know what you wrote, but surely you are in more intimate rapport with the bases of your sentiments concerning that summer. In the fewest words, for what do you feel Randall is responsible?”

  “For how sadly Madeline’s life turned out.”

  “Hmm. Aren’t you leaving out something?”

  “By George, yes! He did kill Vittoria.”

  “Interesting. On what do you base this?”

  “He gave her an injection of some poison, and shortly thereafter she died.”

  “I hadn’t realized she died of poisoning. Didn’t the newspaper say something else?”

  “She died of a massive head wound.”

  “This Randall person bludgeoned her?”

  “She fell from her horse.”

  “Ah. He trained the horse to drop her.”

  “You make the woman’s death sound so silly.” We were coming to a grand old gothic cathedral, whose bells chimed the hour.

  “No one’s death is silly,” Holmes said. He had the cherrywood pipe going well, and took a few extra puffs to prove it. “When these cathedrals were being built (and they were erected simultaneously all over Europe as well as here), many structures such as the cathedral at Rheims took well over a hundred years to complete. Think of it! Concurrent lifetimes, workers of all sorts jammed together. Naturally, there were a great many accidents. As sons and apprenticed workers learned the family trade—masonry, for example—by doing, really everything that could happen did. Scaffolds and materials fell. Tools were mishandled. Plenty of accidents happened, but very few of them mortal. It’s like carriage drivers today: Our streets were designed for pedestrians and the occasional cart, and never meant to bear so much traffic. So collisions are not unheard of, far from it. But given the proximity of all these speeding vehicles, and the likelihood they might interact, it may be considered surprising there aren’t more accidents and more deaths . . . Where was I?”

  “Cathedrals.”

  “Yes. Accidents. All those workmen could be quite loud working at once over the long hard days, pounding and shouting to one another. But quite regularly one would hear the cry of a young man in pain and the pounding would go silent a minute, awaiting the news that the boy would live to bear some typical scar of his profession, often on the hands, of course, but it might be any place on his person. In these moments of silence, some philosopher would often announce as a warning, ‘Ah, there’s the sound of the Trade entering the body.’ And so it was.”

  “Well, Holmes, what has this to do with Vittoria?”

  “Just so: She was a most experienced horsewoman and acrobat, so say all accounts, yet she fell.”

  “She fainted.”

  “Fainted, say you?”

  “Yes. The Ringmaster said she seemed to lose balance and her breath, then fell, and none of the innumerable witnesses disagree.”

  “Well, fainting! Tell me what causes that; you’re knowledgeable in medical matters.” (So was he, but I didn’t wish to dispute while he was smoking his cherrywood and tearing up a conclusion.)

  “A lot of things really . . . Palpitations, fainting and vertigo are all symptoms generally considered to be suggestive of cardiac arrhythmia. Any blockage of circulation can do the same. Then, of course, there’s extreme heat or exertion, dehydration, starvation, excess bleeding or anaemia—even a serious fright might make one faint. Then there are matters related to expectant motherhood which could increase the patient’s susceptibility to all the foregoing, and otherwise complicate matters, adding dizziness, nervousness, and in rare cases where toxemia is present, even raise the blood pressure.”

  “Pregnancy?” Holmes inquired. “That’s what you mean?”

  “Yes. It’s been known to occur in women.”

  “Hardly ever in men.”

  “Exactly so.”

  “Blockage of circulation?”

  “Yes, a prime cause of fainting.”

  “Could a blockage be caused by a corset tightly laced to disguise ‘expectant motherhood’?”

  “Yes, it might be caused by a corset tightly laced for any purpose. But such a cause would be ruling out poison.”

  “Indeed, poison. What sort of poison was used?”

  “That I don’t know. I only know it was injected.”

  “In large quantity?”

  “No, I suspect not, as the syringe was small. Why?”

  “Nutmeg is extremely poisonous if injected intravenously. Salt can be toxic. Ruling out all poisons if that could be done (and it cannot) would be time-consuming and ultimately valueless.”

  “Time-consuming, yes, but why valueless?”

  “People don’t go about injecting every household solution into others hoping to kill them.”

  “That is so.”

  Holmes said this next as if reciting to himself some private formula: “Everything should be made as simple as possible but no simpler.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “You said Vittoria died of injuries sustained during a faint, yet you know she was poisoned.”

  “Yes.”

  “I won’t ask you how you know, as you are obviously taking care to hide the fact.”

  I looked at him. How much did he know?

  “What I don’t understand,” he continued, “is why you never asked Madeline what poison it was.”

  “I meant to, yet I hated to bring up that day at all. Also, when I—Say, how did you know it was from Madeline?”

  “Who else did you know then whom you would still be so anxious to protect, even from me?”

  I coloured slightly, but in cover of darkness was not further embarrassed by obvious embarrassment.

  “So why didn’t you ask her?”

  “Well, we exchanged a few polite letters, but I didn’t wish to put the matter in writing. I assumed we would have the chance to speak in person.”

  “And didn’t you?”

  “We did, but not about that topic. Two months after Vittoria’s death, Maddy wrote me that Jane’s father had met with Randall’s uncle. I was invited to ‘the glad occasion’ of Jane and Randall’s imminent wedding! Well, I was appalled but relieved at once, you can understand, and called upon Madeline to, uh, inquire after her future plans. I was astonished to hear that not only was she pleased with the match, but she was leaving with the newlyweds the week after their wedding to ‘help them settle’ in their country home! I pleaded with her to stay in London; I was sure with the financial pressure thus relieved by the marriage that Jane’s father would willingly provide her with a home until a suitable marriage could be found for her. Madeline is, as you know, a lovely gentlewoman. She took my hand, looked me sweetly in the eye and said, ‘Whither Jane goest, I shall go.’ The shame of it! The waste! But for Randall traumatizing her with his selfish, loutish ways, my cousin would have had a home and a family of her own!”

  “Like you have.”

  “Yes! Well, Mary and I haven’t any children, but we hope to. The point is, look how her life turned out because of one weak and loathsome man!”

  “How did her life turn out, then?”

  “Sadly, as far as I can see.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “From that meeting onward, I barely saw Madeline. It was as if Jane’s life plans had simply swallowed Madeline’s. First there was the wedding to be arranged, and quickly so that they need not travel at the height of winter. Jane’s mother was no longer living, so Jane’s father thought it appropriate that Madeline take on those tasks. Then actually moving to the country with them, helping them ‘settle in’—you’d never know Ma
ddy wasn’t Jane’s lady’s maid! I wrote Madeline often, and after several months began beseeching her to come to London if only for a visit. I could not leave London due to my studies, I explained, but I certainly had time to see her, and knew a number of fine gentlemen who were anxious to make her acquaintance. I would be more than happy to chaperone if she liked. Moreover, even if she did not wish to explore her social possibilities just yet, I suggested it was high time she let the newlyweds get acquainted in privacy. This much was only their due . . .”

  “And the result?” Holmes asked.

  “The result surprised me. The newlyweds were already quite well acquainted, she wrote, a child was in fact expected, and she would not leave Jane’s side. There the matter ended. I ceased writing eloquent entreaties, and the four of them, Madeline, Jane, Randall and the child moved together to London after the child was walking.”

  “Ah, so she did return to London, then.”

  “Not she, Holmes, they. I tried to arrange to see her, to speak with her. She tried to arrange for me to ‘meet the baby.’ I saw her and the baby, little Randall. They were in preposterously good health and good cheer. She seemed to do nearly all the work associated with the child, although Jane, of course, and Randall doted on him. They did have someone to do the washing, and a cook and so forth . . .”

  “Doesn’t sound like life turned out so sadly for her. Sounds as though you’re the one who’s sad.”

  “You’re not listening!”

  “Really? Are you?”

  “I’m saying without the least concern for her, they let her live with them as a nanny, when rightfully by birth her social station is just the same as Jane’s.”

  “But not Randall’s,” Holmes put in.

  “Oh, what’s the use in talking about it!” I cried. We were nearing the House of Norris then, and it was plain to me we would not reach an understanding before we reached the door. “Holmes,” I said, placatingly, “you’ve always been a man of Science, not of Society. There is no earthly reason why you would comprehend that treasure known as family life of which Randall has deprived her.”