She looked straight at me. Her mouth opened as she struggled to speak. “Darling,” she whispered, and reached for me. “I have come back.”
And now I no longer saw the creeping corruption, nor noticed the odor of the graveyard. Now it was once again summer, and my dearest called me out for a warm evening stroll.
“Jeannie, I am coming.” I stepped toward her.
But I was too late. Even as my hand closed on her arm, Holmes wrenched her from me, leaving me clutching at cold air.
“No!” I called. I threw a punch at Holmes, but Watson dragged me backward. I believe I may have used some words that were considered strong even back in our service together, but he held firm while Holmes wrestled the robed figure to the ground.
“Now I have you,” Holmes shouted in triumph. He threw back the robe and grabbed at the body inside. His screams this time were longer but thankfully brief. He rolled aside, curled up and hugging himself tightly, like a child hiding from a beating.
Jeannie looked up at me. A single silver tear slid down the ruin of her cheek.
“Darling,” she whispered. “Please. Do not go.”
The last word fell, lost in the dark as she faded once more to mist. Holmes whimpered like a whipped dog.
Leckie looked at me with pity in his eyes. “I’m sorry, Mr. McKay. We tried. But we can do no more. She has gone back to her rest.” He walked away, leaving me standing over Holmes’ shivering frame.
“Wait,” I called, but Leckie did not turn back.
3
Watson somehow got both Holmes and me back to my lodgings. None of us were in much of a mood for talk. I left them by the fire and took the whisky bottle to my cold bed. I drank more than enough to ensure there were no dreams.
In the morning Holmes would not look me in the eye. Watson gave me his lecture about the perils of the demon drink but I was not in the mood to listen.
“We did what we thought was for the best,” Watson said.
I knew it would hurt him, but I had to speak the truth. “It would have been for the best if I had never contacted you at all.”
Holmes waited until Watson left to call a carriage before speaking. “I am heartily sorry for what I have done, Captain McKay. And, for what it is worth, I do now believe that there may be an answer, or at least some comfort, in oblivion. I intend to test my theory at the first possible opportunity.”
I waited until the carriage rattled off out of earshot before dressing in my wedding suit and leaving for the Grassmarket.
My love waits for me, and I hope to see her again.
The Case of the Walrus Tusk
EF
Holmes was in a state of some excitement when I called at the Baker Street apartments on a Friday morning. That, in itself, was not unusual, but it was a marked change from just two days before, when my friend had been morose to the point of being sullen.
“I need work,” he had said, throwing his morning mail back at me. “Have I honed my skills these past years only to have them sit idle?”
At the time, there had been nothing I could say to console him; no amount of cheerful banter or old soldier’s stories had any effect on him whatsoever. He had sat all day by the fireplace smoking a succession of those foul Russian cheroots of which he has become so fond. I have known him to sit like this for days on end when the black mood takes him.
Which is why I was somewhat surprised when he answered the door himself that morning, and I was further surprised to see a wide grin on his face.
“Just the man I wanted to see,” he said, leading me upstairs by the arm. “And you are right on time, for we must be on our way almost immediately if we are to catch the train.”
When we arrived in his rooms he wasted no time in handing me a sheaf of paper, obviously a letter.
“What do you make of this, Watson?” he said.
I knew of old that, coming from Holmes as it did, this was more than just a simple question. I took some time in studying the physical characteristics of the letter before reading it.
“Good quality,” I said, turning it over. “And of some age, judging by the yellowing.” I held it up to the light. There was a very distinctive watermark showing a steamboat traversing an icy sea. I could just make out a name lettered underneath: HMS INTREPID. I did not mention it to Holmes, as I knew he was aware of the ship; we had discussed its most recent journey of exploration several weeks ago in this very room. But on discovering the watermark I started to feel my own excitement grow.
The letter itself was written in a firm, masculine hand in black ink. It was short and to the point.
Request your help in a matter of some delicacy. We are at dock in Greenwich. If you could see your way to coming down, I would rather explain the circumstances to you in person.
It was signed John Prentice, Captain.
When I handed the note back to Holmes, my grin was as wide as his own.
We made directly for Greenwich.
Holmes refused to brook any speculation on the matter of some delicacy on the train down, instead restricting our conversation to the known facts about the Intrepid and its recent expedition to the Canadian High Arctic. Neither of us knew more than had been reported in dispatches sent to The Times over the past year; the expedition was considered a success, a new route through the Northwest passage had been found, and all hands had been brought back safely.
While Holmes lost himself in contemplation, I smoked a pipe and dared to dream of adventure, although my own daydreams often turned to warmer climes and dry land underfoot. But the thought of being able to board a ship that had so recently returned from a major expedition did indeed raise excitement, and I was most eager to reach our destination.
The train arrived in Blackheath just before noon, and we had a leisurely stroll down the hill through Greenwich Park past the Royal Observatory in thin sunshine. Our destination was visible from some distance away, it being the largest vessel on the quay by some degree. It was a proud, handsome ship, twin-funneled and scarcely showing any of the wear and tear I might have expected to see on a hull that had spent the past year and more among the ice floes of the High Arctic. The captain was waiting for us by the gangplank.
It was immediately obvious that something was troubling the man. In my experience Naval captains are among the most punctilious of men, but Captain Prentice had become noticeably lax in his habits. The silver buttons of his greatcoat were tarnished and dull, his beard had not been trimmed for quite some time, and his boots were scuffed and worn at both toe and heel. But it was his eyes that betrayed him most; red, rheumy, and telling me more than anything else that the Captain was a drinker, and a heavy one at that. I could tell just by glancing at Holmes that he was coming to his own conclusions, but that didn’t stop him stepping forward and offering the man his hand.
“Captain Prentice, I presume?”
The man smiled, and his whole demeanor changed as he laughed out loud. “Dashed glad you could come,” he said. “The police have been worse than useless.”
Holmes laughed back. “I think that is their main role in life,” he said as the Captain led us up the gangplank and along the deck to a narrow corridor that led to a rather well-appointed cabin.
The Captain left us for a moment to order up some lunch. A large map caught my eye, detailing the path of the recent adventures the boat had undertaken. I was about to bring it to Holmes’ attention when I saw that his own gaze had been taken by something that sat in a long glass case on the Captain’s writing desk.
“Most remarkable,” Holmes said under his breath. I went over to see what had caught his eye.
It was a long tusk, walrus if I wasn’t mistaken, some four feet long. It was a smooth, creamy white in color and its whole length had been carved in the most intricate designs, depicting, if I read it correctly, the many varied creatures that were hunted by the indigenous people of the Arctic, and the means by which such prey could be caught. Both Holmes and I were so taken by it that we did not hear
the Captain’s return, and were quite startled when he spoke.
“Scrimshaw,” he said. “And the finest example anyone has ever seen.”
Holmes agreed. “I have a pipe made from the same material,” he said. “It was carved by a midshipman on Ross’ expedition of ’forty-one. But the quality of the carving, though fine in itself, is no match for what I see here. Was it done by one of your men?”
The Captain took long seconds before replying, as if weighing his response carefully.
“No, sir,” he said, finally. “Believe it or not, this is native Esquimau work. And of great age at that, or so I was told.”
I could see that Holmes had further questions, but any line of inquiry was nipped in the bud by the arrival of the Captain’s man with a tray bearing lunch. We ate some fine pork pies, and washed them down with a strong brown ale with the smoky taste of beer that had sat in oak barrels for some time.
The Captain did not join us, but there were three stiff fingers of Scotch in his glass when we started, and he needed to be filled up again when we put our plates aside and got down to business.
“We have a thief on board,” the Captain said without any preamble.
Holmes looked bored. “In that case, I believe this is ideed a job for the police,” he said. “However ill-used to the task they might be.”
The Captain scowled. “I have already told you,” he said, in the tone of a man not used to being contradicted. “We have already had Scotland Yard plodding all over the ship … and to no avail. Items continue to go missing, every night.”
Holmes still could not disguise his boredom. I knew he was disappointed to find that the matter of some delicacy was no more than a simple case of thievery.
“Then set up a watch. Keep every man awake and in sight of another man if necessary.”
The Captain’s scowl grew deeper. “Do you think me a fool, sir? I have done so every night for the past six nights. Yet still the thefts continue. I myself lost my father’s gold pocket watch from my bedside table last night, even as my man sat on guard at the door to the cabin.”
Holmes went quiet and still. The Captain would not have noticed it yet, but he had said something interesting, something that meant Holmes was now thinking.
“And these thefts,” I asked. “I take it they are items of some value?”
“That’s just the point,” the Captain replied. “Some, like my watch, are indeed of value. But the men have lost … are losing … what to most would seem like petty thievery … a few coins, a clay pipe, a bone comb. Then there’s the ship’s silver, the stuff we use for ceremonial occasions. We have lost the large meat platter, a toast rack and a pepper pot from that. None can be found.
“And you have searched the vessel?” Holmes asked.
“Often,” the Captain said. “From bow to stern and back again. There’s no dashed sign of any of it.”
“Perhaps the thief is throwing it overboard,” I said. “Maybe he merely does it for the thrill.”
Holmes nodded, as if it was a line of thought he himself had considered, but the Captain looked aghast.
“Unthinkable,” he said. “The silver alone is worth hundreds of pounds.”
“And yet,” Holmes replied. “Watson is quite right. It is an avenue that must be considered. But tell me … you said you have posted guards these past six nights. Why only then, when the thieving has obviously been going on for much longer?”
Again the Captain took some time to reply, weighing his words. When he spoke, he looked as tired as any man I have ever seen. “Because eight days ago, we caught the blackguard red-handed with the purser’s cigarette case in his bunk, and we threw him in the brig. But the thefts did not stop.”
Of course, after a statement like that, there was nothing for it but for Holmes to insist on questioning the suspect.
“I warn you, Mr. Holmes,” the Captain said. “You will get nothing out of him but bluster and contempt. I know the type of old. A disgrace to the Navy.”
Holmes kept quiet, which surprised me, as he was usually quite open in his derision of any such pre-judgement of the circumstances of a case.
We were shown below decks. It was decidedly chilly and I was grateful for my overcoat as we were led down to a narrow corridor where only a flickering oil-lamp provided any comfort at all. A young officer guarded the brig, and he seemed most pleased just to have some company in his vigil.
He opened the door. Holmes motioned me inside, and followed. The Captain tried to come in behind us, but Holmes was already closing the door on him.
“I prefer to come to my own conclusions,” he said. “We will join you in your cabin anon.”
He shut the door on the flabbergasted Captain, and we turned to survey the room to which we had been brought.
The cabin was no more than six feet square, with a bucket in the corner that smelled as rank as any camp latrine, and a single high porthole on the far side from us that let in what little light was available. A small, wiry man lay on a bunk, bunched up underneath two thin sheets on top of a mattress that was little more than an inch thick. He was almost blue with cold. He looked up at us with no enthusiasm at all.
“I ain’t talking to no more rozzers,” he said with barely concealed contempt. “I ain’t done nuffink wrong.”
Holmes gave me a hand-signal behind his back and out of sight of the man. Stay back.
I backed into the corner and waited. Holmes crouched on his haunches beside the bunk and took out his cigarette case. “I ain’t no rozzer,” he said, his pitch and intonation almost perfectly matching that of the man in the bunk. That, and an offered smoke, were enough to break any ice there had been on our entrance. Within minutes Holmes had the man talking … indeed, he now seemed keen to do so. I shall not attempt to transcribe their conversation here, much of it taking place as it did in a thick East End patois that at times seemed more like a foreign language to my ears than any form of English with which I was familiar. But I caught the gist of it well enough.
The man proclaimed his innocence, long and loudly. He admitted having the purser’s cigarette case, but denied all knowledge of any other crimes. And when pressed on how he came by said cigarette case, his answer only added to my confusion.
“It were him that gave it to me, sir. That dwarf as lives in the pantry.”
This came as no surprise to the Captain. “Of course there’s no bloody dwarf in the pantry,” he shouted when Holmes told him of the prisoner’s statement. “I told you that you’d get nothing useful out of him.”
“Nevertheless,” Holmes said. “I do believe I would like to see this pantry for myself.”
By this stage, the Captain looked close to apoplexy, and, as I cast my medical eye over him, gave me every impression of a man on the verge of a heart condition. But I knew of old that Holmes was nothing if not persistent, and he got his way eventually.
“If you must, you must,” the Captain said. “But I will not trot around after you like an unwanted pet. My man will show you the way.”
And with that, we were dismissed. My last view through the cabin door before it shut in our faces was of the Captain reaching for the whisky bottle.
“That man is afraid,” Holmes said quietly. “And I believe that if we can identify the source of his fear, we will have gone a long way in solving this case.”
The pantry came as some disappointment at first. It was no more and no less than a large, mostly empty, food storage area, if somewhat colder than any other part of the ship we had so far come across.
Holmes spent some time probing into each and every corner and nook and cranny. “There is a genuine puzzle here, Watson,” he said. “I feel it in my bones. I believe they have the wrong man locked up in the brig, but, for the moment, I am at a loss to explain this matter to my satisfaction. I believe some contemplation is required. Have you any pipe tobacco on you?”
I started to search my pockets. I remembered I had used my old battered pouch back on the train, so I was cer
tain I had it on me. But for the life of me I could not find it.
And then the most remarkable thing happened.
The temperature in the pantry dropped suddenly, so much so that I saw my breath mist in front of my nose. Sounds, seeming to come from nowhere and everywhere, filled the air, gurgling and blowing, like a seal diving and surfacing. There came a series of loud pops, then what sounded like someone slapping their palms on the floor, one after the other in rapid succession in a fast drumbeat.
I felt something cold in the last pocket I had searched. I reached in, and put my hand directly on my tobacco pouch.
It was cold, and wet, as if just recently lifted from a pool of near-frozen water.
My confusion was made worse when Holmes professed to have neither felt, nor heard, anything untoward.
“Perhaps it was the dwarf, old chap,” he said, and he laughed aloud at his own wit as we ascended up onto the main deck. By the time we reached fresh air my tobacco pouch was once more warm to the touch, and any memory of the cold was quickly dispersed by some most welcome sunshine.
“Come, Watson. You look like a man in need of some ale,” Holmes said.
We descended the gangplank and crossed the quayside to the Ship Inn, where I had a most agreeable pint of Kentish ale and a plate of pie and mash that did much to dispel any lingering chill from the events in the pantry. Holmes refused to countenance any truck with my story when I tried to tell him the details of it.
“I cannot see the relevance,” was all he said, then he went quiet inside a wall of pipe smoke, his eyes partly closed, his lips pursed in concentration.
I contented myself with finishing off the pie on my plate, then sipped at another beer while I waited. I had almost finished it before Holmes surfaced from his reverie.
“Come, Watson,” he said. “If the stolen items have no monetary value, then their allure to the thief must come from another source. Find that, and we will have our man. We have victims to interview. Let us have at it.”
Sherlock Holmes: The Quality of Mercy and Other Stories Page 3
