He was on the verge of tears and I gave him a hug. He was my oldest friend, after all.
I heard about Robbie's accident on the same day the police came to inform me that Paul Nebworth's younger brother, Neil, had been arrested for the murder of Elizabeth Uriel. As well as my testimony, there was a lot of evidence against him: DNA, fingerprints, the statements of neighbours and Liz's work colleagues that her short-lived relationship with the violent and unstable Neil Nebworth had been tempestuous to say the least. One of Liz's friends reckoned he'd never got over losing his big brother in some freak accident. Liz had told her that he'd gone on about it a lot.
As soon as the police had left, I had the call from Robbie's ex-wife. She wanted to meet me. She had some news.
Fiona and Robbie had been married eighteen years before she told Robbie that there was someone else ... someone at work who made her feel alive in the way poor Robbie never could. And Robbie was so bad with money. In spite of his good job, they always seemed to be living hand to mouth. In the end, Fiona had had enough.
I met her in the Hole in the Wall on High Petergate, because it was convenient for both of us. I ordered a pint of bitter for myself and a dry white wine for Fiona. She looked pale and she drank thirstily, as though she needed it.
She put down her glass and came straight to the point. “Robbie's dead. He drove his car into a wall. They're assuming the brakes failed and the stupid man wasn't wearing a seat belt.” She shook her head. “I've been to his flat and I found this envelope addressed to you."
She handed me a large brown envelope and I began to tear it open. Then I stopped. I was being insensitive. “Are you okay, Fiona? It must be a shock even though..."
"Even though I ran off with another man?” She gave a bitter little laugh. “Yes, Jack, you're right. It is a shock. I hadn't realised how much..."
She let the sentence hang in the air between us. At one time, I'd thought Fiona was greedy and heartless. But the expression on her face told me otherwise.
I didn't open the envelope there and then. Something made me take it home to deal with over a drink—a toast to Robbie. As I tore at the envelope I felt warm tears streaming down my face. I saw Robbie as he'd been when we'd first met as two callow first-years in over-large blazers. Then as we grew to adolescence, and finally on that trip to the Lakes. The day that had cast a shadow over our lives.
There were several sheets of paper inside the envelope. Typewritten. And when I'd finished reading, blinking away my tears, I realised that I would never divulge the contents to a living soul. It was the least I could do for my old friend.
"My dear Jack,” it began. “By the time you read this, I'll be dead. It's for the best. All these years I've been living with secrets so dreadful that I could never share them with anybody—even you, my friend. I'm a murderer—the lowest of the low. The truth is that when Paul Nebworth caught us up that day, he started messing about—if he'd carried on, he would have messed up the whole project, and I needed good marks to get into university. I was serious-minded back then, as you know. Paul and I starting rowing and we came to blows. I thought Sebastian hadn't seen what happened, but it turned out that he was lurking behind some rocks and witnessed the whole thing. He said it would be best if we tried to hide the body and he said he'd seen an old shaft or cave nearby so we both put Paul down there and covered it up with turf. I was numb with panic at what I'd done, but Sebastian was so calm ... as though he did that sort of thing every day. It was an accident, Jack—I just lost my temper and hit out and he fell and hit his head.
"Sebastian never spoke about it again ... until it was in the paper that I'd been made a partner in the firm. Then he called and asked to meet me. That was when he started demanding money to keep quiet ... bleeding me white. It cost me my marriage, I'm sure of that. I killed him, Jack. I'd had enough. I called to see him, and when he wouldn't listen to reason I picked up a heavy ashtray and smashed his skull. When he fell he just lay there, blood gushing from his head, staring at me with those dead eyes ... just like Paul. I made it look like a robbery, but I just couldn't keep up the pretence. Believe me, Jack. It's better this way."
That night I remembered my old friend and drank to his memory. And the next day I went on the old boys’ Web site of Semchester High because I thought some kind of tribute might be appropriate.
The Web site had been updated to feature pictures of the reunion. There was Sebastian Sitwall, who was posing for the camera wearing the smile of a satisfied snake. I could just spot Neil Nebworth in the background, avoiding the lens. And me. Jack Jenkins. Jack the innocent, who had no idea that his best friend was a killer. No wonder my ex had said I went round in a dream.
When I'd finished posting a carefully worded tribute to Robbie, I noticed the words there in large letters with a trio of exclamation marks. Fantastic Reunion. Let's do it again next year!!!
Somehow I don't think I'll be there.
Copyright © 2010 Kate Ellis
[Back to Table of Contents]
Department of First Stories: THE ADVENTURE OF THE SCARLET THORN by Paul W. Nash
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* * * *
Pastiches are a common way for new writers to launch their fiction careers. (Think of the Ellery Queen pastiches by Dale Andrews, one of which was a finalist for a Readers Award in 2007.) Englishman Paul Nash is a bibliographer, typographer, librarian, letterpress printer, and small-press publisher, and though he's had a few pieces in nonpaying publications, this is his paid fiction debut. His subject is a perfect fit for this special issue: a case for Holmes and Watson.
When the premises of Lloyd's Bank Ltd., at 16 Charing Cross, London, were damaged by bombing in 1941, it was believed that all Dr. John H. Watson's unpublished case notes had been destroyed, along with the commonplace books and papers of Sherlock Holmes. Watson had deposited his notes there around 1920, when the building was owned by Cox and Company, regimental agents, and added Holmes's papers following the reported death of the detective in 1929. However, in December 1930, an iron deed box, painted black and with the initials “J.H.W.” in white on the lid, was deposited in the vaults of the London and Westminster Bank (now part of the National Westminster Bank) in Marylebone High Street, under the strict condition that it should not be opened for seventy years. When, on 1 December 2000, the manager of the Marylebone branch opened the box, it was found to contain numerous manuscripts, well preserved and easily legible. This material was quickly identified as a sequence of memoirs of the cases of Sherlock Holmes, fully formed and complete, written in Watson's characteristic neat hand between 1890 and 1930. The story which follows was among these previously unknown cases. The text has been edited very slightly, and certain inconsistencies removed, but it is presented almost exactly as Watson wrote it around 1890.
* * * *
There are a great many cases from the years of my collaboration with Sherlock Holmes which are, for one reason or another, quite unsuitable for publication in the present age. I can foresee a time, however, when all objections to the dissemination of the details will be lifted. Even the case of the Scarlet Thorn, which I think too tainted with brutality for contemporary taste, may one day seem acceptable to the general reader, and so I shall endeavour to write it down plainly, although parts of the story are quite repulsive even to an old soldier and medical man. Nevertheless, the mystery presented many of those features which Holmes found most stimulating and was a triumph for his deductive powers, albeit a tragedy in human terms.
The adventure began one Tuesday in March 1883. Holmes had been working on the Caradoc diamond mystery for five days, having been consulted by Inspector Lestrade upon the matter almost as soon as the theft was reported. The case had caused considerable public interest but had so far proved impenetrable even to the great mind of Holmes. The diamonds were not large, but numerous and very fine, and had been torn from the tiara of the Duchess of Caradoc while she was staying at Brown's Hotel in Dover Street. The circumstances of the loss were not broa
dcast at the time, but there can be no objection to my revealing them now.
The duchess was a firm believer in spiritualism, and on the evening of the disappearance she and three friends had gathered after dinner to hold a seance in her sitting room at the hotel. A medium had been engaged, an elderly lady known as Madam Spinarossa, and the avowed purpose of the evening was to contact the spirit of the duke, who had died some four years previously. The drapes were drawn and the doors locked. Madam Spinarossa arranged the participants—two ladies and two gentlemen, all of unimpeachable character—round a card table and turned out the gas. In the darkness she resumed her seat, asked the group to join hands, and then began her attempt to reach the realm of the dead. At first there was no result, but then, with a sigh and a groan from the medium, contact was made and after a few moments everyone present heard the voice of a man, coming not from the medium but from elsewhere in the room. The duchess later swore that the voice was that of her late husband. He spoke for some minutes, although at times contact was lost and the air was filled with gasps and groans, while the table was felt to shudder and rise up slightly. At last there was a sound of choking and a hoarse scream from Spinarossa and she cried out that the spirit of the duke had departed and they must break the circle. This they did, and one of the men, Colonel James Hind, lit the gas. The first thing to strike the friends was that the medium's black dress was soiled with white matter, which she later claimed to be “ectoplasm,” and she appeared to have sunk into unconsciousness with her head upon her breast. The gentlemen began to attempt to revive her when the air was riven by another scream, this time from the other lady present, Matilda Grayson, the niece of the duchess. She was pointing in stark horror at Her Grace's head. The duchess was too shocked to react, and at first the men could perceive nothing wrong, until they looked closely at the tiara she was wearing and found that every single diamond had been extracted from it.
After a few minutes the duchess recovered from the shock of this discovery, and stated to the amazement of all that she believed the spirit of her late husband to have taken the jewels with him to the netherworld. He had given her the tiara on their wedding day more than forty years previously, and she professed herself convinced that he had taken back the stones as a punishment for some sin which she had committed against him. When pressed on the matter, she declined to say more, but spoke so fervently that it was quite clear she believed this explanation for the disappearance of the diamonds. Colonel Hind and the other gentleman, Lord Vincent Carleston, were of a different opinion, however, and unlocked the door at once to call for the police. A constable was found in Dover Street, and he was quickly joined by three others and the tenacious Lestrade. The room and its occupants were searched thoroughly, but nothing was found, and the medium, who seemed to be suffering greatly from the effects of her trance, was allowed to depart.
The sitting room had been locked throughout the seance, and the occupants were certain that no one could have got in or out while the room was dark. Subsequent inquiries had failed to trace Madam Spinarossa, and suspicion naturally fell upon her, despite her age and infirmity. But of the diamonds, or the means of their abstraction, there was no clue. This was the problem with which Holmes had been struggling for five days when an unwelcome interruption came in the person of Mr. William Everson Hartshorne. Mrs. Hudson delivered his card late one evening, and I could see from Holmes's expression that he did not relish this distraction from the Caradoc case. However, when he looked at the man's card, his attitude changed.
"Take a look at this, Watson,” he said, handing me the calling card. “I think Mr. Hartshorne may prove a most interesting visitor after all. Show him up, Mrs. Hudson."
I examined the card. It seemed unremarkable, bearing the engraved name of our visitor and his address at 9B Bruton Street, London W. William Hartshorne himself was a young man, not yet thirty, but with an air of success about him. He had fairish hair and wore a small, neat moustache and a look of perplexity. Holmes asked him to be seated and to tell us his story.
"Well, Mr. Holmes, I hesitate to trouble you with something so commonplace. But, I confess, I was deeply disturbed by the whole business, and can find no explanation, unless it was some sort of prank or joke."
"The smallest mysteries are often the most intractable and the most fascinating,” said Holmes. “Pray tell us the whole story, and omit nothing, even those details which may seem incidental."
"I am,” said our visitor, “in business on my own account in Great Portland Street, and was returning from work yesterday evening, having stayed very late in the office to deal with certain papers. It was a pleasant evening, so I decided to walk home, as I often do. It was quite dark, of course, but the streets in the area are well lit, and as I turned into Bruton Street I noticed something lying on the pavement under one of the streetlamps. The street was deserted and a cold wind was blowing from the river. As I drew nearer to the object, I perceived that it was large and flat, like a piece of panelling, and was somewhat surprised on coming closer to recognise it as a door. I could clearly see the brass handle projecting, and the hinges. You will imagine my consternation upon coming into the circle of light to find that this was nothing more or less than my own front door. There was the familiar letterbox, the damage where a beggar had once struck the panels with his stick, and the brass number 9B. I was still fifty yards or so from the point where my door should have been, and my heart was in my mouth as I ran towards my rooms. The doorway was dark and I hesitated to enter. But I am no coward, Mr. Holmes, and I steeled myself to go inside. In the hall I felt my way to the stand and took up a heavy stick, fearing that my open, indeed absent, door might signify burglary. I went into every room and lit the gas, all the while fearing to find a scene of ruin. But my apartments appeared to be untouched. I could find not a book, not a toothbrush, out of place. I was somewhat upset and perplexed by this business, as you might imagine, and sleep was out of the question. So, having made sure there was no one in my rooms, I lit the gas in the entrance hall and took up a sentry position with my stick, hoping I would not have to fight to defend my open doorway. It was an uncomfortable night, but a quiet one. In the early morning I attracted the attention of a passing boy, and persuaded him to fetch a carpenter and his mate, who retrieved my door for me, and screwed it back into its original position. Then I went to work. My business affairs could not be postponed, and I was again obliged to work late. When I returned home I half expected to find the door again missing. But this was not the case and, having checked that my rooms were thoroughly secure, I came straight here. Well, Mr. Holmes, that is my story. Could it have been a joke, do you think?"
"I very much doubt it. Tell me, was there any sign of damage to the lock or other parts of the door?"
"That is another curious thing. The door was quite unmarked. The carpenter who refitted it disbelieved my story, I think, and suspected me of having removed the thing myself. The lock had not been broken, and the hinges were still screwed to the door; all that was missing was the eight brass screws which had held the hinges to the door frame, and they could not have been removed until the door was open."
"Is it possible that you accidentally left the door unlocked when you departed for work that morning?"
"Impossible, I think. I am not a rich man, Mr. Holmes, but I have some precious books and a collection of coins which I am concerned to keep safe, so I am assiduous about seeing to the locks and windows."
"And may I see your front-door key?"
Hartshorne handed over a small bunch, indicating a brass key of medium size. Holmes squinted at it, then handed back the bunch.
"Thank you. I think, Mr. Hartshorne, that you are in no great danger in this matter. However, until I have made further enquiries I would not be happy to return you to your rooms, and hope you might accept the rather rough hospitality which the doctor and I can offer you. It will only be the divan, I fear, but I venture to suggest that you will be safer here than anywhere else in London."
I followed him across the street, where he walked slowly past the houses there before turning into Barlow Place. From here we passed down a nameless alley into Grafton Street, where we turned right, then left into Dover Street, and were immediately confronted by Brown's Hotel. I had not realised how very close we were.
"I suppose we might as well take a look at the duchess's rooms, while we are here,” said my friend casually. I suspected this had been his intention all along, and that he had dismissed Hartshorne so readily in order to get back on the scent of the Caradoc diamonds. Having sent his card up to the duchess's rooms, we were soon admitted to the scene of the crime. The duchess greeted us herself with great courtesy, though she clearly had no idea of who Holmes was and seemed somewhat amused by the notion of a consulting detective assisting the police. She was a lively woman of six and sixty, whose face gave more than a hint of the great beauty for which she had been famed in her youth. She appeared to have no servants in her entourage and, as we entered her sitting room, I noticed a half-eaten packet of Huntley and Palmer's biscuits on the mantel shelf, which I thought a little curious. Having indulged Holmes's desire to see her bedroom and to examine the ruined tiara, we returned to the sitting room and sat down at the same card table where the seance had been held six days previously.
EQMM, February 2010 Page 5
