by David Marcum
He resumed his storytelling, ignoring my comments. “There were many in the village willing to believe Dyer. And as for his curses, it seemed to some that the melancholy Methodist had genuinely raised some supernatural spirits of his own. A day after he had publicly denounced Stephens and Elizabeth as accursed servants of Beelzebub, his daughter took to her bed and died less than a week later. Stephens too suffered an affliction within days - a painful swelling in his upper thigh - which threatened to end his days.
“You will, no doubt, point out, Watson, that both situations are likely to have had solid medical explanations. And, of course, you would be right. The local surgeon, James Buckingham, attended both patients. He diagnosed that Elizabeth had contracted a fatal dose of English Cholera, and Stephens was suffering from an inflammation of the blood vessels surrounding the groin. In the latter case, it was only with some immediate and proficient arterial surgery that Dr. Buckingham was able to save the pugilist’s life.
“Dyer, meanwhile, continued to rant and curse Stephens, and refused to attend the burial of his daughter. She was laid to rest in the graveyard of the Blythburgh Chapel in a ceremony led by the Methodist minister from Halesworth. A month later, Stephens was to join her. While the surgery had been successful, a secondary infection had apparently carried him off, much to the chagrin of the doctor.
“And how did Dyer react to the news?” I asked, now enthralled by the story.
“He maintained that both deaths were predictable, preaching that those who supped with the Devil could expect to suffer the ultimate fate. And for the two weeks following Stephens’ demise, the numbers attending the chapel had swelled to capacity. It seemed that Dyer had hit a raw nerve.”
“Indeed. But now I suspect you are to present me with the main part of this ghostly tale. I’m taking it from the minister’s histrionics and reference to the ‘accursed man’ being ‘back from the dead’ that there is likely to be some doubt as to whether Stephens had really died?”
My friend beamed and reached for his whisky, swirling the golden liquid around in the short glass in the warm glow of the fire. “Neatly anticipated! You see, my arrival at the White Hart came just two weeks after the boxer’s burial. That evening, Dyer had been roused from his armchair by the sound of a large cart being driven across the heath at speed, pulled by two heavy horses. Twice it had encircled his property before coming to a standstill outside the gate of his small cottage garden. When Dyer opened his curtains, he saw a vision from Hell: Illuminated by the wild streaks of lightning that were criss-crossing the open heathland, and seemingly oblivious to the maelstrom around him, the driver sat atop the cart - Jed Stephens’ eyes were wide open and his left arm was pointing reproachfully towards the terrified minister.
“Dyer had watched as the cart took off once more, believing that it was about to do a further lap of the cottage. Hastily grabbing his hat and Bible, he ran from the house, leaping the small picket fence and following the well-worn path towards the village. He arrived at the White Hart in the manner I have previously described to you.”
“A most remarkable account - and one that clearly struck some fear into the others,” I ventured.
“Yes. The terror within the group was palpable. And the tension was further exacerbated with what happened next. We had no sooner succeeded in calming Dyer down to a point where he could explain what had driven him from his home when there was an almighty clamour on the main highway outside the inn. Through the line of small windows, we watched as the farm cart the minister had described earlier passed before us, the driver performing the same pointing ritual as he had done previously. Dyer immediately passed out and slumped to the floor. The others looked helplessly at each other, one or two mouthing that the driver had indeed been Stephens, the dead prize-fighter.”
By now, I was thoroughly gripped by Holmes’s narrative, and the great detective was relishing the chance to play storyteller. I resisted the urge to interrupt, allowing him to go on.
“The locals were wild with excitement, and once again it fell to me to take charge. I asked for volunteers to accompany me out into the storm to investigate. To a man, they looked at me in disbelief, before one of their number - a miller by the name of Charlie Stubbins - reluctantly agreed to don his cape and hat and venture from the inn.
“It was approaching half-past eleven as we trudged out into the darkness, carrying a couple of lanterns provided by the landlord. The worst of the wind and rain appeared to have passed over, and we could hear but a faint rumble of thunder and see just the odd flash in the sky as the storm clouds headed out over the coast. Stubbins seemed bewildered by the fact that I had chosen not to follow the route of the farm cart, but had asked him instead to direct me towards the graveyard of the Methodist chapel. When we arrived at the scattering of gravestones alongside the austere Wesleyan building, he pointed out where Elizabeth Dyer had been buried. A cursory glance told me all that I needed to know - her grave showed no sign of having been disturbed.”
I was a little puzzled by my friend’s line of enquiry. “Why did you think that the daughter’s grave might be disturbed? Her father had not mentioned seeing her.”
Holmes replied without conceit, “I was merely eliminating the possibilities. I did not think for a moment that the body of Elizabeth Dyer would play a part in this affair, but needed to be sure. Having done so, we then turned our attention to the grave of Jed Stephens, which lay only a few feet away. Stubbins took one look and declared with some surprise that the plot again looked undisturbed. I asked him to stand back from the grave and proceeded to carry out a thorough examination of the soil towards the head of the grave and some of the tell-tale signs on the muddy path leading to the newer burials. Having done so, I reached a different conclusion from the miller.”
“Ah, ha! So you saw signs that the grave had been tampered with? I know that you would have been unlikely to believe that Stephens had come back from the dead, so I’m guessing that you were then working on the assumption that grave-robbers had been at work. Bodysnatching used to be very common in that part of East Anglia in days gone by.”
“I assumed nothing, Watson. But it was clear that a body had been disinterred. There were two sets of footprints around the head of the grave and clear indentations where a wooden shovel had been inserted into the ground to locate the lid of the coffin.”
“A wooden shovel?”
“Yes, a traditional metal spade is too noisy for men who wish to operate under the cover of darkness. The resurrectionists used a wooden shovel to remove the fresh, uncompacted, soil from the head of the grave, leaving the rest of the plot covered. With some skill, they then prised open the lid of the coffin and lifted it against the weight of the soil to enable the body to be pulled out head first. The grass nearby showed where they had placed the cadaver, before trying to tidy up and leave no trace of the exhumation - not an easy thing to achieve on an exceptionally wet night. They had then carried the body to the farm cart which had been left at the gates of the chapel. The wheel marks were still visible when we arrived.”
I had to express some confusion. “You will forgive me, Holmes, but I thought that the horrors of the ‘Resurrection Era’ were behind us? There is no profit motive these days in stealing bodies to sell to unscrupulous surgeons. The Anatomy Act of 1832 did away with the nefarious trade by providing for a legitimate supply of bodies for anatomical dissection.”
“You are quite correct, my friend. I followed the same line of reasoning and had to conclude that Stephens’ body had been removed for an entirely different purpose. One that was to become clearer as the night went on. Having concluded our business at the graveyard, I then directed Stubbins to take me to the home of the village blacksmith.”
“The blacksmith?”
“Yes. Who better in that small, tight-knit, community to know who owned the farm cart we had seen. It took us three attempts to wake the aged
forge master from his slumbers. He was none too pleased to be roused from his warm bed, but provided the crucial information we needed. The cart was used on a smallholding that belonged to the local surgeon, Dr. Buckingham.”
“How extraordinary! What possible motive could he have had for wanting to disinter the body? And why would he have wanted to pretend that the prize-fighter had come back from the dead?”
“These are key questions. And in due course, we had an answer to both. But first I had to carry out a little surreptitious task of my own. I instructed Stubbins to go to the home of Dr. Buckingham and to tell him that a wealthy guest at the White Hart had been taken ill and required immediate attention. I then made my way back to the inn to await the arrival of the surgeon.
“It was some time before the medical man graced us with his presence. In the time before his arrival, I was able to reassure those that remained at the inn that there was a perfectly rational explanation for what they had witnessed earlier that evening. Evan Dyer looked unconvinced, still ranting that this was the work of supernatural forces. A little after one o’clock in the morning, Dr. Buckingham knocked on the door of the White Hart and was shown in by the seemingly grateful landlord. He was led across to where I sat in a rocking chair close by the fire, covered in a large tartan blanket. The other men had positioned themselves out of sight, but within earshot, in a small room just off the main bar. They were as keen as I was to hear what the surgeon had to say.
“As Buckingham approached me, I looked up and beckoned for him to sit on a chair before the fire. He looked confused, but complied, setting down both his brown derby hat and black medical bag on the floor beside him. He was a stocky man, well over six feet in height, and some fifty years of age. While dark-haired, his long side-whiskers were flecked with grey. He spoke in a deep, confident tone: ‘How may I be of assistance, sir?’
“I now had him at my will and dispensed with the charade. ‘Dr. Buckingham. My name is Sherlock Holmes, and I am a private consulting detective. I would be grateful if you could explain to me why you hired two body snatchers to dig up the grave of Jed Stephens earlier this evening, and why you felt it necessary to commission them to parade his body around the village on your farm cart in order to strike terror into the heart of the Methodist minister, Evan Dyer.’
“Buckingham’s composure did not falter. For some seconds he continued to stare at me, his keen eyes seeking further explanation for this unexpected challenge to his assumed authority. When at last he replied, it was with a wry smile. “My good sir, it is not often that I am outwitted by anyone in this village. I confess to having no knowledge of what a consulting detective does, but imagine that you hail from somewhere other than Blythburgh. Either way, I am level-headed enough to recognise that you hold all of the cards in this particular play.’
“I thanked him for his candour and then threw down a further challenge. ‘Would I be right in suggesting that your primary reason for wanting to dig up the dead body was professional pride? I believe you were keen to re-examine the arterial surgery you had carried out on Stephen’s upper thigh to determine whether it was your own failed effort that had led to his death, rather than the suggested infection. You would have had no opportunity to do that earlier, as medical protocol dictated that an independent doctor should carry out the post-mortem.’
“For the first time, his eyes flickered, revealing that I had come close to the truth. ‘How could you possibly know that? I have told no one about my reason for wanting to re-examine the cadaver. The two men I hired to exhume the body believed only that I wished to play an elaborate prank on Dyer, that infernal meddler and soap-box preacher. I was content for them to go through with the plan to strap the body to the seat of the cart and to control its movement by means of some poles and thin rope. They were positioned in the back of the cart so as not to be seen. I had suggested only that they should stop at Dyer’s cottage on their way to my property. They took it upon themselves to pursue him through the village.’
“I then explained my reasoning. ‘It was clear that there could be no profit motive in taking the body. Had that been the case, you would have asked for the cadaver of Elizabeth Dyer to be exhumed at the same time. You had no reason to do that, for you knew for certain what had led to her death. The only explanation that fitted the facts was the issue of your professional reputation - you had to be certain that your surgery had not been the cause of death.’
“Buckingham did not deny the truth of anything I had said. He went on to explain that his two accomplices were brothers whose grandfather, Thomas Vaughan, had been a prolific East Anglian grave-robber decades before. They had used the tools of his trade to dig up Jed Stephens for a nominal sum. When the doctor had carried out his autopsy, they were to have returned his body to the graveyard. Beyond that, he believed that the men had done little wrong.
“I was quick to challenge this latter statement, taking the opportunity at that point to invite the locals back into the bar. What followed was a near brawl, in which I feared that our medical man might indeed be lynched. But such was the persuasive influence of alcohol, that having paid the landlord to provide the men with whatever refreshments they desired, the doctor was able to convince the mob that his execution would be inadvisable. Most easily converted was the melancholy Methodist himself, who seemed only too happy to accept a bottle of cheap brandy as recompense for the distress he had suffered. By the early hours of the morning, all grievances had been settled, and the weary men headed home to their beds.”
I chuckled at the humour of it all. “A successful conclusion then?”
Holmes nodded and rose from his armchair. “Yes. And I think further drinks are in order - spirits of a very different kind.”
The Curious Case of the Sweated Horse
by Jan Edwards
Holmes’s fame was spreading beyond the cloistered pools of villainy and police, downstream into the wider ocean that was society at large, and in consequence our partnership of consulting detectives was thriving. Or it would have been, were it not for Holmes’s lamentable habit of taking only those cases which piqued his curiosity.
In May of 1882, when this particular case surfaced, we had not accepted a client for some weeks and this lack saw our coffers looking a little shabby. I was contemplating bolstering my Army pension with some locum work when, on perusing the morning’s post, Holmes leapt from his chair with a letter in hand. He began pacing the floor as he read and reread its contents.
The signs of a pending investigation were unmistakable and I will admit to a certain amount of restless anticipation. Finally, he handed me both letter and envelope with a flourish, saying, “What do you make of this, Watson? An analytical appraisal, if you please.”
This was one of my friend’s frequent games and I prided myself in having picked up a few of Holmes’s tricks, even in the short time we had shared the Baker Street premises. I accepted the challenge with some confidence. The envelope told me little beyond that it had been posted first class, and so I turned to the letter.
“Ridge House, Friston, Sussex. The address seems to indicate a place of some standing, though this sheet is not monogrammed.” I held it up to the morning light pouring through the window. “Nor is there an obvious watermark. But it is good quality hand-cut paper. The penmanship is fluid but lacking flourish, which suggests someone used to writing in quantity and within time constraints, and it is masculine. A clerk or other servant perhaps?”
“Very good, old chap. Your observational skills are improving.” Holmes inclined his head, his lips puckered in wry amusement, making me feel a little like a dog who had received a pat on the head. “Read it aloud, please.”
I settled back in my chair and shook the page out.”
Dear Mr. Holmes, (I began)
Forgive my writing without introduction but I have a matter of some delicacy that requires the attention of a superior mind. A se
ries of events of an unexplained, and perhaps even an unexplainable, nature have occurred on my estate and given rise to a great deal of unrest among my staff. There is a persistent and growing rumour that Ridge House has been cursed by the Fair Folk. I personally have dismissed this as superstitious nonsense but, despite my best efforts to present my employees with a rational explanation. Two have already tendered their notice, and those remaining grow increasingly disturbed. I would be very much obliged if you would travel down to Sussex for a consultation as a matter of some urgency. Full remunerations will of course be made whether you choose to take the case or not.
Signed,
Frederick Pitman.
On behalf of your humble servant,
The Hon. Mr. Wesley Heath.
I looked up and laughed. “My goodness, Holmes. Fairies? This has to be one of the oddest cases yet.”
“Not even close to peculiar in comparison to some, my dear Watson, though it is intriguing. Wesley Heath, if you recall, was invalided by a riding accident some two years ago. It cut short a very promising career as a barrister. Sharp as a blade and not given to flights of fancy.”
“You know of him, then?”
“We met briefly when I was investigating the theft of some bankers’ bonds.”
“He’s not the kind to be taken in by simple hoaxes?”
Holmes took up his briar pipe and filled it from the Persian slipper in which he insisted on storing his tobacco. “I would say not, but superstitions of that kind among country people can very quickly run out of hand. I am inclined to take a trip down to Sussex, if only to put his mind at rest. Or perhaps I should say the minds of his staff.”
“Would you object to my accompanying you?”
“I would consider it a favour, Watson. Your opinion is always invaluable.” He lit his pipe and favoured me with a saturnine grin through the fumes. “And who could resist the opportunity to investigate a visitation from the Good Neighbours?”
