The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories - Part VII

by David Marcum

“What do you think has become of the stiletto, Sir Albert, given that it has vanished seemingly without trace?”

  “I cannot say. A part of me reckons some enemy is responsible. I cannot think of anyone I have explicitly wronged, but it is always possible I have given offence without meaning to.”

  “And this enemy succeeded where you failed and somehow located the stiletto in the pond’s murky depths and made off with it?”

  “Deliberately so as to destroy me,” said Sir Albert. “Yes. Or else it is simply some opportunistic thief who happened to witness Nicholas’s disposal of the stiletto, then returned under cover of darkness and found the dagger and absconded with it.”

  “The stiletto has monetary value, I imagine.”

  “Not a lot. It is made of steel, nothing else. There was no precious metal involved in its smithery. It is plain and functional in appearance, not beautiful by any means. From a collector, an antiquary, it might fetch a few pounds. To anyone hoping to sell it to a fence, though, I doubt it would yield much more than a similar weight of scrap metal might. Its worth is largely, if not wholly, symbolic.”

  “Which Nicholas knew full well,” said Holmes. “I should like to meet him.”

  “Let me take you up to his room. He has banished himself there, emerging only at mealtimes. It is his way of showing remorse.”

  Nicholas Marchindale was a tall, lean fellow in his early twenties, with a sharp, aquiline profile. Physically he was so unlike his father, one could only assume he derived his looks from his mother’s side.

  He was not alone in his room. As we neared the door the sound of raised voices came from within. Entering, we found Nicholas engaged in argument with another young man, perhaps a year or two the elder, who was every inch the spitting image of Sir Albert.

  This was Edward. After Sir Albert made the introductions, both Marchindale scions eyed us somewhat shamefacedly. Their cheeks were flushed. The debate between them had been hot-tempered and intense. The accusations we had overheard, and the invective, had been not of the politest.

  “Nicholas, if I may,” said Holmes, “what possessed you to take the stiletto from its display cabinet and toss it into the pond?”

  “It had to be done,” said the lad.

  “Why?”

  “I have never believed in the talismanic properties of the stiletto, Mr. Holmes. I am a rationalist. I studied the sciences at Camford. I have no time for fairy tales and mumbo-jumbo. No time even for the platitudes of the priest at church.”

  “More fool you,” snapped Edward.

  “My brother, on the other hand, is in thrall to all manner of hogwash, not least the stiletto’s reputation as the family’s lucky rabbit’s foot.”

  “I am a man of the Christian faith,” Edward averred, “as my father is, and as any right-thinking Englishman should be. As to the stiletto, I have always been of the opinion that, while it may or may not have held a benign sway over the Marchindales for all these centuries, why risk endangering that? Why tamper with it? If it seems to be working for us, then best leave it be. And then you came along with this mania of yours, Nicholas, this dogma of rationalism, and you commit one of the rashest, most foolhardy acts imaginable.”

  “I was making a point!” Nicholas protested.

  “And look how it has backfired!” Edward growled. “Mother unwell. A housemaid scalded. Father receiving news of two business calamities in a single day. Not to mention the dead fish.”

  “Coincidence,” his brother retorted. “Mother has always suffered with her tonsils. It has never flared up into quinsy before, I admit, but she was under strain, so her resistance to infection may have been compromised. Dr. Watson can surely back me up on that supposition.”

  I opened my mouth to speak - indeed, to offer agreement - but Nicholas forged on regardless.

  “As for Agnes, she is notoriously clumsy. You know that as well as I do. Have you forgotten how she dropped the roast mutton onto the floor a few Sundays ago? And before that broke a pane while washing the drawing-room windows? And before that slipped and twisted her ankle on the floor she was scrubbing? The girl is a liability, a menace to herself and others.”

  “And the sugar harvest? The sinking of the Hilda Gay?”

  “We have had problems like that in the past. When you have fingers in as many pies as Father has, there are bound to be times when all does not go swimmingly.” In a gesture of vexation, Nicholas scratched the palm of his left hand with the fingernails of the right, then swapped round and did the same to the right palm with the fingernails of the left. He must have performed this gesture frequently, for the palms of both were irritated, quite red. “You, Edward, are committing the cardinal sin of tailoring the evidence to suit your prejudices. In statistical terms, there is nothing anomalous or untoward in the run of misfortune we have been experiencing lately. It just so happens to have occurred in the wake of me dropping the stiletto into the pond.”

  “Precisely,” said Edward. “That is my point. The one led inexorably to the other.”

  “No, it is mere happenstance. There is nothing to link effect to cause other than your mistaken conviction that it must be so. Mr. Holmes, do you not concur? Your name is well known, and held in high regard, in my social circle. I am told your methods hinge on the meticulous compilation of data and you draw your inferences solely therefrom. You must see the false logic of my brother’s assumptions.”

  Holmes nodded noncommittally. I could tell, after nearly three years’ close acquaintance with him, that he liked Nicholas and, furthermore, was impressed by him. The young Marchindale seemed a man after his own heart.

  “It was a cold morning,” said Holmes, “when you dropped the stiletto into the pond. Am I right?”

  “It was,” Nicholas replied, a tad warily. “The first frost of autumn made itself felt that morning.”

  “And you committed the deed in full sight of your family?”

  “Father, Mother, and Edward all saw me from the dining room as I strode up to the pond. The windows afford a clear, uninterrupted view of the spot. I announced my intentions loudly to them and waited until they had all looked up from their breakfast. I wanted their full attention.”

  “The moment I realised what Nicholas was carrying in his hands,” said Sir Albert, “I lunged for the window and thrust it open. ‘What on earth are you up to, my boy?’ I called out. ‘What are you doing with the stiletto?’”

  “The remarks were somewhat saltier than that, Father, as I recall. You made Mother blush and scold you.”

  “I then hurried to the door,” Sir Albert continued, “once I had ascertained that Nicholas meant to throw the stiletto into the water. I was going to sprint outside to stop him. But too late. I hadn’t gone three paces when...”

  “In it went,” said Nicholas. “Splash.”

  “And you are sure, Sir Albert, that what you saw was the stiletto?” said Holmes.

  “Completely sure. I know what that knife looks like. I’ve seen it practically every day of my life. I’ve grown up studying it in that cabinet. I am intimately familiar with every inch of it, from tip to pommel. It was the Marchindale Stiletto that Nicholas was carrying, not a shadow of a doubt about it.”

  “The pond is how far from the dining-room windows?”

  “Twenty-five yards, I would estimate. Thirty at the most.”

  “It is just feasible, then, that at that distance you may have taken something which purported to be the stiletto for the actual stiletto.”

  “I don’t think so. I have excellent eyesight. Same goes for Edward. Eh, Edward?”

  “It was the stiletto,” Edward stated firmly. “I’d stake my life upon it, not least because I know my brother. Throwing away the Marchindale Stiletto is just like him. Isn’t it, Nicholas? You would do it purely to annoy me. That is the sort of younger brother you are.”<
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  “It wasn’t to annoy you, Edward,” Nicholas said, “although if that has been a by-product, I can’t say I am disappointed.”

  “You scoundrel!”

  Nicholas responded with a smug leer, and I honestly felt that his older brother was about to attack him. Edward’s fists were clenched and resentment smouldered on his face. Having had an older brother myself, I could sympathise. Hamish was the apple of our parents’ eye when we were growing up, and my tactic for dealing with that was to provoke him at every opportunity. I would drive him to distraction sometimes, if only to see him lose his cool and retaliate. I wanted my parents to realise that he was not the golden boy they seemed to think he was. I also wanted them to pay me more attention. Such acts of petty peevishness are the battlefields of siblings in childhood.

  “Come now!” Sir Albert barked. “The pair of you, cease your squabbling. We have plenty of woes already without you adding to them. Think of your poor mother. Think how she must feel, lying just across the landing, hearing you two bicker.”

  Nicholas and Edward lapsed into sullen silence. A brooding enmity continued to simmer between them.

  Holmes’s voice broke in on the truce, such as it was. “I should like to inspect the pond now, Sir Albert. Would you be so good as to show us the way?”

  Sir Albert escorted us from the room. A few seconds later Edward followed us out, slamming the door behind him.

  The pond was broad, roughly circular, and fringed with reeds. Duckweed covered the water’s surface in clusters, but its bright green efflorescence was tinged throughout with patches of brown, as though it was not as healthy as it might be. Holmes gathered up a few of its tiny, multi-lobed leaf pads for scrutiny. He then begged Sir Albert to fetch him a glass.

  “Nothing fancy. A small tumbler will do.”

  With it he drew a sample of water from the pond. Then he requested the use of the kitchen.

  “I wish to conduct a small test,” said he. “Domestic implements and ingredients will suffice.”

  Sir Albert gave his consent, albeit with puzzlement. “What are you hoping to demonstrate?”

  “Confirmation of a hypothesis, or refutation of same.”

  In the kitchen, Holmes asked the cook, Mrs. Fredericks, to bring him a zinc bucket and some coal tar soap. He poured the pond water into the former and added flakes of the latter, then boiled the lot over the stove. Mrs. Fredericks expressed consternation at her domain being treated as the venue for some sort of scientific experiment whose nature she could not fathom, and Holmes had not vouchsafed.

  Her consternation deepened as the mixture of pond water and coal tar soap came to the boil in the bucket and gave off a faintly acrid aroma. She left the room in high dudgeon.

  “Ah,” Holmes said eventually, with a small nod of satisfaction.

  What remained after the water had evaporated was a thin residue, silvery-black in colour, coating the base of the bucket.

  “I have just carried out a rather crude approximation of the Marsh Test, Watson. The zinc of the bucket and the phenol in the soap have, combined, served to prove the presence of a toxic substance in the water.”

  “The Marsh Test,” said I. “Isn’t that a method for establishing the use of Arsenic?”

  “It works just as well for another substance - gallium.”

  “Gallium?”

  “An element found in trace quantities in zinc ores and bauxite. It is one of the more interesting metals, in that it is a solid at low temperature but a liquid at room temperature. In this instance, gallium has been used in the commission of an elaborate and I think rather amusing fraud. Is that not so, Nicholas?”

  I turned to see the younger of the two Marchindale brothers, who had just sidled into the kitchen.

  Sheepishly, but also with a hint of secret delight, Nicholas said, “You have caught me, Mr. Holmes.”

  “Young man.” The form of address seemed appropriate, even though Holmes was only a few years Nicholas’s senior. “In many ways I find you admirable. You have an empirical attitude to life which jibes with my own. However, I feel that this joke of yours has gone far enough, and I believe you feel that too. The time has come to own up.”

  Nicholas sighed. “Father informed me a few minutes ago that you were here, testing water from the pond. This confirmed what I already suspected from our interview, that you had divined the truth. I felt it wise to come straight here and throw myself on your mercy.”

  “You have the stiletto in your possession.”

  “It is in my room, tucked away in my chest of drawers.”

  “You fashioned a replica, using gallium, one that from a distance it would be all but indistinguishable from the real thing. You must have kept it somewhere cold, in order that it retained its shape.”

  “The wine cellar retains its coolness year round. I concealed the fake stiletto behind one of the racks of bottles, in a crevice in the brickwork.”

  “You then made your move. You removed the real stiletto from the cabinet, after which you fetched the gallium copy and went through the whole masquerade of tossing it into the pond. In the chill of the morning air, the replica would not melt in your hands. As soon as it hit the water, however, it turned to liquid and dispersed instantly. Water retains heat better than air, so the pond would be a few degrees warmer than its surroundings at this time of year, precipitating the melting process.”

  “Just so.”

  “Gallium being a toxic substance, it killed all the fish in the pond after it had dissolved and spread. It also left you with skin irritation from handling it. Hence the scratching I noticed earlier, and the reddened inflammation of your palms. All of this was a ploy, not just to irk your brother, although it achieved that, but to show that there is no curse attached to the stiletto. It has no hold over your family’s fortunes. It is merely an inanimate object.”

  “Alas, how was I to know that so much would then go so wrong, so quickly?”

  “It is ironic, to be sure.”

  “I sincerely wanted Edward to appreciate that the future of the Marchindales rested with him and not with any dagger. I wanted to teach him the best kind of lesson. Father too. The stiletto was lost, apparently, but life would continue as normal. That was the plan. A week would pass, a month, and everyone would shake off their superstitious attachment to it. Eventually, after perhaps three or four months, I would ‘by accident’ stumble across the stiletto in the reeds, having of course placed it there earlier. It would be returned to its place in the cabinet but, I hoped, not to its place in family folklore.”

  “Your iconoclasm does you credit.”

  “Thank you. In the event, I failed dismally. Fate conspired to pull the rug from under me. The dead fish, I predicted.”

  “They were the only one of your brother’s litany of catastrophes for which you neglected to offer a rationale.”

  “As for the rest, I could do nothing but gnash my teeth. It made me look as though I was the agent of our family’s downfall, when I knew all along that the stiletto was safe and sound and we were just having a bad go of it. It almost - almost - persuaded me to confess the truth. I decided instead to brazen it out. The bad luck could not continue indefinitely, could it? Soon it would run its course and everything would be back on an even keel, and my point could still be made.”

  “I have a way out of this for you,” said Holmes. “It will not regain you the face you have lost with your family, but it will at least permit you to bring your imposture to an end.”

  “I am all ears, sir.”

  Later that day, the Marchindale Stiletto was wrested by Holmes, almost miraculously, from the pond. His experiment in the kitchen had, he explained to Sir Albert, demonstrated that the consistency of the mud of the pond bed was such that it would have sucked the dagger further down than anyone suspected. The searchers simply had
not delved deep enough.

  Sir Albert and a sickly-looking but still beautiful Lady Constance, clad in nightdress and gown, looked on as Holmes waded into the pond up to his thighs, leant down and began to probe the bottom. What they did not see was Holmes slipping the stiletto out of its place of concealment in his jacket sleeve, even as he methodically groped about underwater. The cry of delight my friend gave as he pretended to locate the stiletto and the triumph with which he held the mud-stained weapon aloft were so well feigned - a masterclass of acting - that the Marchindale patriarch and his wife were none the wiser. Sir Albert was overcome with relief and joy, and gladly wrote out a cheque for a handsome sum in recompense.

  Holmes, I am pleased to report, donated the full amount to the Salvation Army.

  “I cannot in all conscience spend it on myself,” he told me upon his return to Baker Street after handing the money over at the Marylebone Mission, “since I did not properly earn it. It would be rank charlatanism.” A wry twinkle entered his eye. “The lifting of curses should be left to witches, Watson, and perhaps the clergy. It is not, and never should be, the province of the humble consulting detective.”

  The Case of the Cursed Clock

  by Gayle Lange Puhl

  Mr. Sherlock Holmes did not believe in the supernatural. His was a rational mind, admirably balanced and logical to the nth degree. To accept the existence of otherworldly interventions in the affairs of men, of supernatural incidents that defied the laws of nature, or to accept the existence of dark and malignant spirits that could cause injury to living people or beasts, was abhorrent to such a mind as his. So it was that, when a client arrived at our rooms at 221b Baker Street in London to consult with him about a haunting, Sherlock Holmes was at first dismissive of his problem.

  It had been a busy year. One of the cases brought to Holmes had involved the Royal House of a small European nation. His task was to clear up a question arising from the death of its monarch and complications that endangered the rise to the throne of the true heir. My readers must understand if I elaborate no further, since the case concerned delicate affairs of state.