by David Marcum
After that, I assisted Holmes in the breaking up of a swindling crime organization in the East End. Only his skills at observation saved a guileless young fellow from the machinations of a clever man intent on fooling him out of his last penny.
It was but a few days into the month of November when a new client appeared. I had risen that morning to find the skies outside our sitting-room windows gray with thick clouds, as they had been for a week. After breakfast, I had a full day planned, and was just about to take up my hat in order to leave when the doorbell sounded. We heard Mrs. Hudson answer the front door.
“Were you expecting anyone?” I asked Holmes, who had stretched himself out on the sofa with a supply of the morning newspapers to read, his usual habit when not actively engaged in a case.
“Not I,” he replied. As footsteps mounted the seventeen steps of the staircase to our room, he rose and thrust the stack of newsprint to one side. He smoothed his hair and made himself presentable for whomever was to appear. A moment later, the door opened and a man of about fifty years presented himself to our view.
“Mr. Sherlock Holmes?” asked the gentleman. “I certainly hope you can help me. I am quite distracted.” Holmes waved him to an armchair. I hung up my coat, took a seat on the sofa, and brought out my notebook.
Holmes stood in front of the mantel, his hands behind his back, and cast a languid eye over the ruddy-faced, brown-haired fellow. Our visitor was above medium height, with a knobby nose and large ears. His open coat revealed he was clad in a suit of brown tweed and wore black elastic-sided boots. An Albert watch chain was swung across his matching vest, from whence dangled a couple of pendants. The man handed the detective his card before he sat down and Holmes glanced at it before turning his attention back to his visitor.
“I see here that you are Mr. Richard Orrey, Imports and Exports, with an address in Mousehole, near Penzance in Cornwall.” Holmes had given the small port the correct pronunciation of Mow’zel. “Beyond the facts that you were raised in Cornwall, have spent time in the American South, are a widower, have a daughter, and keep your own accounts, I know nothing of your circumstances. I think we may understand more after you have explained your problem to Dr. Watson and myself.”
The man gave a start and stared at my friend. “How could you know all that?” he exclaimed. “It is all true, but I had not thought that word of my troubles had extended to London.”
“I will explain myself, sir. Your name, address, and business are on your card, of course. Your accent is Cornish, with a little overlay of American, and that tinged with a Southern flavor. That tells me of your origin and where you have spent part of your time. Owning an import and export business, you must have traveled. I would venture to think you have spent time in Louisiana, quite possibly New Orleans.
“You wear a little black pendant with a clear glass front on your watch chain containing a lock of yellow hair curled within. It is a mourning token. It could be for a parent or a sibling, but at your age it is most probably a wife. Beside that pendant is a tiny silver case, an example of those designed to carry strands of hair as keepsakes. It is shaped like a daisy. Flower-shaped watch fobs are more likely to denote girls, and I would be willing to wager that your case carries within it a lock of blonde hair. That daisy-shaped pendant is your daughter’s. The first is her mother’s. But the daisy pendant is a keepsake, not a mourning token. Therefore, your daughter still lives.
“As for the writing, the signs of ink smears are visible on the fingers of your right hand. You run an import-export business. It would be very normal for you to be responsible for bills of lading and the payments to your suppliers. You dip your pen nib too deeply when you write.”
Mr. Orrey tried to smile. “I see I have come to the right man. Hear me out, Mr. Holmes, and you can judge for yourself as to whether I should be upset about my clock.
“I am a Cornishman, although I had thought that some of my accent had worn smooth during my travels over the years. There have been Orreys in Cornwall for almost as long as there have been people there at all. Over time, our estate dwindled until we were left only the house and about fifty acres. My grandfather began the import and export business, and it turned out we had a flare for it. I import many different items from the New World to the Old, and have been to some mighty strange places, including South America, the Bermudas and, as you said, New Orleans.
“My household at Bluff House consists of my daughter, Dorit, the butler, two maids, a cook, and a yardman who takes care of the horses and also helps in the house when needed.
“During my marriage, my wife traveled with me, and as a result, Dorit was born in Baton Rouge. She is now nineteen years old. My wife June, however, was never strong after our daughter’s birth and died in New Orleans ten years ago.
“After the funeral, I settled my daughter with my sister back in Mousehole, where she lived in the family home. I continued to ply my business alone. But the loneliness was too much, and as Dorit grew older I resumed taking her with me on my trips during school holidays. Finally, when my sister married last year and followed her soldier husband to India, I returned to the old place again. I wanted to give my girl some semblance of a regular home life. When Dorit became betrothed to young Mr. Winston Looper of Penzance, I was very pleased. He is the son of a local jeweler and set to follow in his father’s footsteps.
“I have an office in my home. I handle all the ordering and bills and merchandise myself, so we are all busy and happy. It is a large house, and I use a few of the rooms and the outbuildings to store my wares before they are transported to my clients.
“A week ago, I received a shipment of long-case clocks from the States for resale. One of them, constructed of hickory and with an unusual gilt dial, was so handsome that I decided that I would put it aside and offer it as my wedding gift to my daughter and her new husband next year, when the wedding is due to take place. Dorit approved of the gift. Accordingly, it was set up in the main hall of my house until it would go to the young couple’s new home.”
“One question,” interrupted Sherlock Holmes. “From whence had this clock been sent to you?”
“From New Orleans. From Abner Wondowner of Jackson Square.”
“Is he a regular supplier?”
“I have known him for years. He is a hard man, but his goods have always been of the finest quality.”
“Very well. Pray continue.” Holmes flung himself into his chair and steepled his fingers.
“My butler set up the clock, hanging the weights and setting the time. He is in charge of keeping it wound. Nothing strange was noted for the first few hours. Then the wedding clock began to chime in an odd fashion. Instead of striking as it was set, on the hour and on the half-hour, it struck on the quarter hour and then only one chime was heard each time. It was reset by the butler. Yesterday things became worse. The timepiece sounded once every ten minutes, starting at one o’clock, right at lunchtime. I know nothing about the workings of clocks, so I left the re-setting to the butler. He looked at it many times that day. The disruption continued. By five o’clock, I called in young Looper, who as a jeweler knows such things for his work. He examined its works. Neither of them found any reason for the clock to continue to chime at odd times. Finally, I had young Looper disable the thing.”
“How extraordinary!” I exclaimed.
“I do not see how I could help you in this matter,” said Sherlock Holmes. “Surely you would be better served with an experienced clockmaker or, better yet, a different clock.”
“That is what I thought, Mr. Holmes, until my butler said something. It was that which decided me to come down to London and consult you.”
Holmes’s black brows came down over his keen grey eyes. “Indeed. What did he say?”
Mr. Orrey wrung his hands. “He said that the night before, he was locking the windows and doors around midnight. He hea
rd a noise in the Great Hall. He went to check the room, but all seemed as normal. But when he was turning away to go to his quarters, he saw something near the clock. It was only a glimpse, but he insisted upon what he saw.”
“What did the butler see?”
Mr. Orrey’s face was pale now, and drawn. His eyes fixed on Holmes’s face.
“He swore he saw a ghost, Mr. Holmes. A misty spot hovering on the floor in the middle of the room. Then - it disappeared into the clock. It was visible in the moonlight which showed briefly through a rift in the clouds.”
“Does your butler... by the way, what is his name?”
“Maurice Mulot. He is of French descent and has been serving the family for nearly thirty years.”
“Do you have reason to believe he drinks, Mr. Orrey?”
“He has been known to take a glass on occasion, Mr. Holmes, but never while on duty!” Mr. Orrey looked ruffled at the suggestion.
“When was the last time he had his eyes checked?”
“Really, Mr. Holmes! I must protest these attacks upon the reliability of an old servant!”
“Then what do you think is the cause for the clock’s behavior and the ghost?”
Richard Orrey leaned forward toward the detective and, with a trace of a quaver in his voice, replied, “I believe the clock is haunted, Mr. Holmes. I think an old enemy put a curse on it. I saw much in New Orleans during my time there that outsiders would not understand.”
“Odd things happen in old houses. Perhaps it was caused by the moonlight, the wind, or the ground settling,” said Holmes.
“The moon was full that night, quite full. Dorit remarked upon it. But I can’t see that has anything to do with Mulot’s sighting. It is true that Bluff House stands in an exposed position on a bluff overlooking the shingle of the harbour of Mousehole. The winds that sweep in from the Atlantic Ocean can be strong, but in nearly two-hundred years, there has never been a single draft reported in the house. The foundation and walls are of Lamora granite, and all the windows and doors are sturdy and square, as firm as the day my grandfather accepted the keys. As for the ground settling, tests made when we first moved in proved that in all this time, the place has only settled one-sixteenth of an inch. No, you may dismiss those explanations from your mind, Mr. Holmes.”
The detective frowned at his client. He stood up, turned to the mantelpiece, and filled his old briar from the tobacco in the Persian slipper. He tamped it down and lit it, all the time concentrating on Mr. Orrey. He paced a bit in front of the hearth and then paused.
“The clock came from New Orleans. You spent a great deal of time in that city. Tell me about it, Mr. Orrey.”
“I spent years in the American South. I made many friends and heard stories from them that would astonish you. There are parts of that area that are almost impossible for an outsider to understand. There are several sub-cultures in the South that exist nowhere else. Superstitions, unusual traditions, and odd beliefs find their homes there. New Orleans was the scene of my poor wife’s death and where she is buried.”
“Excuse me, sir, but of what did your wife die?” I asked.
“She died of cholera, Dr. Watson. As I said, she hadn’t been strong for years.”
Holmes eyed Mr. Orrey again. “Did you, personally, ever experience any unusual occurrences during your time in New Orleans?”
“Yes. After my wife died, I felt terribly alone, even though Dorit was with me. Abner Wondowner suggested that I visit a medium. In an effort to comfort myself, I attended two séances. I went away unconvinced, although I believed the woman was sincere. Time passed, and gradually the sharp pain I felt over my wife’s death dulled. I accepted her passing. Then, two years ago, I had an incident with Abner Wondowner. There was a report he actually hired a voodoo priest to put a curse on me!”
“What!” I half-rose from my chair. Even Holmes looked surprised.
“What did you do?” asked Holmes.
“I did the only think I could do, Mr. Holmes. I decided to fight fire with fire. I hired another priest had him put a worse curse on the man. When the word got around to Wondowner, he called off his priest and then I called off mine.”
“What were the curses?” I inquired.
“He arranged for my health to take a turn for the worse.”
“And you arranged... ?”
“For him to lose a lot of money. After he heard that, a truce was arranged and both curses were cancelled.”
“Yet you still do business with this man?” Holmes asked.
Richard Orrey shrugged. “His products are of high quality and, outside of our dispute, there had been no other trouble between us. Business is business, after all.”
“What had been the origin of the dispute?”
“He was nearly my own age, yet had seen fit to pay court to my daughter. At the time, she was barely seventeen.”
“Was your daughter receptive to his attentions?”
“No! She found him odious and repulsive. It was her clear desire to have nothing to do with the man. When he was informed of her feelings was when he had me cursed. I suppose he thought with me out of the way, he could persuade Dorit to accept him as her protector. But I counter-attacked and his plan failed. Soon after that incident, Dorit and I moved back to Cornwall to stay.”
Holmes shrugged his shoulders. His next question surprised me.
“So you believe the timepiece is haunted?” Holmes shot me an amused glance. “I would not think that any intelligent spirit would ever chose to haunt a tall-case clock. Wouldn’t it be a bit confining?”
“You may joke, Mr. Holmes, but I am serious. I saw too many strange things in America to easily dismiss such a notion. Young Looper thinks there is nothing to it, but my daughter Dorit is quite upset. With her engagement, she has found a grown-up dignity. After the clock began malfunctioning, she became agitated. When her fiancé could not fix the problem, she became angry with him. She talks of postponing the wedding or even calling it off completely. Young Looper is very confused. They do love each other, but these unusual happenings have driven a wedge between them.
“I even took the problem of the tall-case clock to our vicar. He did not say that I may be right in my opinion, but he did refuse to do any sort of exorcism until the matter had been thoroughly investigated.”
“So you wish for Dr. Watson and myself to travel to Mousehole to examine this cursed clock of yours so you may have a ceremony to release the tortured spirit trapped within?”
“Exactly.”
Holmes’s pipe had gone out during this conversation. We were silent as he struck several matches in order to get the thing to light. Was I mistaken, or was his unsteady hand a result of fear? Finally he looked up at our client through a wreath of smoke.
“This problem deserves more investigation, Mr. Orrey. Please leave the name of your hotel with me and return tomorrow morning at this time.”
Our client looked rather uncertainly at Holmes but shook hands as my friend led him out of the room. When the detective was certain the man was out of earshot, he threw himself down on the sofa and burst into laughter.
I joined in, involuntarily, because my friend rarely displayed such amusement. Finally, when he showed signs of calming down, I ruefully shook my head and said, “Really, Holmes, is that professional? To laugh so at a client’s predicament?”
He stopped laughing and eyed me with a smile on his lips. I could see that my impression of fear was totally wrong. Instead, he seemed gripped in suppressed hilarity. “You are right, Watson, but I could not contain myself. If I were not hungering for a case, I would have put Mr. Orrey off. I really agreed to look into it because of the engaged daughter, Dorit. No marriage should take place under such uncertainty as is caused by an unreliable time piece.
“Besides, Mr. Orrey was starting to believe i
n spooks, and such nonsense should be nipped early. I see it as a duty I owe to my fellow man. There is nothing more ridiculous than a credulous Englishman in tweeds.”
“You have clearly set forth your credo on the subject of the supernatural. ‘No ghosts need apply.’”
“Indeed, and it has not changed. What have we, two rational men, to do with apparitions, specters, and such hocus-pocus? I could not allow Mr. Richard Orrey to start down that dark path that ends in trumpets whispering family secrets and bits of cheesecloth insisting they are long-lost relatives. No, better to be hit with a dose of reality now, rather than sink into that morass of teleporting fruit and mendacious mediums that awaits such believers.”
Holmes retreated to his bedroom. A few minutes later, he re-emerged dressed for the street. “I hope to be back sometime later today, Watson. Leave a candle in the window for me.”
“But Holmes! Where are you going?”
“Tempus fugit, Watson. As must I.” He left.
I found my hat and went out as well. I spent the rest of the day on my own affairs and did not return to 221b until after dinner. There was no sign of Holmes. I sat reading until the hour grew late with no word, and finally decided it was useless to wait up for him. After my years of experiences with the detective, I knew it was equally possible that Holmes was lurking around the seediest dives Whitechapel had to offer or was taking supper with the Queen.
I came down to breakfast the next morning to find my friend sitting in his armchair with a lap full of telegraph forms. He shuffled them into a neat stack and laid them aside.
“Let me pour you some coffee, Watson. I can see that you are anxious to learn of my movements yesterday after Mr. Orrey’s visit. My first action was to spend part of yesterday at the telegraph office, sending wires to my agent in New Orleans. In the middle of the correspondence, I took time out to visit the British Museum. I researched voodoo religion as practiced in New Orleans. Then I went back to the telegraph office. I needed to send more wires to Liverpool. It was late when the last reply came in.”
