The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories - Part VII

by David Marcum

  Holmes sat staring moodily into the flames. He had not had any case for the past few days, and as was usual in those circumstances, he grew introspective to the point of churlishness. In passing, I may remark that my own prospective marriage seemed to have affected him somewhat more than he cared to admit, and that may have contributed to his somewhat melancholy state of mind.

  For myself, I was reading a book I had recently found on a second-hand stall, and which seemed oddly suited to the weather, and Holmes’s own mood. Its title was Strange Things Amongst Us, and the author’s somewhat melodramatic pseudonym was “Spectre Stricken”.

  Holmes, who had evidently noticed my choice of reading matter, tapped the ashes from his old briar pipe into the fire before remarking, “Strange things, eh, Watson?” and then taking up his long cherry-wood pipe.

  I sighed to myself, for that was he pipe he favoured in his more argumentative moments. “We have both seen some very strange things, Holmes!”

  “Oh, indeed. But you will allow that there has invariably been some fairly logical and scientific, if not downright prosaic, explanations?”

  “Almost always, I allow.”

  “This supernatural spiritualist nonsense surely has no place in our scheme of things, Doctor?”

  “‘No ghosts need apply!’ I believe you have remarked. Easy to dismiss it, Holmes, but should we do so without a full examination? After all, some of the most intelligent writers have been convinced of its truth.”

  Holmes snorted. “I will allow that there are some phenomena as yet unaccounted for by science, but that surely says more about scientists than about those same phenomena? As for the more lurid manifestations - I use the word advisedly - the ectoplasm that is mere gingham, the table turning, the raps and knocks-”

  RAT-TAT-TAT!

  For a short moment Holmes and I stared at one another, then we both burst out laughing.

  “That is not Lestrade’s knock,” I said.

  “A client, I fancy, and on urgent business, for who else would turn out on such a miserable day?”

  Holmes was right, for a moment later the page-boy William threw open the door and announced, “Mr. Theophilus Carter and the Reverend Mr. Jasper Carter.”

  “Come in, gentlemen, and pray be seated,” said Holmes, rubbing his hands like a miser faced with a crock of gold. “You are brothers, I perceive.”

  This was not as clever as it might seem, for the family resemblance was obvious, though Mr. Theophilus was somewhat older and stouter than his brother, and dressed like a country squire up to London on business, while Mr. Jasper wore the conventional clerical garb.

  “Quite right, Mr. Holmes,” said Theophilus. “We live, both of us, in a little place called Roundham, in Essex, though only just, for it’s right on the Suffolk border. Our family has been there for generations, and we are by way of being the local squires. That is to say, I myself now have that honour, while young Jasper here is the local vicar, again a family tradition.”

  “Just so,” said Holmes. “And have you come to consult me?”

  Theophilus laughed, but it was a uneasy sort of laugh. “It is a strange business, Mr. Holmes.”

  “Then perhaps you would state it, sir, and be as precise as you can.”

  “I see you are a businesslike man, Mr. Holmes, a man after my own heart. Very well, sir, the matter lies thus. As I say, we are but a small, out-of-the-way place, but there is one curious feature in the place. An old stone circle, by no-”

  “Ah!” said I. then, “I beg your pardon, sir, but I had thought I knew the name of your village.”

  Theophilus Carter nodded. “It has some small fame, though by no means that of Stonehenge nor of Avebury, as I was going to say. But we are visited by occasional scholars of the olden times - infrequently, for there is no inn or any size in the place, and we do not encourage such visits, for we like to live quietly.”

  “Or did,” put in his brother, speaking for the first time.

  “Or did,” agreed Theophilus. “Most of these students stay in Hengebury, a small town some five miles away.”

  “A place which, as one may say, takes its name, and something of a reflected glory, from our own small relic,” added the vicar.

  “Ah! You are yourself a student of antiquities?” asked Holmes.

  The clergyman smiled modestly. “I strive to emulate the Reverend Gilbert White in that way, sir, and I may add that many of my predecessors - my ancestors - in the living have done the same, so that we have some detailed records.”

  “Just so,” said Holmes. “And is there no large town or city nearby?”

  “The nearest place is Colchester,” said Theophilus, “and that perhaps fifteen miles or so. But the roads are bad, and we are fortunately not near any railways, so we remain, as I say, very quiet and undisturbed. As a rule,” he added as his brother made to speak.

  “Indeed. But I gather that your peace and quiet are lately disturbed?”

  “They are, Mr. Holmes. Some three or four nights ago, my wife woke me by shaking my shoulder. Vigorously, for I confess I am a somewhat heavy sleeper. She told me that she had seen a light shining from outside onto our bedroom wall. Slightly sceptical, and somewhat irritated at my broken slumber, I looked out over the garden and, sure enough, there was someone moving about with a lantern or some such at the wall of the graveyard. Now-”

  “One moment,” said Holmes. “The graveyard, you say?”

  “Ah,” said Theophilus. “I had not made the geography of the place clear to you. The old manor house, my own dwelling, lies at one end, the eastern end, of a small lane, and the vicarage is at the western end, with the village half a mile further that way. The church and its surroundings are between the two houses, so we both have a good view if it. The churchyard is somewhat to the north, and just beyond that are the dilapidated remains of the old stone circle.”

  “I myself am convinced that the church was built there because it was an old sacred site,” added the vicar. “The dedication to St Michael and All Angels is one very common in such cases.”

  “Thank you, that is very clear,” said Holmes. “There was, you say, some prowler?”

  Theophilus nodded. “I very naturally called out, and with scant regard to politeness, I fear. Upon which the intruder made a hasty retreat.”

  “Burglars?” I suggested.

  Theophilus shook his head. “Why should they not approach the house directly? And again, such wealth as I possess is either at the bank or my solicitor’s office, a fact well known in the area.”

  “But it may have been someone who was unaware of those facts?” said Holmes. “Watson’s suggestion is surely the most likely explanation?”

  “So I thought, gentlemen. Unlikely as it is, there was - there seemed - no more likely possibility. I therefore made light of the matter to my wife, so as not to alarm her, and resolved to keep a close watch next night. Sure enough, there was the light again. And once more, I called out, and once more whoever it might be took to his heels.”

  “And the next night?” asked Holmes.

  “Ah.” Theophilus looked thoroughly ashamed. “I have said that I am a sound sleeper, and I rather fear that Morpheus himself overcame me that night. However - but let brother Jasper tell the rest.”

  Jasper nodded. “Theophilus had mentioned the matter to me, and though I had not myself seen or heard anything. I was resolved to try to help by keeping watch myself that same night - that is two nights ago. In this resolve I succeeded, until perhaps midnight or shortly after. Nothing had disturbed the quiet of the evening or night, so I went to bed, considerably later than is my wont. I was woken - I know not how or by what - in the small hours, and, upon looking out over the churchyard, I saw the same light noted by my brother. Like him, I called out, though I fear in a more timid fashion. It was, nevertheless, sufficie
nt to alarm the intruder, who once more took to his heels.”

  “And now, Mr. Holmes,” Theophilus took up the tale, “we arrive at perhaps the most interesting, certainly the most puzzling, part of the whole business. You understand that we had not hitherto made any sort of examination of the place where the intruder had been seen, being more concerned with the very fact, as it were, of there being an intruder in the first place.”

  “Just so. But now you thought to take a belated closer look?”

  “I blame myself, sir. I ought to have thought to do so sooner. But be that as it may, when we went, my brother and I, to the northern end of the graveyard, there-” And he broke off.

  “Well?”

  “Well, Mr. Holmes, dreadful though it is to recount it, one of the graves had been disturbed! There were definite signs that some - some fiend – had attempted to dig up the - to open the grave, that is to say.”

  “Ah!” And I fear that there was some satisfaction in Holmes’s voice, though I myself shuddered at the ghoulish possibilities that presented themselves. Holmes went on, “This was, you say, two nights ago? What, then, of last night?”

  “Ah, now last night I set two of my keepers to watch over the place, though they grumbled a good deal. But a small financial inducement did the trick. No, I wasn’t going to have that sort of thing in the place, sir!”

  “Just so. It must be most distressing. The graveyard, you say, is next to the old stone circle?”

  Theophilus nodded.

  “And has the place, the circle or graveyard, I mean to say, has it any sort of bad reputation?”

  “Haunted, you mean?” Theophilus shook his head. “Not a bit of it!”

  Jasper added, “As I told you, Mr. Holmes, I have the various records of pervious incumbents, and none of them contains any suggestion of any sort of supernatural phenomena. Though, to be sure, few of the village folk would care to be inside the old stones once the sun has set.”

  “No wonder,” said Theophilus. “Tried it myself once, when I was younger, and it was eerie enough in all conscience. Only stayed an hour or so, and that was enough. Wouldn’t care to spend the night there.”

  “Indeed. But there is no sort of tradition of that sort of thing?” Holmes sat silent for a moment. “Now, the grave that was disturbed-”

  “I have anticipated you there, sir,” said the vicar. “When we saw what had happened, I was at once reminded of whose grave that was, and subsequently checked my parish registers and my own humble journal for that year. I am thus in a position to give you a very full and accurate account.”

  “Excellent” said Holmes, rubbing his hands together. “You are an ideal client, sir! Now, who is buried there?”

  “Now, that I cannot say, for we do not know his name, and never did.”

  “Indeed?” Holmes’s voice showed his disappointment.

  “Indeed,” said Jasper. “It was a sad business, to be sure. Some five years ago - a little over, in January that year, to be exact-”

  “Pray be exact,” said Holmes.

  “I shall try to do so. Well, then, there came to my brother’s door an old fellow, very much the worse for wear. A vagrant, or indigent, a ‘knight of the road’, or an ‘inspector of milestones’, as the euphemisms go-”

  “A tramp, Mr. Holmes,” put in Theophilus. “Poor old chap came to the kitchen door, half dead, in the most literal sense. More than half dead, to be blunt, for he collapsed upon the kitchen floor. We very naturally called the doctor, but there was nothing to be done. He died almost immediately. Sheer exhaustion, the bitter cold - for it was cold, that winter - old age, illness, you name it. Well, of course, I - we-”

  “Theophilus did what had to be done,” said Jasper gently, “and I myself conducted the funeral service.”

  “Wish I could have done more for the poor old devil - old chap,” said Theophilus, with glance at his brother.

  “I am sure you did as much as anyone could have done,” said Holmes gently, “and more besides. But you say there was no clue to his identity?”

  “None, sir,” said Jasper. “I had to record it as ‘unknown’ in my registers. Would that I had not!”

  “Hmm.” Holmes looked puzzled.

  “A bad business, Mr. Holmes,” said Theophilus. “It seemed as if the poor - chap - had no luck at all, for he couldn’t even be buried for ages.”

  “Ah, the coroner’s inquest, and so forth?”

  “That, of course, but once that was settled - ‘heart failure’ though that says little of the truth, sheer neglect and bad luck, more like - but anyway, once that was out of the way, he still couldn’t be laid to rest because of the frost. As I said, that was a harsh winter, and the ground froze solid. Took them days to prepare the grave, only got if finished on the - when, Jasper?”

  “The Saturday morning,” Jasper nodded. “Then, of course, I could hardly conduct the service on the Sunday, so it was the following Monday, the-” He broke off and consulted a small notebook. “-Yes, the fourth of February, when he was finally interred.”

  “Most unsettling,” said Holmes, a faraway look in his eyes.

  “It was a strange few weeks,” said Theophilus. “Why, only the next week, was talking to old Colonel Digby, who has - had, poor old chap’s gone himself, now - he had the shooting in the local woods and what have you - anyway, I’m rambling, but he told me that we’d had some excitement over to Hengebury, they’d arrested some fellow for a bank robbery in Colchester, just that same week. Missed all the fuss, though, we did, on account of the old tramp and what have you.”

  “Indeed?” Holmes sat up straight. “And did you have any further details of this robbery and arrest?”

  “Never heard anything more of it,” said Theophilus, a touch of disappointment in his voice. “As I told you, we’re an out of the way sort of place.”

  “Just so.” Holmes rubbed his hands together once again. “Well, gentlemen, your account has been an interesting one.”

  “And a puzzling one, no doubt,” said Jasper.

  “Oh, no, far from it. Now, you say you kept watch at the place, or your men did, rather, last night. What of tonight? Will you keep guard once more?”

  “I had intended to,” said Theophilus. “That is, if you think it as well, Mr. Holmes?”

  “Oh, I think it would be very well,” said Holmes. “And you remain in London for the present?”

  “We had intended to return this evening, again if that fits in with your plans.”

  “It fits very well. And where may I find you later today?”

  “My club,” and Theophilus mentioned the name.

  “Indeed. I have hopes that we may settle this matter very soon.” And Holmes got to his feet and ushered our visitors out.

  “Well, Holmes?” I asked.

  “Well, my boy! Give me your reading of the matter, for I must regard you as an expert upon all matters unearthly.” And he waved at my little book.

  “Rubbish, Holmes! Very well, since you ask. We may dismiss the possibility of body-snatching, of Resurrection Men, since the body, especially in a pauper’s coffin, will scarcely have survived.”

  “But the skeleton?” asked Holmes, a twinkle in his eye.

  “Perhaps some impecunious medical student - and, in my experience, all medical students are permanently impecunious - but the nearest hospital must be Colchester, and there is, I fancy, no educational establishment associated with it. No, the nearest students would probably be in London, and that is a long way to go. And a longer way to carry a skeleton.”

  “Indeed. Even the most inattentive railway conductor might notice the passenger in the corner seat! Well, then, your theory?”

  “Exactly the same as yours, Holmes! Why dig up a grave if not to extract something from it? We know it was not the body, nor the skeleton. It
was, then, something else. Something concealed there by someone not involved in the funeral. And, given the story about a bank robbery, it must have been the ill-gotten gains from that!”

  “Excellent, Watson! What else, indeed, could it be? Why, a child could solve it!”

  “Why, then, did you not explain it to our clients?” said I, somewhat nettled.

  “My dear fellow! I fear I have offended you, when I meant to say that your exposition was so lucid it might have been read from a text-book, and served to educate those not endowed with your - our - deductive skills.”

  “Hmm. I’ll take that as an apology, Holmes. But why didn’t you tell them?”

  “It is as well to keep something back. Besides, there are some points still to be explained.”

  “For example?”

  “Well, if the loot were indeed concealed in the grave, and that seems the only logical conclusion, why did the miscreant not return sooner? Why wait five long years?”

  “Oh. Well, perhaps he couldn’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well - he was in prison! He was caught, and went down for five years!”

  “Excellent! But if he were taken and arrested, why did the loot not suffer the same fate?”

  “It was never found.”

  “But then where was the evidence for his conviction?”

  “Ah! Ah, but perhaps he was seen, identified?”

  “That is certainly possible.” Holmes got to his feet. “Our first task is to find out more about the robbery in Colchester. We are fortunate in that we know not merely the year, but almost the exact date, for it must have been the Friday, the first of February, or Saturday, the second. A weekend, note, when the bank was closed.”

  “Indeed. You propose to consult the local papers?”

  Holmes shook his head. “If the robbery were that important, it will have made the London press as well, so we shall try there first.”

  It was indeed in the files of The Times that we found what we sought. Holmes held up the Tuesday edition, and waved it at me. “Here. ‘Daring bank robbery, etcetera. Over one-thousand gold sovereigns taken’. What say you to that?”