The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories - Part VII

by David Marcum

  “No need, no need. Cartwright and Sons - I am myself Joshua Cartwright, the owner - are delighted to have been of assistance.”

  He leaned forward. “And tell me, sir, is there a lead on Black Jabez?”

  I was under instruction from my friend to be indiscreet. I matched his conspiratorial pose. “Mr. Holmes is unusually perplexed. I understand that he will be assisting the police in their hunt for the scoundrel who killed Mr. Morton. They say Bradford will be their next port of call.”

  Cartwright shook his head dolefully. “Such times. Henry!”

  The young assistant I had seen before put his head around the door to the studio. “Father?”

  “The enlarging equipment is back.”

  The young man smiled at me, and took the apparatus into a back-room. The proprietor, as tall and thin as his son, put down the camera. “Mind you, sir, that Jabez Salt, there was a fellow destined for notice, one way or another. It doesn’t surprise me that he might be back. No polishing, or shilling sales, for him. There were a few round here who admired him as much as they feared him.”

  My time with Holmes had opened my eyes to many follies, including the way the public chose false gods, but I said nothing. My business concluded, I shook Mr. Cartwright’s hand, leaving to let the tale leak out. A brief call to one or two other establishments followed, to be certain I had fed local gossip.

  After the evening meal, Holmes ushered me out into the night, a cold one for spring. “Here we go, Watson. If the devil shows...”

  When we reached Woodhouse Moor, a half-moon painted the landscape a silver-grey, catching in the newly-unfurled leaves on the trees, casting shadows everywhere. Though not a large expanse, the trees and gardens which lined its paths provided cover at various points. The ground rose from here, up towards the university and the city centre. Holmes assured me that Parry and his men were in the vicinity, awaiting a signal.

  As we passed the closed shops on the corner, I thought I saw a faint light from behind them. Holmes noticed it too.

  “As I expected,” he murmured.

  Puzzled, I followed him.

  “Our villain will have been watching No. 83,” said Holmes, keeping to the shadows. “And he will see Mrs. Salt leave her house to cross the park, as we arranged. With good fortune, this will be too much of a lure for him to resist.”

  “Damned risky.” I disliked the idea of Genevieve Salt being put in danger, and prayed that my friend knew what he was doing.

  We followed her across half the park, and when we came in sight of the reservoir at the far end, I began to think that our time had been wasted. But then Holmes had spotted a figure flitting amongst the trees, a pale face over dark clothes.

  “Salt?” I gripped the revolver in my pocket.

  “So you are meant to believe.” Holmes lengthened his stride, for the phantom was closing on the figure of Genevieve Salt with every second. She seemed unaware of it, but when she paused to reach down and adjust one of her boots, Holmes patted my arm. “The signal.”

  We ran forward, keeping to cover wherever possible, until we could see the two of them illuminated by moonlight and a solitary street-lamp near the edge of the park. He stood across her path, and I drew in my breath.

  “Holmes, it is Jabez Salt!”

  I had seen his photograph, and gazed upon his corpse. A white, cruel face, red lips, and black hair swept back- I thought I could even glimpse the dark band where the noose had bruised the flesh of his neck.

  Genevieve Salt shrieked, which was too much for Parry. He and another man leapt from the trees on the other side, and a whistle blew further away. The phantom glanced around, giving a hoarse laugh.

  “Close your eyes, Watson!”

  I did so, though I saw a burst of light even through my eyelids. Holmes pulled me forward, and I opened my eyes to see Parry and his man momentarily confused.

  “Simply a flash,” my friend called out. “Watson, cover him.”

  I drew out my revolver and pointed it at Salt - or whatever the figure was - who turned to run. I fired a shot across his path.

  “I am already dead,” he called out in a cracked voice. “You cannot harm Jabez Salt.”

  “Perhaps not” said Holmes. “But I fear that Henry Cartwright, photographer’s assistant, would not care for a bullet in the leg.”

  That paused him. Parry, now recovered, dashed forward and grasp the man by the arm. In the process, I saw something which gleamed red fall into the grass. I went to Mrs. Salt, who leaned against me, almost as pale as her assailant.

  “Are you all right, madam?”

  “Cartwright?” She looked around - two more constables were approaching from the darkness. “But I... I know him. I had words with him and his father, on the nature of some of the postcards which my husband collected.”

  “The youngest son,” said Holmes. “A boy who dreamed of being a man, a man of mystery and notoriety. Even a legend, if the press continued to serve him well.”

  “The legend of Black Jabez,” the young man croaked.

  “No longer, I fear. A passing fad for the papers, even a disappointment to some, who wanted to believe in phantoms and vengeful spirits.”

  “Take him down,” said Parry, breathing heavily as the constables closed to haul Cartwright away.

  “A moment, Inspector. Mrs. Salt - what do you see? Look very closely, and think hard.”

  She looked at the young man. “I see...” She moved nearer. “The likeness of my late husband. Perhaps, now when I see him like this, I suppose he is of a height, but thinner, younger. Is it... make-up?”

  “It is. Apart from this.” Holmes reached to Cartwright, who flinched, but my friend merely swept back the dark hair, revealing a notch cut from the tip of one ear. “This was done with a pair of scissors, probably, to add that touch of authenticity. The make-up was from the photographic studio, for those less photogenic than others - and for adorning the deceased, to make them seem as if still with us.” He stepped back from the man. “You saw such work on display, Watson. Cartwright, of course, reversed the process, to appear less alive than he is.”

  “Great Scott.” I looked for myself. It was indeed make-up, adding to that pale countenance. I had not recognised him myself.

  I frowned. “But Holmes, the flare of light, tonight and in the cellars? How did he do that?”

  “Ferns, my dear Watson. Lycopodium Powder, those fine spores which ignite if passed over a flame. You will find, I believe, that he dropped a lit slow-match, and there will be a simple device upon him to project the powder.”

  A quick search by Parry confirmed Holmes’s theory. Ever the showman, my friend retrieved the slow-match, blowing it into life, and demonstrated. By pressing on a rubber bulb, the powder was made to spurt into the air in a cloud. When directed across the burning fuse, a sudden yellow-red burst of flame filled the air.

  “Not uncommonly used instead of chemical flashes for photography.” Holmes could not hide his pleasure. “I could find no chemical residue in the cellars, but a tan-coloured powder, some unburned spores, survived. The lens I borrowed confirmed the composition.”

  “We should get Mrs. Salt somewhere more congenial.” I could see that Holmes would stand in the middle of Woodhouse Moor and carry on with his explanation as if we were sat by the fire at Baker Street.

  “Yes, of course.”

  Parry accompanied us back to No. 83, where Mrs. Salt broached a bottle of sherry.

  “Gentlemen, you will forgive me if I have a drink,” she said. “Will you join me?”

  “We would be honoured,” I said.

  Holmes subsided into an armchair. As usual, once a case was solved, he turned inwards.

  Parry was writing in his pocket-book, his pencil moving with such speed he must have been using shorthand. “So Cartwright killed
Francis Morton?”

  Holmes nodded. “Of course. If you press the maid at his lodgings, I think you will find that she knew Cartwright, or that he had the opportunity to copy her key. I discounted anything wafting through the solid walls from the start.” He sighed. “The murder was necessary, to have impact. I don’t doubt you will also find newspaper clippings and copious notes on the case of Jabez Salt somewhere in Cartwright’s house. Perhaps even the knife he used on poor Morton.”

  “He must be deranged.” I sipped the over-sweet sherry, wishing I had a brandy. “A case for the asylum, eh?”

  “Possibly, Watson, possibly. Devious and obsessive, at the least. Lacking fame as Henry Cartwright, shop assistant, he conceived of another life as the phantom of Jabez Salt, on whom I suspect he was fixated. Salt’s final threats likely gave him the idea.” Holmes seemed unconcerned. “Inspector Parry and the courts will make their judgement.

  Genevieve Salt stared out of the window, her eyes on the night. “I have been mad, Mr. Holmes, believing that my husband might return from the grave.”

  “You have been human enough, madam. And brave,” he added, with rare generosity.

  She refilled her glass. “How were you so sure? Simply from your antipathy to the supernatural?”

  His laughter surprised us. “Strangely, no. It was the matter of the notched ear which gave all away.”

  We all three stared at him, and his smile broadened.

  “When I saw young Cartwright at the photographers, I noticed that his hair was swept over one ear. ‘Foppish’, you described it, Watson. To carry out his scheme and appear as ‘Black Jabez’, he had worked with photo-engravings and a mirror. That was his mistake.”

  “Mistake?”

  “I rarely rely on others’ observations, though I note most carefully what they say. It can be most instructive. Mrs. Salt - and the innkeeper - saw Jabez Salt, seemingly returned. Watson and the inspector saw him in the flesh, exhumed. Absorbed with the idea of Salt’s ghost, no-one considered one telling detail.”

  “Which was?”

  “Henry Cartwright had used a mirror, my dear Watson. He had mutilated the wrong ear!”

  The Mystery of the Scarab Earrings

  by Thomas Fortenberry

  Though it was the fad of the last few decades in certain parts, the fact that the lady wore desiccated beetles as ear rings instantly caught Sherlock Holmes’s attention. I saw him perk up, his eyes shining brightly, from his usual dissipation at this time of morning.

  “Would you like tea, Miss Aldebourne?” I inquired.

  “Scarabs,” Sherlock Holmes said.

  “Yes,” she said faintly, looking queerly at him. Then she touched her ears. “Ah, I see. My father...”

  “They were a gift from your father. Beautiful. Of course your father was Professor Aldebourne, the historian who has made a name for himself digging up the sands of Egypt. I presume by your demeanor that he is no longer with us.”

  “How did you... ? No, he’s not dead. He can’t be! But he is-”

  “Missing, then. May I?”

  With his usual brazenness, Holmes approached the lady and took hold of her ear. Her lustrous black hair was upswept, so that he had easy access to her lobes. He examined the scarab earrings at length, moving from one ear to the other, fingering the dried shells. I heard him mumble something about the weight of the carapace. At times his face drew extremely close to her neck as he peered at some detail of pincher or wing. Out of shock, perhaps, the young lady said and did nothing, black eyes wide, not moving, and barely even breathing as he turned the unique jewelry dangling from her ears.

  Knowing his methods, I went about making us all cups of tea.

  “These gifts, he had them made for you personally?”

  “Yes. He brought the scarabs back from an expedition he was on, oh, it must have been four years ago now. He brought them back alive and later had them crafted into these gifts for my birthday. A bit shocking, I suppose. They took some getting used to, but now I treasure them. He told me they were the gift of his eternal love. They remind me of him and his obsessions, so I wear them constantly.”

  Finally satisfied, Holmes returned to his seat. “So tell me, did he ever finish his book on the excavations at Hierakonpolis?”

  “Why... I don’t... How do you know about his writings?”

  I chimed in, “Mr. Holmes has extensive knowledge of an amazing amount of subjects, and often, even, irrelevant facts and trivia.”

  Sherlock Holmes clucked his tongue. “Not irrelevant. Relevant. You disappoint me, Watson. I thought you of all people understood the essential role of well-rounded research.”

  I chuckled. I tapped my nose. It was a rare moment to get his goat. “I chide. You see, Miss Aldebourne, Holmes follows all the journals and keeps up on the latest in science, medicine, politics, and numerous other topics.”

  “I see. Much like my father then. He is always reading and rambling on about various things that we couldn’t quite follow.” She looked pleadingly at my companion. “Do you know him?”

  “Only through his thoughts. You could say I have read his mind from time to time, so precise were his writings.” Holmes replied. He paused for a long moment, hands steepled beneath his chin, staring at her, evaluating her demeanor. “Plus, the mummy walks at midnight. This was the nature of his death I presumed to mention previously.”

  She was quite stunned and gasped. The cup rattled against the saucer in her hand. She frankly gaped at Holmes before looking down. I saw that she had softly begun to cry.

  I rose and quickly crossed the sitting room to pass her my handkerchief. She mumbled her thanks and wiped her eyes, attempting to compose herself.

  I glared at Holmes on the way back to my chair and leaned close to whisper, “Must you? What is that about? What mummy?”

  He ignored me. “You see, I do read. Even the scandal rags, from time to time. The article was in The Flying Gryffin. “The Mummy Walks at Midnight” detailed odd occurrences at Weymouth House, where Egyptian antiquities and treasures are stored, and where your father works, cataloguing all the ancient knowledge recovered from the various expeditions in Egypt. The article stated that the staff, and even intrepid explorers like your father, have seen a mummy stalking the halls at night. That many of the housekeepers have fled in terror, praying and trembling, vowing never to return, because they believe there is an ancient curse unleashed, probably from some disturbed artifact. Perhaps the Pharaoh himself has been awakened. He seeks the return of his missing cat.”

  She stared rather woodenly. She had grown more pale. Her lips were bloodless. Then she firmed up a bit. Color rose in her cheeks once more.

  “It is no joke. It truly happened! My father has been very upset, because the institute is losing staff and visitors have started refusing to come. Very important visitors, like the nobles and businessmen around town who fund it. My father told me they fear a curse, some ancient evil. The more serious-minded, he said, fear catching some Nile malady. Nevertheless, the damage is done. The Director, Mr. Cushway, said if the institute loses any more backing, they will have to close Weymouth House. All his research will cease and the artifacts will be lost-”

  “This will not occur.” Holmes cut her off curtly. “I was presenting feline jocularity in order to jostle you out of your melancholy. The secret fear you have been carrying of father’s possible death is clouding your thinking. Fear not! Archaeology is all the rage currently. In fact, I will wager that if news of a mummy shambling through the halls spreads to the public, and if maybe a few gruesome deaths occur, it will be a boon to the institute. The Weymouth will become a tourist Mecca. You will be unable to close the doors in the evenings due to the crowds of curiosity seekers clamoring to get inside. Murders are quite exciting. Good for business.”

  I was appalled. Our young visitor looked s
hocked again. She opened her mouth but failed to utter a word.

  “Mr. Holmes did not mean to insinuate that your father is dead or any death would be a good thing. He merely expounds at times to make a point of some sort without ever considering the way his words sound.”

  Holmes sniffed. “It is a fact of life. Salacious events draw the attention of the rabble. They gawk at the macabre. The weirder the circumstances, the better the crowd. Witness the popularity of The Flying Gryffin. It is the entertainment of the circus that distracts them from their own misery.”

  We sat in awkward silence for a few moments. Holmes got up and went over to the mantel where he kept his pipe. He began loading it with tobacco.

  After several minutes, Miss Aldebourne rose and smoothed the skirt of her dress. I came to my feet. “Thank you, Dr. Watson.” She approached me and returned my handkerchief. She turned with a perfunctory smile. “Mr. Holmes. I appreciate your time. I apologize for having wasted it.”

  She moved toward the door.

  I hurried to open it.

  “Why are you leaving?” Holmes asked, blowing a cloud of smoke upwards. He waved at her chair. “Sit. I have questions.”

  “But, I thought-”

  “No, you failed to think. You assumed.”

  “But, I came to ask for your help-”

  “Yes, and I intend to give it. But it is exceedingly difficult to help you if you walk out. Are you not interested in the fate of your father?”

  “I... I thought you were making fun of the curse and-”

  “Well, it is quite ludicrous. An ancient Egyptian curse dug up three-thousand years later from the banks of the Nile, transported across the sea to our fair isle, to be unleashed within the hallowed halls of our institutions? Why? Are the ancient pharaohs in all their stony glory jealous of tea time? Bah. People are not rational and are very easily mislead by their fears. However, I intend to look into the matter, curse or no curse. I was going to anyway, since the rag’s story of the mummy brought it to my attention. You see, I have the keenest interest in solving these puzzles. Especially one like this that has the spice of history. It is merely fortuitous that you came to me first.”