by David Marcum
“I don’t think I could make a career of it, but an occasional consultation to the police might amuse me.”
They had arrived at last, the shadows cast by the headstones lying long across the ground. Holmes led the way to the grave, and they weren’t even upon it yet when the bell began to ring frantically.
“Help! Help!” came a muffled voice from the bell pipe.
Lestrade began to dig at the earth with his hands but Holmes gestured for him to stop.
Holmes leaned into the pipe. “Should I address Mr. Withers or Mr. Laramie?”
“I thought you said Mr. Withers had replaced Mr. Laramie,” said Lestrade.
“That is true as far as it goes, but I suspect Mr. Withers replaced one Mr. Laramie with another.”
“Oh,” Lestrade’s shoulders slumped. “You are mad. At least there is a living person buried in a coffin, that’s something. Wait!” Lestrade unbuckled his manacles from his belt. “Please surrender quietly, Mr. Holmes. I’ll see to it they treat you decent enough.”
“Save the manacles. You’ll need them in a moment. What I mean is that Mr. Withers is a pseudonym for Mr. Laramie.”
“Then who is the other body?”
“Bryan Laramie.”
“But you just said Bryan Laramie is Mr. Withers, and Mr. Withers is buried right here.”
“I said Mr. Withers is also Mr. Laramie. But not Bryan Laramie. Bertrand maybe, or Bartholomew. People always think it is cute to give twins similar names.”
“Twins?”
“It’s true! I’ll swear to it! Just let me out!” said Withers from the tube.
“The man in the coffin looks just like the body you found?”
“I rather hope not. The body I found was seriously decomposed and ravaged. Besides, I have yet to see Mr. Withers’ face.”
“Then how can you know they are twins?”
“The fatal mistake Madame Withers made was to give me overly precise directions to a supposedly lost husband. Clearly she knew where the body was, and was distressed that it had not been found quickly enough. Why? Because she wanted it to be recognizable when it was found. She wanted the organization hounding her to see her dead husband for themselves. The body was identical to Mr. Withers – a twin. In the meantime, Mr. Withers found the perfect place to hide, in the grave of his recently deceased brother. They expected the whole scheme to take but a few days. Bryan Laramie could wake up in his grave, and Mr. Withers could rest in peace.”
“Remarkable, Mr. Holmes!”
“All too pedestrian, Lestrade, now that I understand it. Perhaps this crime solving business isn’t for me after all.”
Lestrade ran to fetch a police wagon while Holmes woke the gravedigger. The stooped man didn’t thank Holmes for it, but seemed to get into the spirit of the thing as Mr. Withers screamed and pounded under the ground beneath his shovel. Holmes imagined the man had few good stories to tell, since all the drama was generally resolved by the time the digger played his part. As Holmes had hoped, the tobacconist Wilshire became quite liberal with the quantity of shag he dispensed. He also followed through on his threat to substitute his Turkish blend, doing so over the Christmas holiday when his store was closed, leaving Holmes with no choice but to smoke the strange stuff. He found he’d lost his taste for English shag by the time the tobacconist reopened. All seemed right again on Montague Street, yet Holmes could not shake the feeling of being watched, as if some malevolent spider eye had fallen upon him.
The Devil of the Deverills
by S. F. Bennett
“Context is everything,” remarked Sherlock Holmes one afternoon in the late November of 1889. “For example, to what would you imagine I was referring if I were to speak of zeal in Devon?”
“Some excitement on the part of the locals, no doubt,” I replied.
“And there you would be mistaken, my dear fellow, because I had in mind the village of Zeal Monachorum to the north of Dartmoor. The name is an unusual one, certainly. I seem to remember that the manor was gifted by one of the old Danish kings to an abbey. The present name is a corruption of ‘the cell of the monks’.”
“That’s a little unfair, Holmes,” I protested. “How was I supposed to know that?”
“Precisely, Watson. Thus my comment to you about the importance of context. Were you a Devonshire man, you would have understood the allusion straight away.”
It was one of those drear Sundays when a relentless drizzle had settled over the land. My wife was entertaining a gathering of ladies from the church at our home, and it was decided by universal agreement that I would be better employed finding a diversion elsewhere. So it was that I called upon my old friend, to find him in the midst of one of those sporadic episodes where he attempted to bring order to the chaos of his affairs.
I was soon to learn this rare fit had not come upon him by chance. As the clutter, papers, journals, and bundled manuscripts had begun to spill out onto the landing and down the stairs, Mrs. Hudson had issued him with an ultimatum: Whatever remained beyond the confines of his domain by the time she returned from Evensong would be leaving Baker Street that very night without further discussion. Thus, in an effort to preserve what he could, I was pressed into helping with sorting and filing.
Holmes was seated on the floor, with a mass of yellowing papers and letters scattered around him like autumn leaves. As was his way, he would pause occasionally to read aloud from a fading document, using it to draw my attention to an old case. My memory had not failed me in most instances, but at present, I was at a loss to say what had provoked this strange remark.
“The business was before your time, Watson,” Holmes elaborated with a little encouragement. “I am minded of it now, because of this letter from Marcus, Lord Zeal. I had quite forgotten I had kept it.”
He passed the aged page across to me. I read it with some surprise.
“‘My dear fellow, rest assured you shall always be welcome at Norton Deverill’,” I read aloud. “‘Should you ever require a flitch of bacon, I shall be happy to accommodate you’. Holmes, whatever does it mean?”
“There is no great mystery,” said he absently, leafing through a tattered, coverless book, which he promptly discarded. “The offer was a genuine one. I have never found reason to avail myself of it.”
“Then this is by way of gratitude?”
“Quite so. It was a curious affair, and not without features of interest.”
“I should surely like to hear of it.”
“Well, then,” he began, rising from his position to seek the comfort of his usual chair. “It was a few months after I had abandoned my studies and settled in the capital. Those first years were difficult, Watson, I do not deny it. My tenure at Montague Street was short-lived, and set the pattern for the first of many impromptu evictions. The London landlady is an unforgiving and intolerant creature, and more than once I was obliged to find new lodgings on account of some minor misdemeanour involving one of my less sociable experiments. It was on one such occasion when I found myself suddenly homeless a few days before Christmas, with all my worldly goods on the pavement and scarce enough in my purse to afford a few days in an East End lodging house, let alone decent rooms. I was pondering my dilemma when I heard a familiar voice call my name and I found Zeal coming down the street towards me at a fair clip. Are you familiar with the name?”
“No, indeed,” I replied.
Holmes took a moment to fill his pipe before proceeding. “He is well known in farming circles. The Zeals were originally from Cornwall, and had thirty acres near Penzance. Because of their dwindling fortunes, it had been the father’s wish that his son study law, a most unfortunate choice, for Zeal had little interest in legal matters. His talents lay elsewhere, much to the amusement of his fellow students. It is often the case that people are apt to mock what they do not understand. It saves them the trouble of using their imagination. The others found it far easier to rib him relentlessly and make ‘Piggy’ Zeal’s life a misery.”
“A stout fellow, was he?”
“On the contrary, he was as thin as a wand.”
“Then why ‘Piggy’?”
“Because of his interests, Watson. He had a passion for pigs that knew no bounds. When he should have been at his studies, he was often to be found at the livestock markets, talking to the farmers. Instead of learning tort, he would consume all the library had to offer on pig husbandry. He once lectured me for an hour on the superiority of the Berkshire pig over the Tamworth. For that brief time, I could have passed for an authority on the subject. Indeed, I can never look upon gammon than I think of Zeal, with his fresh-faced, boyish enthusiasm, rambling on about selective breeding and the proper care of farrows.”
“It sounds as though he lived up to his name.”
Holmes nodded. “It took a twist of fate for him to realise his ambition. His father died unexpectedly in his second year at college and he succeeded to his title as the 5th Marquess of Zeal. He abandoned his studies the same day and exchanged thirty acres in the south-west for a tumble-down estate in Wiltshire. A good county for pig-rearing, so he told me. He became the foremost authority on all matters porcine and regularly contributed to the Pig Breeders’ Gazette until his untimely death two years ago.”
“Were you consulted?”
“The circumstances were not suspicious. He fell into a slurry pit and drowned whilst attempting to save a sow from a flood.”
“Poor fellow.”
Holmes shook his head. “Lord Zeal would not have agreed with you. It is exactly the manner in which he would have chosen to depart this life. By then, his legacy was intact. The bloodlines which he established had already spread far beyond the county borders, even to foreign shores. How many of us can say the same?”
“No, indeed,” I said dubiously.
“But that was many years distant when Zeal appeared on my doorstep,” Holmes went on. “Truth be told, I was somewhat embarrassed to see him. One never appears at one’s best when banished to the street as one’s former landlady hurls books from an upstairs window. I fear it does not inspire confidence in potential clients. Zeal was a rare fellow, however, and if anything my predicament seemed to inspire an urge to lend assistance.
“‘Well, I never,’ said he merrily. ‘Bless my soul, it is you – Sherlock Holmes. I would know that profile anywhere. Do you remember me?’
“It would have been difficult to forget him. When a valuable book went missing from the college library, Zeal had been implicated. I exonerated him, and he had sworn he would one day return the favour.
“‘Have I called at a bad time?’ he asked, with the sort of guilelessness one can only employ when a man’s tobacco is fluttering down on his head from a great height.
“‘If this is a social visit, Zeal, I am afraid I must disappoint you. I am not “at home”, as the saying goes.’
“‘Yes, I can see that,’ said he with genuine sympathy. ‘Well, I’m glad I found you because I heard you were still solving mysteries, Holmes.’
“‘I have made it my profession. You have a problem?’
“‘In a manner of speaking, yes.’
“‘If it concerns pigs, you have had a wasted journey.’
“‘No, it’s worse than that.’ His brow contorted. ‘It’s devils.’
“I began to gather up my possessions. ‘You need a priest, Zeal, not a detective.’
“‘You misunderstand,’ said he, plucking at my sleeve to draw my attention. ‘I don’t believe it – pure stuff and nonsense – but others do. It’s making everyone nervous. It didn’t help when Lady Hester died.’
“‘Murder?’ I queried, my interest piqued.
“‘A twisted gut. One day she was a healthy specimen, the next she was laying on her back with her trotters heavenwards.’ He saw my expression and hurriedly clarified his last remark. ‘Lady Hester was my prize Berkshire sow. It was a blow and unexpected, but it happens. Then old Mrs. Brown’s grey mare dropped down dead outside the church, and people started saying we had a devil on the loose. The vicar is no use at all. He seems to have gone completely to pieces about the whole matter. And then there’s Lady Bulmer.’
“‘Another of your pigs?’
“He appeared affronted. ‘No, a respectable gentlewoman from Lincolnshire. She came to the village in the summer with her daughter. The climate is better for her health, so I understand. She keeps herself to herself, though her daughter is often seen about the village.’
“His repetition of one particular phrase was not lost on me. ‘I take it your interest is in the daughter.’
“A blush spread down his neck and beneath his collar. ‘Maud is her name,’ said he, somewhat dreamily. ‘Eyes the colour of summer cornflowers. She’s a talented artist and a musician too. She used to play the church organ until the rumours started.’
“‘It is not uncommon for newcomers to be the subject of gossip in a small community.’
“‘Not everyone gets accused of being a witch.’ Again, he grabbed my arm. ‘I am concerned where this will lead. People are fearful. A child fell out of an apple tree and broke his wrist. Word got round that Lady Bulmer had stumbled on a fallen apple and cursed the tree. What next? Five women were hanged in the village several hundred years back after being accused of witchcraft. The crossroads is still known as Gallows’ Corner.’
“‘It is unlikely a similar fate will befall Lady Bulmer and her charming daughter.’
“‘Can you be sure?’
The genuine anxiety in his honest features gave me pause. Seeing my hesitation, he pressed his case.
“‘Come to Norton Deverill, and see for yourself. I’ll make it worth your while.’ Then he played his trump card. ‘I’ll put you up at Deverill Grange. Think of it, blazing fires, soft beds, and as much bacon as you can eat. Please, say you’ll come. It is Christmas, after all.’
“Put like that, I was in no position to refuse. Christmas or not, I had nowhere else to go.
“As it happened, Zeal had somewhat exaggerated his home comforts. I had a taste of things to come when our transport from the station turned out to be an open tumbrel, of the type used to take prisoners to the guillotine during the days of Revolution in France. Our driver, a man Zeal addressed as Hil Taylor, was a surly individual, given to grunted responses, and with the manner of a man with long-held grievances. Something about the way he gritted his teeth and ground out the word ‘sir’ made me wonder if Zeal’s concerns should not be closer to home.
“Such considerations were wasted upon my companion, who enthused instead about the brisk country air after the smoke of the city. I had already endured several hours of discourse on the correct confirmation of the boar – in every sense of that word – and I fear his praise of the slumbering countryside in its winter repose failed to inspire. To add to our woes, a thin rain began to fall, dulling what was left of the late afternoon light, and the best our driver could offer was the threadbare blanket from the back of his shambling bay steed.
“I do not know if you are familiar with the village of Norton Deverill. It has seen a change in fortunes of late, thanks in no small part to Zeal’s patronage and encouragement of a branch line, but in those early days of his tenure, it was as desolate a place as one may imagine. The railway had diverted twenty miles to the south, bringing prosperity to its neighbours at the expense of the isolated villagers.
“That some had moved away was evident from the crumbling cob walls and slumped thatch of several of the dwellings that we passed. Away from the main street, where the public house was boarded up, the few houses that were strung along the road showed the parlous state of their inhabitants in their need for new panes of glass and leaning chimneys.
“The one exception in this sea of decay was a cottage outside the village with a new plate bearing the name ‘Aeaea’ on the gate and newly-painted fence. The garden was tidy and the foliage trimmed back in preparation for the season to come. A young maid was sweeping the last autumn leaves from the path as we tr
otted past. She raised doe eyes to stare at us with a mixture of polite curiosity and wariness. I caught a flash of something silver at her neck, peeping out from under the grey scarf she wore against the cold.
“‘The home of Lady Bulmer,’ I noted.
“Zeal seemed taken aback. ‘However did you know that?’
“The state of the cottage was enough to set it apart, and that alone should have informed the meanest of intellects this was the home of an outsider of some means. There was another factor too, which raised my interest in the lady. Had Zeal paid more attention in his Classics classes, he too might have found the reason for the villagers’ unease.
“‘She is a tenant of yours?”
“‘Indeed she is. I thought I should have to pull the old place down, but she has worked her magic.’ He checked himself and reconsidered his words. ‘That is to say, she has worked exceedingly hard. She has only a maid of all work for the domestic chores.’
“‘The girl we saw in the garden.’
“Zeal nodded. ‘Mary Chaucer her name is. Very obliging, by all accounts. She helps Mrs. Balfour when Lady Bulmer can spare her.’
“I urged him to elaborate.
“‘Mrs. Balfour lived at Deverill Grange until her husband died. It was her son with whom I made the exchange for the estate. He lives in London now, although his mother remained. She moved to the Dower House.’
“On cue, the home of Mrs. Balfour appeared on our right as we rattled through the gates. It was a grey stone building with a steep pitched roof and elaborate chimneys, rather redolent of a child’s dollhouse. Bare wisteria curled around the porch, where a small black dog was sniffing. It looked up at our approach and proceeded to yap and prance behind the fence in a spirited show of defiance.
“On the whole, I should have preferred to take my chances with the dog, for my first sight of Deverill Grange was less than encouraging. Part-Tudor, part-Jacobean, part-Georgian, and part-ruin, the varying styles clashed for dominance so that the effect was something less than harmonious. With its sagging eaves and cracked brickwork, it had seen neglect in this century, and without intervention would surely slide further into dilapidation. Zeal hastened to say repairs were already under way. Certainly they could not come soon enough.
