Sherlock Holmes & The Master Engraver (Sherlock Holmes Revival) (40 page)

His contorted, discoloured, desiccated face was adorned with a substantial white beard; blue-bottles had colonised the trunk and their determined rear-guard buzzed in a small angry cloud around the sickly-sweet smelling remains.

This man was not wearing leg-irons; horrifically however, the back of his jacket was diagonally striped with seeping dark stains of dried, crusted, blackened blood. I could conceive of only one feasible explanation for such a bizarre manifestation, yet surely it could not be...?

Decomposition and desiccation were significantly more advanced than we had observed in the first instance, and the effects of rigor mortis were all but gone; the greater the period since death, the harder it is to be precise about the timing, but I judged the man to have been deceased considerably longer than the first – maybe up to ten days, possibly even twelve.

He was around seventy years of age, again expensively dressed.

From the severe distortion and lividity of the left side of the face, it was evident that the body had rested within the trunk almost since the moment of death.

Still, the mortuary remained silent; I looked up at Holmes who raised an interrogative eyebrow.

I answered his unspoken question; “Up to ten days, perhaps even twelve; the man was certainly placed in the trunk immediately after his demise, where he has remained until this moment.

“I observe residual signs of cadaveric spasm once again.”

A soft Irish brogue voice spoke from behind us. “I agree entirely Doctor Watson; in my opinion your assessment is exact.” We turned to the new arrival.

He introduced himself “Doctor Bryan O’Brian; for my sins I am the senior pathologist in this dismal place.” Holmes and I briefly shook hands with him – I was pleased to hear my judgement endorsed by an expert in matters of the dead.

Inspector Gregson gestured to the waiting attendants, who heaved the body onto its back and proceeded to straighten the awful object into something more closely resembling the man it once had been; again the dreadful moment of
déjà vu –
the apex of a pair of mathematician’s steel dividers gleamed brightly on the left breast, driven deep into the heart. He was resplendently bewhiskered and wore a large, square-cut, grey beard. Unlike the first victim, he retained a full head of silver hair.

In his buttonhole, chillingly, was again a shrunken yellowish-brown flower, still just recognisable as a withered dandelion.

Holmes gestured at the body on the slab; “May I, Inspector?” and for the second time he proceeded to rifle the pockets of a dead man.

They yielded a gold fob-watch on a chain, a leather pocket-book containing forty pounds in note, seven shillings and nine-pence in coin, and a second plaque of bone with yet more childish drawings scratched upon it.

Holmes selected the gold watch from his haul and proceeded to examine it closely with his powerful lens. After some long moments he passed the watch and lens to me. “What do your eyes make of that, Watson?”

I peered closely at the worn back of the case and was just able to make out the tiny engraved characters:

We observe the Laws

And Ordinances

There was one further item – a folded, hand-written slip of paper, unsigned, in the wallet.

The message, written in green ink, was as terse as it was obscure:

TH, Victoria House, Botany Bay
.

He is coming!

For Jesus’ sake, do not go

On The Square! Be cautious!

Inspector Gregson looked hopefully at Holmes. “It seems that this message is perhaps the first lead we have Mr Holmes – it is written in green ink; might it be from our first victim, and is this man TH? If so, very likely we have an address for this second fellow, do we not? Perhaps the two share something in common.”

“I am sure you are correct Gregson; note the initials – TH – on his signet ring. That they knew each other seems very likely; certainly the note is a dire enough warning, but it did not save him – he clearly was not sufficiently cautious, and ended up on the square, regardless.

“And from what lies here before us we may conclude that whoever the ‘he’ is, referenced in the note, is undoubtedly already here; but whence has he come, I wonder, and what bitter bad blood exists between him and the two men found on The Square that could move a fellow human-being to do such dreadful and elaborately theatrical murder?

“I can think of only one emotion that could be the driving force for such inhuman barbarity – revenge, for a very grave wrong. Incidentally, Gregson, I believe you will find at the post-mortem examination that this man was cruelly scourged before he died...” These words chillingly confirmed my own horrid intuition about the thin, dark, crusted, diagonal bloodstains showing through his jacket. Holmes broke off and strode to the trunk on the trolley. Abruptly he tipped it onto its side and stared at the base – once more, the same broken black lines, imperfectly imprinted, showed dark against the brown leather. He made no comment upon his discovery, but continued: “So, gentlemen, what may we make of a second elegantly-dressed man, this one from Botany Bay, being found flogged and murdered, in a trunk in Trafalgar Square?

“It is a conundrum within a conundrum, a knot within a knot; but conundrums can be solved, and the most Gordian of knots may be unravelled with sufficient application. But of one thing I am certain – the killer is issuing a clear warning, an announcement, otherwise why this Barnum and Bailey production – why did he not seek to conceal the murders and the bodies? And for whom, I wonder, is his warning intended?

“In that connection I believe I may have an idea.” Gregson spoke. “I am of the same general opinion Mr Holmes, but at your suggestion I have forbidden the release of any details of the killings; it therefore seems to me likely that at present, the only person apart from us, who knows of these crimes is the perpetrator.”

Tentatively he added “It further occurred to me that the dead men might perhaps have appeared among recent additions to the missing persons list, but I can find no descriptions that match, and no-one has come forward recently to report anyone resembling either of the victims, as having vanished.” Holmes eyed the Inspector approvingly. “And your conclusion, Gregson?”

“Evidently either that they lived a reclusive lifestyle – perhaps they were bachelors or widowers, or newly arrived in England from foreign parts – and hence they have not been missed.”

My colleague nodded his agreement with manifest satisfaction. “Excellent! Now with your permission Inspector I would like to retain the watch, the note and this scrap of bone with its odd scratchings – I feel it has more to tell than may at first be apparent, as indeed did the previous one. We may note that the drawings differ somewhat from the first example, and I am quite certain that they contain a message for someone...

“For your part, Gregson, I feel it may now be timely to step up police patrols, day and night on Trafalgar Square – if you can spare the men, I would recommend a continuous watch – and also it is now time to release the barest details of these murders; they may just flush out the killer or new witnesses, and thus save two more lives.”

There was a long silence while I digested the import of Holmes’ matter-of fact statement. Gregson and I looked at him, aghast. “You think, then, this is not the end of it – you believe there will be more?” I said incredulously.” Holmes laughed mirthlessly. “Of a certainty, Watson! Whoever perpetrated these bizarre murders has the whole of London and beyond in which to dispose of his victims discreetly. Yet at the clear risk of detection and capture, he has chosen the very particular and public location of Trafalgar Square – and, I am sure, for a very particular reason. I am convinced there is a symmetry, a grand design and architecture, behind these murders.

“You see, gentlemen, while the elderly Mr Skerritt feeds his pigeons, I do believe the killer is feeding Landseer’s lions on The Square – and two yet remain hungry...”

αβγδ

Author’s Note

& Essay

First of all, do not read this essay before the book – it contains spoilers!
The Master Engraver
is, quite patently, a work of pure fiction and pastiche. I have not attempted slavishly to emulate Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s unique style; but then, how could I? And perhaps as much to the point, why would I? I doubt much that I could impersonate perfectly to the complete satisfaction of the countless thousands of erudite Sherlockians and Holmesians around the world. Consider...

...Conan Doyle was a medical man, sometime ophthalmologist, accomplished and prolific writer, latter-day spiritualist of the 19th and early 20th centuries, and creator of his own unique, timeless and charismatic
dramatis personae
, Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson and others.

I, by contrast, am a retired script writer, film director, marketing consultant and English scholar of the 21st century, attempting respectfully to lure our favourite characters out of well-deserved retirement for some more adventures, to make them perform again before a seasoned audience of highly knowledgeable and, I make no doubt, sceptical critics.

My humble credentials for the task at hand are Oxford University Board scholarship in the English language and its etymology, a professional career in PR and marketing, film writing and directing, but most of all, a fifty-year-long deep affection for the entire canon of tales, brilliant, good, and some perhaps not quite so good.

So what I have offered in this authorised continuation series is my interpretation, appreciation and understanding of Conan Doyle’s splendid characters set in his evocative, nostalgic and stylish – but more often deeply impoverished, brutal and dirty London, in a manner which I hope readers will find sympathetic, respectful and perhaps reminiscent of the original works.

Too, I have attempted to explore further the symbiotic relationship and strange chemistry that might perhaps have existed between these two such disparate fictional friends, mayhap presenting a somewhat mellower, less autocratic and kindlier Holmes, and a Watson who, though still constant in his bravery and steadfast loyalty, is after many shared adventures no longer continually amazed and dumbfounded by his friend’s uncanny intellect.

You may feel that it is highly impertinent to attempt a revival, and yet recent TV and film has done just that and was, I believe, well-received, albeit perhaps mainly by new or younger fans. I, however, have attempted to stay with the period and, as best I can, with the original characters; for myself, like many Holmes fans, I feel they will never be better or more vividly realised as any other than the impeccable portrayals by the late, great, Jeremy Brett and the equally perfectly-cast Edward Hardwicke. In my story there are no laptops, emails or iPhones. Our hero still dresses for dinner, communicates by letter and telegram, travels by hansom cab and steam train, paying in sovereigns and guineas, and Mrs Hudson still discreetly mothers him, despite her private reservations about his wilder eccentricities and excesses. And only Doctor Watson may address him by the intimacy of his surname alone. I do hope you approve of my modest attempt at reviving him. I present it in a spirit of humility, as homage to the famous duo. The best I can hope for is that it reads, perhaps, as if a hitherto undiscovered manuscript had somehow surfaced.

Even as I check the final draft of this small offering, I flatter myself, perhaps, that in my head at least, I hear the strains of Patrick Gowers’ wonderfully haunting theme music, and the dialogue delivered in those oh so memorable voices of Jeremy Brett and Edward Hardwicke...

It is important to bear in mind the very rigid strictures that constrain the author in any serious attempt at true pastiche; much of the writer’s rule-book – through the existing canon’s predetermined style and format – is largely prescriptive as to syntax, plot-construction, social mores of the day and, of course, the much studied, analysed, interpreted and debated characters and foibles of our key players, as anyone who has essayed the task of pastiche will know. One may not simply cry repeatedly “The game’s afoot!”, make lurid and voyeuristic references to narcotic abuse, or – as I believe never actually occurred in the canononical works, have Holmes sardonically and patronisingly declaiming to a slow-witted but dogged Watson, “Elementary my dear Watson!” (Except once, as I allowed myself, in this tale!) – and hope to achieve any great measure of authenticity.

I frankly confess that writing a pastiche of a Sherlock Holmes yarn is a tough assignment. It seems to me that it should be essentially an early embodiment of the classic ‘who-dunnit’. In other words, the writer’s task is to present a succession of clues and information from various witnesses, lively events and thrilling or chilling scenes of crime more or less simultaneously to Holmes, to Watson, and to the reader, the latter attempting to stay abreast of – or even beat – Holmes to the final solution, although he always retains something to justify a bravura revelation at the conclusion!

Too many early lead-footed clues and the reader quits in disgust – “I guessed the outcome from the third chapter.” Too few and the reader is sceptical as to how even Holmes with his prodigious powers of observation and deduction could possibly have solved the case. And a surfeit of red herrings, irrelevant characters and dead-ends will serve only to irritate.

The aspiring pastiche writer encounters further problems: just as the Devil has taken all the best tunes for his own, so too has Conan Doyle taken almost every exotic form of murder and made them a Holmsian hallmark: Andaman islanders blowing poison darts, trained rope-climbing venomous snakes, giant phosphorescent hounds tearing out noble throats, smouldering tropical roots driving people to insanity and death, lethal giant jellyfish, high-powered air-rifles, bludgeonings (both left and right-handed, from the front and the rear!) shootings, poisonings and stranglings – all these and more are introduced to most entertaining, but today, only too well-known effect.