Sherlock Holmes (51 page)

Turning to my aunt, I asked “And
what of your role, Aunt? It was a fine portrayal of a vengeful
spirit!”

Aunt Rachel smiled, saying,
“During our walk in Hyde Park, Sherlock recounted to me his
discoveries and asked if I was willing to help trap the killer of
my dear friend, Elsie. Of course, I agreed immediately. He told me
that my role would involve some play acting and I informed him of
my recent performance as Lady Macbeth in a production by the
Lymington Players.”

“Hah! You talked of Shakespeare!
I remember!” I cried. “But how was your appearance as the Crimson
Spirit achieved?”

Holmes interrupted at this
point, saying, “That was my doing. A little more basic chemistry
was required. I located the device attached to the gas supply at
Garton’s house and left a small amount of the powdered copper
within it to give an initial green flame. However, I then added a
fine layer of powdered iron to provide a little sparkle and then a
layer of carbonate of Lithium to provide a crimson flame. As a
consequence, the mixture had the desired effect.”

Holmes then smiled and addressed
Aunt Rachel. “Your performance was admirable, Aunt. All those at
the table were in awe and spellbound by it!” Turning to me, he
continued, “It was simple enough for your aunt to persuade the maid
to let
her
become the Spirit. A sovereign and an offer that
you, Watson, would be a witness for her defence, if needed, was
sufficient for the task.”

I smiled but was immediately
concerned as I had not, indeed, envisaged there being any
consequences for the actions of the maid. My elation was somewhat
tempered as I saw that my aunt had become quite withdrawn. I
believe that all that had occurred had taken its toll. I rose from
my chair and knelt beside her, taking her hand in mine. She was
trembling and I sought to comfort her, saying, “Your actions this
evening have removed from society a murderer, a man who also sought
to grievously deceive and exploit others. Nothing can bring Elsie
back to this world but, by your actions, you may have saved
Stephen.”

Aunt Rachel had tears in her
eyes as she gently raised my hand to her face and kissed it,
saying, “Thank you John… and you too, Sherlock. You are right, of
course. A great weight has been lifted from me and tomorrow I will
return to Lymington.” Rising from her chair, she wiped her eyes and
moved towards the door of our sitting room. In the doorway she
turned and smiled, saying, “Thank you both again for your kindness.
I think I will invite Stephen to come and stay for a while to
re-acquaint himself with the joys of Devon living.”

The following day there was an
emotional goodbye from Mrs Hudson and me as Aunt Rachel left Baker
Street. I even caught Holmes pursing his lips and saw some flicker
of emotion cross his face as he waved to the figure in the cab
which made its way from our door. Together, Holmes and I made our
way back upstairs and soon the air was filled with that blue haze
which had been absent for much of the time over the last few days.
Without realising it, we had, for the most part restrained from
smoking and it seemed now that we were making up for lost time.

Several weeks passed before we
heard more of the case but during that time, I had received a very
pleasant letter from my aunt. True to her word, she had invited
Stephen Grainger to stay with her and they were enjoying each
other’s company. Holmes had passed the mechanism to Lestrade and
with it a note of his findings in the case.

It was one evening in late July
that Holmes read to me a report of the trial. Lestrade had been The
Crown’s main prosecution witness, providing the mechanism as the
chief exhibit and having been present at Garton’s confession.
Thankfully, no charges were brought against the maid. Inevitably,
Garton was found guilty of the murder of Elsie Grainger, was
sentenced and duly hanged a month later.

It was a final column inch in
‘The Times’ of that date, reporting Garton’s execution which
prompted me to ask Holmes whether his views of spiritualism had
changed.

Holmes was sitting back in his
leather armchair, drawing steadily upon his Meerschaum which he
often smoked with affection. He sat in silence, eyes closed, for
perhaps a minute before blowing out a thin ribbon of smoke towards
the ceiling of our rooms and saying, “My opinion remains as before,
Watson. However, I will grant that there are occurrences which
cannot, at present, be explained by our imperfect knowledge of the
physical world.”

I have to say that I was
somewhat cheered by this but Holmes then opened his eyes and took
the pipe from his mouth. Wagging the stem in my direction, he
added, “This does not, however, validate the premise of there being
a ‘spirit world’ that seeks to make contact with the one in which
we live.” Holmes then closed his eyes and would not be drawn to say
more on the subject. For my part, I admit, my mind remains
open.

It was a somewhat fresh morning
at the beginning of April 1919, when Holmes and I first met his
grace, the Duke of Salcombe. I had been away from Baker Street for
several weeks due to the needs of my practice following the ravages
of the Spanish “influence”, the influenza epidemic of 1918. This
had gripped the capital but had declined over the months following
Christmas. Now that the number of new cases I was seeing had
dwindled, I found some respite by tending my garden. Over the years
since my marriage, I had become a keen and knowledgeable gardener
but, as well as the solitude of the garden, I needed some
hospitable company and so I sought out my good friend, Sherlock
Holmes.

As I climbed the stairs of 221b
Baker Street to Holmes’ rooms, I could detect the faint odour of
kippers coming from below stairs, a clear sign that Holmes was
awake and ready to take breakfast. On entering the sitting room, I
could see that Holmes had descended into one of his black moods.
Apart from a cursory wave in my direction motioning me to sit, he
otherwise ignored me and said nothing. Holmes was prone these deep
depressions whenever there was nothing to challenge his formidable
intellect. Looking around the room, I could plainly see that he had
been this way for a number of days. Copies of ‘The Times’ were
strewn around the floor, some were crumpled and torn and lay where
they had been angrily cast aside.

Holmes was wrapped in his old
dressing gown. He sat slumped back in his leather armchair and had
drawn his knees up tightly to his chin. He remained thus for
several minutes and then looked up, saying, “I’m sorry, old friend.
I fear that I am not much company."

I picked up a copy of the
previous day’s ‘Times’ from the carpet and scanned the front page.
“Nothing of interest?” I asked. “What of the Fordingbridge
murder?”

Holmes sprang from the chair and
began to pace angrily. "Pah! Blindingly obvious, Watson. Even
Lestrade couldn’t fail to obtain a conviction” and he threw himself
back into the chair.

Observing Holmes, I was deeply
concerned that he might already have turned to other, more
menacing, ways of relieving his depression.

Breakfast arrived and although
an excellent pair of kippers together with hot toast and marmalade
had been provided, Holmes barely touched the food. He did manage to
drink a cup of strong, black coffee which seemed to raise his
spirits somewhat.

Baker Street was quiet that
morning and the sound of an approaching four-wheeler could be heard
distinctly.

“Hello, what’s this?” Holmes
bounded from his chair and strode to the window, pulling the
curtains to one side.

Below us in the street was a
black, closed carriage of quality pulled by two greys. A coat of
arms was discreetly painted on the carriage door and a footman, in
full livery, sprang down to open the door. The footman bent down,
pulling out the step for a tall, well dressed young man to alight.
Holmes was at once animated and raced across the room for his copy
of deBrett’s.

“Ah, from the coat of arms, it
is the Duke of Mansingham’s carriage but I think, Watson, that our
visitor is not he." Holmes threw off his dressing gown, ran his
fingers through his hair and slipped on his favourite smoking
jacket. He then began to fill his favourite Meerschaum from the
old, Persian slipper that he used as a tobacco pouch. I was pleased
to see that a spark of the old fire had returned to my friend now
that something of interest may be afoot.

The bell rang loudly in the hall
below. Holmes listened intently as Mrs Hudson welcomed our visitor
and showed him up the stairs to our rooms. The door opened and in
walked an elegant young man in his late 20’s. He was carrying the
cane of a city gentleman but his clothes were, perhaps, rather more
suited to the country than the city.

Holmes sprang forward offering
his hand, saying, “Good morning, your grace. I am Sherlock Holmes.
Please allow me introduce you to my friend and colleague, Doctor
John Watson. Watson, this is his grace, the Duke of Salcombe."

I do not know who was more
surprised, the Duke or myself. I stumbled a “Good morning, your
grace” and proffered my hand. The young man, however, was seen to
buckle at the knees and instead of shaking his hand, I had to
quickly support him and guide him to a chair. Colour had drained
from the young man’s face and only returned after a good measure of
brandy had been administered.

After a few minutes he was able
to speak. “Mr Holmes, I am sure that I have not met you before and
you certainly have the advantage of me. How did you know my
identity?”

Holmes sat and faced the Duke.
“I apologise for startling you, your grace, but your identity was
easily established. The carriage you arrived in was that of the
Duke of Mansingham. You are too young to be he and certainly the
Duke would only allow family members to use his private carriage.
Looking in deBrett's, I can see that he has a son, the Earl of
Narborough. However, I understand, from ‘The Times’, that he is
currently overseas with his regiment. So who could our young
visitor be? The only other male relative of your age is his nephew,
you, your grace. George Henry Burley, the 6th Duke of
Salcombe."

The Duke looked relieved. “So it
was my uncle’s carriage that gave it away. My carriage is being
repaired and my uncle was kind enough to lend me one of his."

Holmes’ face bore a wry smile.
“Not just the carriage, your grace. The cane you carry is very
handsome but well-worn with age. I was fortunate enough to be able
to see that it carries a monogram consisting of three silver
letters impressed into the wood. The letters are H. A. B. The
monogram of Henry Arthur Burley, the 5th Duke of Salcombe, your
late father. This confirmed your identity to me.”

The Duke looked saddened when
the name of his late father was mentioned. “Mr Holmes, I am already
amazed by your powers of observation and deduction. You are
correct. I am George Burley, the 6th Duke of Salcombe and I come to
you on the recommendation of my uncle. I understand that you helped
him by locating and returning a certain necklace belonging to my
aunt.”

Holmes looked pleased. “Ah, yes,
I was helpful in some very small way. A delicate family matter upon
which, I think, we will not dwell."

Sitting back, I took a moment to
observe our visitor. The Duke was an intelligent and pleasant young
man, six feet tall, handsome with a thin face, twinkling blue eyes
and a mop of dark curls. Having now fully recovered, it was plain
to see that he was enjoying Holmes’ company.

“Tell me, Mr Holmes, is there
anything further you can deduce about me?”

Holmes looked again at the young
man, his swift glance taking in every detail. “Very little, your
grace, other than that before coming here this morning, you visited
your tailor and you are wearing the new country suit that you
collected from him. You share your father’s love of painting in
oils and the injury that you sustained to your right leg in your
youth still bothers you.”

Again the Duke was taken aback.
“You could not possibly know these things!"

Holmes smiled again. “On the
contrary, they are self-evident. Your suit is brand new and bears
that unmistakable smell of fresh, Harris Tweed cloth. Your jacket
has a small piece of tacking thread exposed on the left cuff. Had
the suit been worn before, your valet would have certainly removed
the thread.”

Holmes paused for a moment
before continuing, “Beneath the nail of your right index finger is
a tiny fleck of crimson lake paint. You are not a tradesman and the
paint has not been removed by simple washing. Therefore, it must be
oil based rather than watercolour in origin. I have prior knowledge
of your late father as an artist. I conclude, then, that you share
his passion for painting and in the last day or so had continued
your hobby.”

I glanced across at the Duke and
saw that his eyes were widening.

Holmes leant forward in his
chair. “As to the injury in your youth, I noticed that, as you
climbed the stairs, you slightly favoured your left leg, putting
that down a little more heavily than the right. Also, the heel and
instep of your right shoe is slightly more scuffed and worn than
the corresponding left one showing that you must slightly drag your
right leg as you walk. The injury is not a recent one as the style
of your shoes is at least a year old. Finally, I was introduced to
your father some years ago at the Royal Academy Open Exhibition
and, as I recall, he showed no signs of any congenital
lameness."

The Duke smiled. “So, seeing my
cane confirmed your deductions?”

Holmes paused for a moment. His
forefinger went to his lips and his voice softened. “No, now that
is the curious thing. The cane is out of place. A gentleman coming
up to town to collect a new suit of clothes for the country would
have brought with him an appropriate walking stick. You, however,
chose your father’s cane. You had a great attachment to your father
and you sadly miss him. The cane is a memento, a reminder of him
and is a mental as well as physical prop for you."