Sherlock Holmes (12 page)

Cranston looked down at the black affair, as did we all.

“From this item of apparel alone I can deduce that you have are left-handed, have put on seven pounds, four ounces within the last eleven months, and have acquired a new valet.”

Cranston looked rather taken aback, while out of the corner of my eye I could see Newbury and Angelchrist exchanging conspiratorial smiles. Holmes himself had taken on an expression of perfect innocence that didn’t fool me for a moment. No matter how old he got, my friend would never grow out of the habit of showing off. In many ways, it defined him.

“How could you possibly know all that?” Cranston asked. He extended his arms, turning them over and examining them, as if expecting the jacket fabric to yield its secrets.

“Oh, quite straightforward, I assure you,” said Holmes. He turned to Newbury. “Sir Maurice, would you care to clarify how I know Mr. Cranston is left-handed?”

Newbury cocked his head. “The cufflink, I believe.”

“Indeed.” Holmes smiled. “Mr. Cranston, you are wearing plain sterling-silver cufflinks, manufactured, I believe, within the last five years, given the modern style. The right one is still in fine condition, yet the left has several small scratches across its face, such as would be made by repeated movement across the surface of a desk while writing, not to mention other small knocks that befall one’s dominant hand.” Cranston examined the item in question, and I saw that it did indeed show signs of wear, abrasions that were missing from the right cufflink.

“What about the other things you mentioned?” Cranston had lost some of his earlier bravado and was looking quite put out. “And I think you’ll find I’ve gained no more than three pounds.”

Holmes shook his head. “Seven pounds, four ounces. I saw the tailors’ name and address sewed into the lining when you handed us our champagne. The tailors in question, Messrs Brentley and Shunt, have only been at their new South Molton Street address for eleven months. Therefore the jacket is no more than a year old. Yet it is tight under the arms and hangs an inch wider at the stomach than it should. Brentley and Shunt are exemplary craftsmen, therefore we must assume that you no longer fit the suit, rather than imagine that they fitted it incorrectly.”

Cranston unconsciously held his hands guardedly over his pronounced stomach. “What about Fenwick? I admit, I’ve only had him for two weeks. But how did you know?”

Holmes smiled again, clearly enjoying himself. He leaned forward and indicated an area of cloth below Cranston’s right earlobe. “Observe, gentlemen, the slight indented line in the fabric at Mr. Cranston’s shoulder. Its shine denotes that this was the previous site of the shoulder crease, made by a valet repeatedly pressing the suit in an identical fashion. Yet the fresh crease tonight is a quarter-inch below its older fellow. Clearly this suit has been pressed by a man to whom it was previously unfamiliar, or else he would have automatically pressed the crease in the same manner as he had so many times before. A new valet. That, or your man has taken to drink.”

Cranston looked momentarily confused, then laughed uproariously. “Well you’ve clearly not lost your touch, Mr. Holmes!” he exclaimed. Holmes took the compliment with good grace, and I felt almost young again. It was good to see my friend at work.

“Now, Sir Maurice,” said Cranston, putting his arm around Newbury’s shoulder. “I’ve been wanting to ask you about the British Museum, and a particular monograph you wrote regarding the ritualistic practices of the Ancient Britons.”

I saw Newbury force a smile, and took the opportunity to extract myself from the conversation. I sipped at my drink, angling myself out of Cranston’s line of sight, before turning my attention to Angelchrist.

I knew very little of this genial man, other than what Newbury had told me – that he was a former agent of the British Secret Service Bureau, and had been instrumental in forging the organisation during the early days of the century. As Newbury had already intimated, the two of them had been involved in a number of adventures together, along with Sir Charles Bainbridge, the former Chief Inspector of Scotland Yard and agent to the Crown, and a man for whom I had the utmost respect.

“I understand from Sir Maurice that you’re close friends with Sir Charles Bainbridge?” I said.

“Quite so,” said Angelchrist. “Charles is a very dear friend.”

“Is he well?” I enquired. “Holmes and I had the pleasure of working with him on a number of cases, many years ago now, but since his retirement I’ve heard very little of how he’s faring.”

“I’ll pass on your regards,” said Angelchrist. “He’ll be delighted, I’m sure. He’s quite well – although I fear the word ‘retirement’ is perhaps a little strong. He’s currently scouring the Norfolk Broads in search of a feral child who’s said to be attacking the farmers and their livestock. It’s an odd business. Word is, a witch raised the child in the woods, and somehow cursed the boy, altering him through some ghastly ritual, so that he’s now a strange amalgam of man and beast.” He waved his hand dismissively. “If you believe that sort of thing. No doubt Bainbridge and his young protégé are having a whale of a time.”

I laughed, finding myself beginning to relax. It was good to hear that Bainbridge was keeping active, even if his present investigation sounded somewhat bizarre.

“So, Mr. Holmes, I understand from Newbury that you have an interest in Seaton’s spectrograph machine?” said Angelchrist. “Although your reputation would suggest that you are not, yourself, a dabbler in arcane matters. Unless your time in Sussex has served to change your mind, of course?”

“Indeed not,” said Holmes. “I fear I do not put great stock in those things that cannot be properly observed. Faith, to me, is a form of blind weakness, and although I am aware of the comfort it can offer others of a more…
spiritual
persuasion, I put my confidence in empirical evidence and logic.”

Angelchrist grinned. “Then what, if I may be so bold, is your interest in Seaton’s work?”

“It’s related to a case we’re investigating,” I said. “The apparent suicide of Herbert Grange. You might have read about it in the papers?”

“Read about it?” said Angelchrist. “You haven’t been able to move in London’s political circles without hearing all kinds of salacious gossip about the poor fellow.”

“Did you know him?” asked Holmes.

“A little,” confirmed Angelchrist. “I’ve seen him here a few times.”

“Was he good friends with Lord Foxton?” said Holmes.

“I don’t believe so. He seemed to me like one of those chaps who are always on the periphery. Invited along because of his position, but had very little to say. Still, I understand he was a great proponent of change and reformation, and I’m all for that,” replied Angelchrist. He sipped at his drink. “Perhaps that’s why Foxton took to him. What’s that got to do with Seaton, though?”

“Perhaps nothing,” said Holmes. “We found some of Mr. Underwood’s photographs at Grange’s house, and consulted Sir Maurice as to their purpose. He suggested we come along and see the machine for ourselves.”

“Ah,” said Angelchrist, with a sly wink. “I’d wager he’s looking for a little demonstration himself. I showed him my own photographs and his eyes veritably lit up.”

“You’ve participated?” I said, surprised.

“Oh, I think you’ll find most of the men in the room have given it a go in recent months. It’s a jolly good parlour game, that is all, although a word to the wise – don’t let Seaton hear you say that. To him, it’s a deadly serious business…” Angelchrist appeared momentarily distracted, peering over my shoulder at something or someone behind me. “Ah, Lord Foxton?” he called. “A moment of your time?”

I turned to see a stately looking man of around fifty, who’d clearly been walking past and had come to a stop at the sound of Archibald’s voice. He was lithe for his age and dressed in an immaculate black suit. His dark hair was swept back from his forehead, with a light dusting of grey at the temples.

“Hello, Archibald,” said Foxton. “Good to see you. Now, this must be Mr. Holmes.” To Holmes’s evident surprise, Foxton clasped him heartily on the shoulder. “How very good to meet you. I’ve long been an admirer of your methods. I hope you have no objection, but I’ve taken the liberty of placing you beside me at dinner. I’m keen to hear more about your work.”

“I’d be delighted,” said Holmes, most graciously.

Foxton turned on the spot, extending his hand. “And correct me if I’m wrong, but you must be Dr. Watson?”

“Quite so,” I said, taking his hand.

“You’re most welcome,” said Foxton, with a broad, genuine grin. “It’s not often I have such interesting guests.” He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, leaning closer. “It’ll be nice to have something other than business to discuss, for a change.”

“Mr. Holmes is terribly interested in Seaton’s machine,” said Angelchrist. “He’s seen some of the photographs the boy’s produced, and I gather they’ve rather snared his interest.” Angelchrist glanced at Holmes, a wry smile on his lips. “Is there any chance, you think, that we might be able to persuade Seaton to offer up a little demonstration?”

“Of course, gentlemen!” said Foxton enthusiastically. “I’m sure Seaton would be only too happy to demonstrate his machine. In fact, I’d wager he’d be grateful of a new audience. Most of the chaps here have already seen it, and he’s short of willing subjects.” He looked from me to Holmes. “In fact, why don’t I show you through now? That way you can talk to Seaton all you want before dinner, and then afterwards I won’t feel bad about monopolising your time.”

“Perfect,” said Holmes.

“I’ll keep Percy here company in the meanwhile,” said Angelchrist, with the considered sigh of a martyr, “so that you and Newbury can take a proper look at the machine.”

“My thanks,” I said. I could see just how much of a sacrifice he was making – Newbury had been backed up against the window, and looked as if he were about to lift the sash and dive through at any moment. I watched as Angelchrist expertly manoeuvred himself into the conversation and allowed Newbury to withdraw.

“Right, gentlemen,” said Foxton, when we’d gathered a moment later. “Seaton has a workshop on the other side of the house. This way.” He set off in the direction of the main hallway.

I followed behind, glancing over my shoulder to see Angelchrist already deep in conversation with Cranston, his expression reminiscent of a startled deer.

Underwood’s rooms comprised a series of three interlinked chambers in the east wing of the house, set apart from rest of the manor. As we entered through a side door, following behind Foxton, it became abundantly clear why. Their appearance was quite extraordinary.

What had once been Raventhorpe’s second drawing room or study had become… well, it was difficult to describe. The place was positively bursting with ephemera.

Bookcases lined two of the walls, but had long ago been filled beyond their intended capacity, and had since begun to disgorge themselves, giving rise to heap after heap of leather-bound tomes and pamphlets on every waypoint in the paranormal and mystical sphere: mesmerism, magnetism, spiritualism, hypnotism, transmigration of spirits, the art of the medium, and many other queer and arcane subjects. There were also substantial volumes on physics, chemistry and the organic sciences. A large globe sat in one corner, partially obscured by a red velvet drape. A human skeleton was wired up on a frame just inside the doorway, staring forlornly at us as we filed into the room, and at least five or six colourful birds hopped around in assorted cages, some hanging from the ceiling, others propped on tables or stands.

Most unusually, the windows had been plastered over with pages and pages of scrawled notes, diagrams and photographs, some of them now terribly faded and illegible from their exposure to the sun. The light was provided by a series of electric floor lamps, placed at random intervals around the room.

It seemed to me more like a lair than a place of scientific endeavour, although in many ways I was reminded of those hazy days at Baker Street, and the proliferation of Holmes’s books, notes, specimens and chemistry equipment which had cluttered up the place. Underwood’s rooms had the same sort of chaotic, obsessive quality that can only be born of years of dedication to a cause. The main difference was that Underwood had expanded to fill the space afforded to him by virtue of living at a manor house.

A thin, gangly man, with sandy hair – whom I took to be Underwood – was hunched over a small upright desk, peering into the lens of a microscope. He was wearing a stained white shirt, which had come untucked from his trousers and was hanging loose around his waist. He looked dishevelled and somewhat wild.

“Gentlemen, I’m delighted to present my ward, Seaton Underwood,” said Foxton.

Underwood looked up, and the expression of displeasure on his face was impossible to miss. Despite Foxton’s claims to the contrary, he was clearly not grateful for being disturbed in the midst of his studies. He surveyed us quickly, and then returned his attention to his microscope.

Foxton gave a polite cough, and Underwood, clearly in deference to Foxton’s wishes, got up from where he was sitting and came over to greet us.

“Gentlemen,” he said, with a forced smile. His voice was thin and reedy, and he had the look about him of a man who had seen very little daylight in recent weeks. His flesh was pale, and his eyes were bruised pits, dark and unseemly. I’d seen men of this countenance many times during my years as a medical man, and I would not have been surprised to discover he was a habitual abuser of laudanum.

I glanced at Newbury – a man I knew to have previously indulged in such filthy habits – and the look on his face told me that he agreed with my evaluation. Holmes, no doubt, would have already deduced the same.

Foxton introduced us, and explained to Underwood that we were interested in seeing a demonstration of his spectrograph generator.

“Ah, yes. More parlour games,” said Underwood, bitterly.

“I assure you, Mr. Underwood, that I have more than a passing interest in the work you are doing here, and have little time for parlour games,” said Newbury, smoothly stepping in and redirecting the conversation. “My name is Sir Maurice Newbury.”