Sherlock Holmes (8 page)

“Nevertheless,” I said, following this train of thought, “surely if someone
was
attempting to extort money from Grange it represents a potential motive for his suicide. Blackmail, I mean. Perhaps they had a hold over him, something we have yet to discern. Or perhaps he did actually believe whatever spiritualist nonsense they were peddling. We can’t ignore it.”

“Quite so, Watson,” replied Holmes. “Quite so.”

“The pertinent question is surely, then: who is behind them?” I placed my cutlery on the empty plate before me and pushed it away across the table. “Who is the man or woman behind the camera? The difficulty is in getting to the bottom of that.”

“We both know a man with the knowledge to be able to assist us in this matter,” said Holmes, “or at the very least, to aid us in identifying the purpose of the photographs, if not, perhaps, their origin.”

“We do?” I replied, momentarily perplexed.

Holmes’s thin lips formed a forced smile, as if the idea was, perhaps, a little unsavoury. “Consider,” he said, “Horburton Fen.”

“Ah!” I exclaimed. “Of course. Sir Maurice Newbury. He’s exactly the man we need.” Newbury was an old acquaintance, an agent of the Crown and an expert in all matters pertaining to the occult. I had worked with him on a number of occasions – including the aforementioned affair at Horburton Fen, investigating a series of ritual murders and a satanic coven of witches – and found him to be a most excellent, reliable fellow. I understood that Holmes, however, would likely feel differently about the situation. He had never put much stock in talk of the supernatural, and I didn’t imagine he was about to start now. Nevertheless, as Holmes well knew, it wasn’t so much a question of whether either of
us
believed in whatever hokum was behind the photographs, but whether Grange himself did. Holmes’s hope was that Newbury might be able to help us understand the context of the photographs, no more.

Whatever the case, I found the notion of catching up with Newbury after all this time most appealing, and I said so to Holmes.

He responded by withdrawing his cracked old briar pipe from his coat pocket and stuffing it full of shag.

I had visited Newbury’s home once before, during the adventure I have previously chronicled as “The Case of the Night Crawler”, and so, after fishing out my address book, I was able to search out the location of his Chelsea home for the telephone operator.

A quick call established he was not at home, but his valet – who, despite it being over ten years since I’d visited, appeared to remember me when I gave my name – helpfully informed me that Newbury was to be found at his office in the British Museum. I recalled then that Newbury maintained a post at that august establishment, for the times when he was not actively pursuing an investigation for the Crown. A further telephone call to his secretary there confirmed an appointment for later that morning.

While I tidied away the remnants of our breakfast, Holmes also made use of the telephone to call his brother Mycroft, with the express purpose of informing him of the sad death of his driver the previous evening. Their call was brief and somewhat stilted, although I made a point of not overhearing the content of their conversation.

When he was finished, Holmes came to find me the kitchen. He was already wearing his coat and gloves, and was holding a manila folder containing Grange’s photographs. “To the British Museum, then?” he said.

“Yes, I suppose so,” I replied. “It’ll be good to see Newbury again after all this time.”

Holmes offered me an enigmatic smile in response.

* * *

I have always been fond of the British Museum. I believe it symbolises the cultural wealth of our nation – indeed, of our empire. It represents perhaps the greatest collection of historical artefacts in the world. I would often enjoy whiling away afternoons there with my wife, touring the exhibits and soaking up the atmosphere of ancient lands.

On occasion I have wondered whether, if Holmes had not given himself entirely to his chosen profession of consulting detective, perhaps he might have made an exemplary historian. Not that he showed a particular interest in such matters, I hasten to add – indeed, it was fair to say that he was quite ignorant of much of what is generally considered historical fact. Unless, that was, those facts happened to pertain to a particular criminal investigation. Ask him to name the successive kings and queens of England, for example, and he would be quite flummoxed.

No, it was more that I understood the pursuit of historical data to be a series of puzzles to be solved, of mysteries to be unravelled. I was certain that if Holmes had chosen to put his mind to it, he might have caused quite a stir in the field. Knowing him as I did, however, I understood that he would find such work meaningless, and that the lack of empirical evidence and reliance on supposition would drive him to distraction.

Newbury, of course, had a deep affinity for such matters, and although I’d never been certain whether it was simply a cover for his more practical work for the Crown, or a genuine attempt to establish an academic career, his interest in the field seemed most genuine. Where Holmes would dedicate his time to producing a monograph on the identification of tobacco ash and its application in criminal investigation, Newbury was more likely to be concerned with Neolithic stone circles and their use in ancient fertility rites. In this, they could not be further apart.

I admit to feeling a certain amount of anticipation at seeing Newbury again. This was partly because I looked forward to rekindling an occasional acquaintance I had much enjoyed during the last decade and a half, and partly because I was interested to see how Holmes would acquit himself. He had originally been critical of my association with Sir Maurice and his assistant, Miss Veronica Hobbes, writing Newbury off as a credulous charlatan who put too much stock in the affairs of the supernatural. Indeed, during the aforementioned investigation into the mysterious machine that later became known as the “night crawler”, Holmes had entirely refused to engage with the man, leaving it to me to act as a go-between.

Years later, however, we once again crossed paths with Newbury during the episode I have laid out as “The Witch of Horburton Fen”, and this time, in coming face-to-face with a man I believe Holmes once considered a rival, his earlier scorn had given way to a begrudging respect. Newbury had been fundamental in the successful wrapping up of the case, aiding Holmes in bringing an errant vicar to justice. Then, as I suspected Holmes imagined now, the supernatural elements of the case had proved to be quite the opposite, with a perfectly rational – if somewhat distressing – explanation. What was more, at no point during the investigation did Newbury fall back on any ungrounded beliefs, or preach to us the likelihood of a supernatural cause. He approached the matter in much the same way as Holmes, examining each and every clue, deciphering its meaning, and refusing to make suppositions until all the data was in place. This, I knew, had impressed Holmes immeasurably, and as such his overall attitude towards Newbury had softened, to the extent that now, unexpectedly, he was counselling a visit to seek the man’s advice. Wonders, I decided, would never cease.

Holmes had remained silent throughout our journey, but now, as our cab came to a stop before the main gates of the British Museum, he turned to me, his expression warm but serious. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he said quietly.

Caught off guard, I mumbled an acknowledgement, fighting back an upwelling of unseemly emotion. He nodded once, and then turned and climbed out of the conveyance. I followed suit, but as I did, I noticed that my hands were trembling. It was, I realised, one of the kindest gestures that Holmes had ever made, in all of our years as friends. I swallowed and reached for some change to pay the driver.

The museum grounds were quiet, with only a handful of people milling around the courtyard. It wasn’t surprising, given the events of the evening before. With so much clearing up to do, and the lingering threat of death at the hands of the zeppelin bombers, the last thing that people wanted to do was lose themselves in the artistic endeavours of the past. The present was simply too pressing.

We crossed the forecourt in the shadow of the monolithic building, and I found myself thinking how grateful I was that the edifice had so far avoided becoming a target of the enemy bombs.

At the top of the steps, close to the main entrance, I stopped to speak with a doorman. He looked rather harried, as if he had somewhere better to be. “We have an appointment with Sir Maurice Newbury,” I said. “I wonder if you could point us in the right direction?”

“Across the main lobby,” he said, “and then follow the courtyard around to the right. You’ll come across a flight of steps. Can’t miss it. Sir Maurice keeps an office in the basement.”

“My thanks to you,” I said.

Newbury’s office was along a dimly lit corridor at the bottom of the stairs. At first I thought the doorman has given us the wrong directions; we seemed to be down in the bowels of the museum, amongst the dusty storerooms and disused offices. There were numerous doors stemming off the corridor, each of them with opaque glass, but lacking nameplates. We checked them one by one as we traversed the length of the corridor. Holmes was the first to spot it, the final door, about as far from the museum proper as you could get. Here, a small brass plaque was etched with a legend: “Sir Maurice Newbury”.

Holmes rapped on the door, and then opened it without waiting for a response. He strode in, all sense of proper decorum ignored.

Shaking my head, I followed after him.

Inside, the office was not at all what I’d been expecting. Instead of a musty old room full of long-abandoned files and papers, there was a rather homely space containing a fireplace, stove, bookcase, filing cabinet and desk. The walls were adorned with an array of ancient weapons, including a mace, a rather deadly looking morning star, an elaborately engraved shield and a primitive axe, the head bound to the shaft with what looked like twine. On the left was a door to an antechamber, presently closed. There was no sign of the secretary I had spoken to that morning.

“Hello?” said Holmes.

There came the disharmonious sound of chair legs scraping across tiles from the antechamber, and through the glass partition I saw the silhouette of a man getting up from behind a desk. Moments later the door opened, and Newbury stood in the opening, a broad grin on his face. “Dr. Watson!” he said, with what sounded like genuine pleasure. “It’s good to see you after all this time.” He came forward, proffering his hand. I took it and he clasped mine firmly. He had aged well: his hair was still the same raven black as it had been almost ten years earlier, with only a peppering of grey; the lines on his face looked distinguished rather than careworn, and he was still lean. He must have been in his early fifties. I guessed he still continued in active service. “And you, Mr. Holmes,” he continued, releasing my hand and turning to Holmes. “You are most welcome.”

“Thank you for agreeing to see us, Sir Maurice,” replied Holmes. “I am hopeful you can assist us with a rather delicate matter. It falls within your area of… specialist expertise.” He teased out the last two words, as if more comfortable with the euphemism than explaining himself outright. “I know we can rely on your discretion.”

“Of course,” said Newbury. “I’m more than happy to help in any way that I can. But first, I have an important question.”

“Go ahead,” said Holmes, with the merest hint of a frown.

“Excellent!” said Newbury, clapping his hands together abruptly. “How do you take your tea?”

* * *

“So, what of Miss Hobbes? I hope she is well?”

We were gathered around Newbury’s desk in the adjoining room, each brandishing a steaming teacup. Holmes, to my surprise, had accepted Newbury’s offer of tea, and Newbury had set to work at the stove, boiling up a pot of water. It was a primitive thing, clearly decades old, but Newbury handled it like an old expert. This was evidently a ritual he cared profoundly for, and as we watched, he warmed the pot and measured out the leaves from a battered old caddy.

“She is quite well, Dr. Watson,” replied Newbury. “I’ll be sure to pass on your regards. I fear she’s currently engaged in an undertaking for the Secret Service Bureau, otherwise I know she would have been delighted to see you.” He looked plaintively at the empty desk across the room. I could see that it pained him to consider his friend – well, I wasn’t sure exactly
what
she was to him, but he evidently cared deeply for her – out there somewhere, probably engaged in an initiative to influence the outcome of the war. Whatever it was, it couldn’t have been less than dangerous work, given the political situation. I wished her well, wherever she was.

Holmes set his teacup down upon on the surface of the desk, indicating that it was time to address the real reason for our visit.

He took the manila folder from his inside pocket and handed it to Newbury. “Inside this folder, Sir Maurice, you will find a series of photographs. They are of an unusual nature. I have so far been unable to ascertain their purpose, and, thus, who might have taken them.”

Newbury opened the folder and extracted the sheaf of photographs. He spread them out on the desk, looking at them each in turn. Upside down – for I was sitting across the other side of the desk from Newbury – they appeared even more disconcerting than they had before. As he laid them out in sequence, it looked as if the central figure of Grange was surrounded by a ghostly aura that moved in each shot, swirling into different patterns as if it were a living – or at least
animated
– thing.

“Fascinating,” said Newbury, clearly impressed. “Where did you obtain these?” He glanced up, looking directly at Holmes.

“The subject’s home,” replied Holmes, giving little away. I presumed that he was withholding the details of the case not because he doubted Newbury’s discretion, but because he did not want to colour his opinion before it was proffered.

“Your client?” said Newbury.

“In a manner of speaking,” said Holmes.