The Big Book of Sherlock Holmes Stories (116 page)

“You have forgotten one thing, Holmes,” I pointed out.

“Have I? And what is that, pray?”

“The picklock with which you opened the cabin door.”

“Did I omit to mention it? How remiss of me!” Holmes said carelessly. “The explanation is quite simple. At the same time as I concealed the scalpel blade, I took the precaution of strapping a small selection of picklocks round my left ankle. It made walking somewhat painful, hence my excuse of having sprained my foot. But it was worth the discomfort. The implements proved indispensable.

“And now, Inspector Patterson—and you, too, Watson, for the consequences will affect you as well—I must offer you an explanation of why I failed to refer to Professor Moriarty by name in the letter I sent by Mrs. Hudson. The omission was deliberate.

“You will not have heard, my dear fellow, of the murder in Rotterdam in January '90 of a Hendrik Van den Vondel, although Inspector Patterson was informed of it at the time. Van den Vondel was fatally stabbed one night, apparently in the course of an attempted robbery, near the docks by two men who were seen running away by a passer-by. Unfortunately, the witness was not able to describe them and the two malefactors were never brought to justice. However, there were rumours of a darker and more sinister motive behind Van den Vondel's death.

“Those suspicions were later confirmed by the Dutch authorities who, in the strictest confidence, consulted my brother Mycroft who, as you know, has connections with our own government.
*
⁹
They had reason to believe that an international organization was behind the murder and that it was carried out by two of its Dutch agents whose identities were then unknown.

“It was revealed that Van den Vondel was a plain-clothes inspector of police who was investigating this organization which, with the aid of forged documents, was engaged in smuggling known criminals from the Continent to this country. They included such notorious villains as Larsson, the Swedish forger, and the Nihilist, Boris Orlov, wanted by the Russian authorities for the bombing of a post office in St. Petersburg. Most of these criminals were later rounded up by Inspector Patterson and his colleagues at the Yard.

“This traffic in human cargo was centred on the port of Rotterdam and was apparently carried out with the assistance of certain dock officials who had been bribed to cover up the truth although the Dutch authorities had no proof either of this or of the identities of those who had organized the illicit trade.

“However, in the light of last night's events aboard the SS
Friesland
, I think we may safely assume that Van Wyk and Bakker were part of the conspiracy and it was they who had murdered the unfortunate Van den Vondel on Professor Moriarty's orders. I suggest therefore, Inspector Patterson, that you make a thorough search of the captain's cabin for you may well find sufficient evidence among his papers to prove his and Bakker's guilt as well as the names of those port officials who were bribed to keep silent.

“It was because of these international connections that I thought it wiser to make no mention of Professor Moriarty until I had discussed the whole affair with Mycroft which I did earlier this afternoon. Rather than bring Van Wyk and Bakker to trial in this country, Her Majesty's Government has decided to hand them over to the Dutch authorities who will no doubt wish to question them closely about the murder as well as the allegations of conspiracy.

“In addition, Inspector Patterson and his men are still hunting for Luigi Bertorelli, an important member of the Sicilian Mafia, and, until he is arrested, not a word of this must be made public.

“For these reasons, Watson, you will not be permitted to publish an account of our adventure on board the SS
Friesland
. I very much regret this, my dear fellow, but Mycroft's decision is final.”

However, I could not allow the case to pass totally into oblivion for it illustrates not only the ingenuity and deductive skills of my old friend Sherlock Holmes but also his great personal courage in the face of mortal danger. In addition, it allowed me my sole contact, albeit posthumously, with that arch-villain, Professor Moriarty, whom Holmes once referred to as the Napoleon of crime
*
¹⁰
and whose genius for evil has never to my knowledge been surpassed in this century.

But it is not only for this reason that I have decided to write this confidential account of the outrageous events that took place on board the SS
Friesland
, which I shall deposit among my private papers.
*
¹¹

It is also intended as a tribute to the courage of my old friend, Sherlock Holmes, and as a form of apology to him for my doubting, however briefly, his lion-hearted valour.

C. E. LAWRENCE
(1953– ), pseudonym Carole Buggé, is the author of two Sherlock Holmes novels,
The Star of India
(1998) and
The Haunting of Torre Abbey
(2000), and a series featuring Claire Rawlings in the detective adventures
Who Killed Blanche DuBois?
(1999),
Who Killed Dorian Gray?
(2000), and
Who Killed Mona Lisa?
(2001).

Under her real name, Lawrence has written four thrillers starring Lee Campbell:
Silent Screams
(2009),
Silent Victim
(2010),
Silent Kills
(2011), and
Silent Slaughter
(2012). Her short fiction has appeared in numerous anthologies and magazines and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. She has won numerous prizes for her poetry. Her plays and musicals have been presented regionally and in New York City. Her advanced physics play,
Strings
, which dramatized string theory and cosmology, was described by John Simon as “the most absorbing play in New York today.” Lawrence is also a professional singer, actress, and improvisational comedian.

“The Strange Case of the Tongue-Tied Tenor” was first published in
The Game Is Afoot
, edited by Marvin Kaye (New York, St. Martin's Press, 1994).

THE SPRING OF
1890 brought a week of grainy London afternoons which depressed my medical practice as well as my spirits, and so it was on one of those dull grey days that I escaped my dreary surgery and headed for my old digs at 221
B
Baker Street to pay a visit on my friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

Mrs. Hudson greeted me with more than her usual effusiveness, for she had not seen me for some weeks, and the company of her only tenant, while undoubtedly invigorating, was also a trial which she bore with the fierce stoicism of her Scottish ancestors. As we ascended the familiar staircase, she threw her hands up in dismay.

“Oh, Dr. Watson, thank heaven you've come—maybe now he'll eat and sleep like a normal human being for a change!”

If Holmes was neither eating nor sleeping—bodily necessities which he did not always regard as such—it meant either that he was on a case or subject to the influence of the evil drug he turned to in his constant battle against ennui.

As I entered Holmes's sitting room, I saw that he was not alone. Seated on the sofa opposite the door was a stocky, red-faced gentleman with a full head of curly ginger hair and a face which was the likely result of a cross between a cherub and a bulldog. Holmes was sprawled out in his usual chair.

“Ah, Watson—come in; you are just in time to hear a most amusing little problem.”

The red-faced man appeared to bristle at Holmes's words.

“My dear Mr. Holmes, forgive me for saying so, but to me there is nothing amusing about it,” he said, or rather whispered, for his voice was nothing more than a faint throaty croak.

“Yes, yes, I'm sure—please forgive me,” Holmes replied, with more impatience than contrition. “And allow me to introduce my colleague and very good friend, Dr. Watson. Watson, may I present Mr. Gerald Huntley.”

“Not
the
Gerald Huntley—”

“The one and same—operatic tenor extraordinaire. Mr. Huntley has come to me on a matter of some distress to a singer of his caliber. Simply put, Watson, he has lost his voice.”

Mr. Huntley's face grew redder as Holmes spoke.

“Well, that's terrible, of course, but surely that is a matter for a medical doctor—”

“Ah, but there's more, isn't there, Mr. Huntley?” Holmes said smoothly, with a smile which in the dim light looked almost predatory. The tenor blinked rapidly and shook his red curls, which offset the deepening flush on his face.

“I don't know what you mean, exactly—”

Holmes rose and stood over Huntley, his tall, spare frame looming like a bird of prey over the man.

“Mr. Huntley,” he said in a sharp voice, “I am a busy man, and an impatient one, as you have perhaps gathered. I therefore suggest to you that you withhold nothing from me, either now or later, if you have any hope of my taking your case. You will therefore start by telling me why you feel you are in mortal danger and what
connection that might have to your current clandestine love affair.”

The singer swallowed hard and fell back against the couch. He drew a lace handkerchief from his breast pocket and passed it over his damp brow.

“You are truly everything they said you were, Mr. Holmes, and more,” he croaked, making another pass with the handkerchief.

“That's better,” said Holmes, settling into his chair again with a satisfied smile, though whether he was referring to the implied cooperation or the compliment I could not say.

“You are correct, sir, in everything that you say, though before I tell you my story I must say I cannot see how you could possibly know—”

“Tut, tut, man, there is nothing so mysterious about it,” answered Holmes, though evidently pleased to have scored an impression. Holmes was, in his own way, no less a performer than our tenor, and his most faithful audience—apart from myself—was his steady stream of clients. No magician ever flourished his hat and cape with more relish or flair than Holmes unveiled his deductions to the breathless gasps of his admirers.

“That you are frightened is not hard to deduce. I happened to be looking out the window when you alighted from your cab, and only a criminal or a man who believes his life is threatened looks about furtively the way you did. I do you the honour to suppose you are not the former; I may therefore logically take you to be the latter.”

Our illustrious guest hung his head.

“Quite right, I'm afraid, Mr. Holmes.”

“As to the woman, there are so many signs I hardly know where to begin. If your fresh manicure and haircut had not alerted me, I could not have helped but notice that your boots, though unaccustomed to frequent polishings, have recently been shined to a glimmer. Your hat”—and here he brandished our guest's bowler—“is scented with one cologne, and yet this morning you put on quite a different, muskier scent. Add this to the baggy appearance of your vest and the fact that you have cinched your pants in an extra loop. When a man changes his perfume, takes extraordinary care over his person, and on top of that loses weight so rapidly that he cannot change his wardrobe quickly enough to keep his clothes from hanging loosely upon him—surely even to the inexperienced eye that bespeaks a recent and consuming infatuation of the most virulent kind.”

With that Holmes went to the mantel, where he kept the Persian slipper which contained his shag tobacco. From the pipe rack he selected a long carved cherrywood pipe and stood waiting for our guest to recover his breath. Mr. Huntley looked very sheepish and defeated; at last he spoke.

“I must admit everything you say is true, and that furthermore, everything I have done has been in spite of my better instincts.”

Holmes smiled disdainfully. “Affairs of the heart usually manage to override one's better instincts. Pray continue, Mr. Huntley,” he said, folding his long frame into his favourite chair.

“There is not much to tell, really,” the tenor whispered, and I felt a pang at witnessing the ruin of so great a voice. “I have been engaged to sing Don José in a production of
Carmen;
it is a role I have done many times, of course, but this was the first time I had performed with—her.”

“You refer of course to Madame Olga Rayenskavya, the Russian mezzo-soprano.”

“Well, yes, but how—?”

“Oh, come, come, Mr. Huntley; a casual perusal of the entertainment section of any number of London dailies would reveal that you are both appearing in
Carmen
in repertory for the next two weeks at the Royal Albert Hall.”

“Yes, of course.”

“So how did you come to be involved with this—temptress?”

“Enchantress would be more like it,” said our guest, rubbing his eyes wearily. “I have neither eaten nor slept more than a few hours since she wrapped her spell around me. It is a sickness, a fever; I am like one of Ulysses's men Circe turned into pigs: it seems all I can do is grunt
and grovel at her feet. I am powerless to extricate myself, even though I feel this affair has brought danger upon my head.”

“What form has this danger taken?”

“Well, there have been several signs, but last night I stayed somewhat late after the performance; it is my custom to take tea in my dressing room after I sing. When I had finished my tea I remembered I had left my scarf in the wings somewhere; the Royal Albert is very drafty, as you may know, and so I had worn my scarf about my neck right up until my first entrance. It was very dark and quiet, as most everyone had gone home. Nonetheless, I thought I heard footsteps on the catwalk above the stage as I crossed to get my scarf. As I reached the stage left wings I heard a sound directly above me, and if I had not had my wits about me and leapt out of the way, I doubt that I would be sitting here now.”

“Out of the way of what?” I asked, caught up in his story.

“A sandbag fell directly upon the spot where I had been standing. I had thought up until that moment that I was imagining everything, but sandbags do not simply fall from the sky for no reason at all. After last night I am convinced that someone is trying to get me out of the way.”

“Out of the way of what, I wonder,” said Holmes, pulling pensively at his pipe.

“I don't know, but I am convinced there is a connection with this wretched affair.”

“The lady in question is married, is she not, to a conductor?” I said, recalling having read something about her engagement in the paper.

Mr. Huntley smiled bitterly. “Oh, yes, and that is not the least of the irony in my situation. Her husband is none other than Sir Terrance Farthingale, the maestro for this production of
Carmen
.”

“Hmm, I see,” said Holmes, tapping his pipe out into a potted plant on the tea table, a habit Mrs. Hudson hated. “You have pitched your tent rather close to the lion's den.”

“I have made a rotten mess of things, if that's what you mean,” said our downcast friend with a sigh.

“From what you know of Sir Terrance, do you think he would be capable of—?” I started to say, but Mr. Huntley interrupted me with a gesture.

“Dr. Watson, if I have learned one thing from all of this it is that when it comes to love, a man might be capable of anything at all.”

“But what makes you think that losing your voice is somehow connected to all of this?” I inquired.

“Oh, I don't think there's a connection, except maybe that it was brought on by fatigue and worry—”

“Oh, but there I disagree with you, Mr. Huntley,” Holmes interrupted. “Quite the contrary: I believe it to be a key to solving the case.”

Both of us stared at him. He proceeded to fill and light his pipe before continuing, increasing our anticipation by making us wait for his response. He took a deep draught and exhaled slowly.

“Consider the facts. A man has a liaison with another man's wife. Soon he comes to feel his life is in peril. Shortly after a narrow escape he finds himself unable to perform his chosen profession—in short, he finds himself out of commission, temporarily or otherwise. He is still alive, but harm has undoubtedly been done to him; more importantly, as you yourself stated, Mr. Huntley, he is
out of the way
. So it seems it was not necessary to kill him after all, merely get him out of the way.”

“Out of the way of what?” I interjected.

“That is precisely what we must find out, Watson.” Holmes laid down his pipe and rose from his chair. “Good day, Mr. Huntley—if I have need of further information I shall be in contact with you.”

Mr. Huntley scrambled to his feet rather confusedly, not used to Holmes's characteristically unceremonious treatment.

“We did not discuss the subject of fee—”

“There will be plenty of time for that, Mr. Huntley; I think you will find my fees by no means extravagant,” said Holmes, bustling him to the door.

“Well, then, I will take my leave of you—”

“What about Mr. Huntley's safety?” I asked, seeing the anxious expression on his face.

“Oh, I should think Mr. Huntley's safety is for the time being assured; so long as he has no voice, he is certain to remain alive and well. Good day, Mr. Huntley. I shall let you know if there are any developments.”

“Thank you, Mr. Holmes. Good day, Dr. Watson.”

“Good day.”

“Oh, one more question, Mr. Huntley. Who serves you your tea?”

“My dresser, McPearson. He has been with me for years.”

“Very well. Thank you—I will be in touch.”

After our guest was gone Holmes sprawled out on the couch and intertwined his long fingers behind his head.

“There, you see, Watson: you upbraid me with my refusal to have anything to do with the fairer sex, and yet this is the likely outcome of such an encounter. A man loses his means of livelihood and nearly his life, all for the sake of a woman.”

“Oh, Holmes, you're incorrigible. Mr. Huntley has acted indiscreetly, to say the least. To use this as a moral for the entire—” but I stopped when I saw Holmes laughing that peculiar silent laugh of his.

“Ah, Watson, forgive me for taking advantage of your earnestness. Sometimes I cannot help tweaking you to see how you will react.”

“I should think you would find the consistency of my responses rather boring by now,” I said, feeling somewhat put out.

“Oh, come along, Watson, don't be cross! Let me make it up to you by standing you to the Wellington at Simpson's: I do believe theirs is the best Yorkshire pudding in town.”

I am used to accompanying my friend in the testing of his many various hypotheses, but I must say this was one theory I was by no means averse to examining. And so it was that less than half an hour later I found myself seated across from Holmes, confronted by an undeniably agreeable specimen of Wellington's lesser known victory.

“Well, Watson,” said my companion after we had finished our cigars and coffee, “what do you say to a little trip 'round to the Royal Albert, to the scene of the crime, as it were?”

“No crime has as yet been committed, Holmes.”

“As yet, Watson; but it is only a matter of time.”

“What do you expect to find at the Royal Albert?”

“I expect nothing, but I shall know when and if I find it.”

The backstage area at the Royal Albert Hall is not usually accessible to the public, but the man guarding the stage door was more impressed by the mention of the name Sherlock Holmes than by the considerable tip offered to him by that august person. In any event, we soon found ourselves in the winding corridors leading to the various dressing rooms. Holmes headed straight for Gerald Huntley's, and upon knocking was greeted by an ancient gentleman of impressive sidewhiskers and rheumatic eyes of a remarkably pale blue hue.

“Ah, Mr. McPearson, isn't it?” said Holmes brightly.

“At your service, Sir. I'm afraid Mr. Huntley isn't in at the moment, Sir,” he wheezed in a burr as Scottish as a field of mountain heather.