The Mammoth Book of New Sherlock Holmes Adventures (32 page)

Holmes said soothingly, “Professor Hardcastle. Take your good time, sir. But please tell me exactly what did happen this morning. Speak freely before Dr Watson here. I explained in my note to you he would attend this case with me.”

“Of course. Of course.” He breathed deeply to steady his rattled nerves. “I wrote to you concerning the missing aerolite and how it reappeared in my son’s room. At the time I was alarmed, but after what happened this morning, I confess, I am terrified. For today, as I climbed the stairs to dress for our meeting, I was met by one of the maids who had been making up my son’s bed. ‘Excuse me, Professor,’ she said to me. ‘I found these on your son’s bedside table.’ ”

“The aerolite once more?”

“Yes .”

“And the sprigs of thyme?”

“Yes, arranged so the stone rested within like an egg inside a bird’s nest. The moment I saw the stone and the thyme I don’t believe I could have experienced a greater shock if I had been struck by lightning. Well, sirs … at that very instant I ran from the house dressed in nothing but trousers, waistcoat and carpet slippers. I’d been in my son’s bedroom not ten minutes before so I knew the devil had only just placed the stone on the table.”

“The devil?”

“Yes the devil, the demon … whatever damned title he must bear, because I tell you this, Mr Holmes, the man who left the aerolite and the thyme leaves in my son’s room has been dead these last five years.”

Sherlock Holmes smoked a small cigar as he spoke to a now less distraught Professor Hardcastle who sat in the armchair, the pince-nez upon his nose, his fingers tightly knitted, troubled thumbs pressing against each other. I sat upon a claret-coloured sofa, and, from time to time, made notes with pencil and paper.

For a moment, Holmes stood meditatively before the fireplace, which was vast enough to roast a whole side of mutton. Lost in thought, he smoked the cigar, blowing out jets of blue smoke, that were caught, even on this still summer’s day, by the updraft flowing up the flue, and carried the tobacco smoke away up the huge gullet of the chimney. “Now, professor. A few questions first before we discuss your suggestion that the aerolite and the thyme where left in your son’s bedroom by a deadman.”

“Ask what you will, Mr Holmes.”

“Exactly who was in the house at the time the aerolite made its second reappearance?”

“The domestic staff only. Mrs Hardcastle is calling on her mother in Chelsea. My son is at school.”

“Day school then, he does not board?”

“No.”

“Your son took the stone from your laboratory, plucked a few strands of thyme from the Heath, then left them so arranged bird’s nest fashion for a prank.”

“No.”

“Why so certain? Boys of that age thrive on mischief.”

“Edward is a perfectly healthy boy, capable of pranks and japes like the next.”

“But?”

“But he didn’t leave the stone.”

“When we first saw you, you were crying out, ‘It is thyme, it is thyme.’ ”

“Yes.”

“Then it was the appearance of that particular herb that troubled you so?”

“Yes.”

“And the appearance of the herb, alongside that piece of stone, has special significance for you?”

“Indeed.” Professor Hardcastle sighed, perhaps in the same manner a person who has seen the portents of doom and destruction manifesting in frightful sharp relief about him. From his pocket he brought out a stone as large and as dark as a damson plum and placed it on a copy of
The Times
newspaper that lay upon a table. “This is the aerolite referred to in my letter. It is of little monetary value. In my collection it bears the name ‘The Rye Stone’, simply because that’s where I found it all of three and twenty years ago. Then I was a boy of seventeen, yet already I had my life mapped out. I intended to make science my vocation, convinced as I was that mankind needed metals of ever-increasing strength for our machines, bridges and railways. At that time in Rye was a very famous and well respected astronomer, a one Dr Columbine, not a medical man you understand, but a man of science. He was the author of many books and papers. Astronomers from all over the world would travel just to speak with him. His lectures always delivered capacity audiences. I attended one such lecture in Rye and was entranced by the man’s genius and his vision of the universe. He was a small man with red hair and fiery side whiskers. Indeed he was very small – dwarfish, you might say. Boys would taunt him in the street, all of which he took with good humour, I might add. Small and fiery is how I remember him. He spoke to the audience with that same fiery passion. His eyes would flash like lamps. I immediately enrolled in Rye’s astronomical society of which he was its most illustrious member. By degrees I contrived to speak with him: I outlined my own ambitions. He listened carefully, then spoke enthusiastically, exhorting me not to rely on the preconceived ideas found in textbooks. And it was Dr Columbine who revealed to me that the Earth is inundated daily by seemingly heaven-sent pieces of metal ore from the depths of the universe. And couldn’t these starborne metals hold the key to our producing new, improved alloys that might revolutionize our industries? Assiduously I began collecting aerolites, accumulating a splendid array of specimens. Then one June night as we worked at his observatory we witnessed the fall of such a shooting star. In high excitement we saw it drop to Earth just beyond the town. You might imagine our excited calls as we two, Dr Columbine in frock coat and hat, myself in blazer and cap, climbed over fences like jubilant school boys, as we sallied forth to find the stone.”

“You say there were just the two of you?” said Holmes.

“Yes. We found the stone where it had fallen into a clump of wild thyme. It had struck the plants with sufficient force to bruise the leaves releasing the aroma of the herb into the warm evening air.”

“I see.”

“Briefly, to bring the story up to date,” continued Professor Hardcastle, “I moved on to university and my studies. And Dr Columbine continued his work in astronomy. But that’s when the tragedy occurred.”

“Tragedy?”

“Yes. Some malady laid Dr Columbine down. I don’t know its nature. But, with hindsight, it clearly resulted in some creeping destruction of the brain. It wasn’t immediately apparent at the time but the public lectures became yet more fiery, and the man’s ideas became even more astonishing. He embarked upon a plan to build the world’s largest telescope, which would be constructed upon the peak of Mount Snowdon in Wales where the cleaner air at that altitude is far more conducive to astronomical observation. And with this telescope, of absolutely gargantuan proportions, he would be able to divine what lay at the innermost heart of our universe.”

“Then the man may have been visionary, not ill in his mind?”

“At first we believed this was the case. That it was his vibrant genius alone that drove him to anger when his plans didn’t quickly reach fruition. But then it became apparent to all that he was indeed ill. Ill psychologically. The years passed, yet not a month would go by without his former acquaintances receiving increasingly vicious letters demanding that we sponsor his scheme – with every penny we possessed if need be! Rumours circulated that Dr Columbine threatened eminent scientists with violence if they did not pledge to fund this impossibly large refracting telescope. Indeed, five years ago I received a letter from him, stating categorically that because I had not myself pledged financial support for this instrument he would see to it that he destroyed what I loved most in the world, because I and my fellow men of science had destroyed what he, Dr Columbine, loved most in his world, his dream to build the telescope.”

“The man was clearly mad,” I observed.

“Indeed.”

Holmes said crisply, “You say you received this threatening letter five years ago. How did you respond?”

“Until that time I’d ignored all his earlier letters demanding sponsorship. On that occasion I reported the matter to the police.”

“And?”

“They attempted to locate Dr Columbine, but by that time, yet unknown to me and my brethren, the man was penniless and all but resided in the gin shops of Whitechapel.”

“The police failed to find him?”

“On the contrary, three months later a corpse was pulled from the Thames. It had been in the water so long its identity could only be discerned by the laundry label in the coat, giving the owner’s name; oh! and there was also an inscribed pocket watch.”

“Which, I take it,” said Holmes blowing out a cloud of cigar smoke above his head, “gave every indication that the poor wretch found drowned in the Thames was none other than Dr Columbine?”

“Quite. The police were satisfied as to the identity of the body, which was later buried in a pauper’s grave in Greenwich.”

“And the threatening letters ceased to arrive. And no one saw hide nor hair of Dr Columbine?”

“Naturally, the man was dead.”

“So the police surmised.”

“Yes. What doubt could there be?”

“Every doubt. There’s a gardener trimming your hedge wearing a pair of your boots. If he turned up in the Thames wearing those boots, and unrecognizable by any other evidence might not the police surmise that man was you, Professor?”

“Yes … well of course, such a mistake might be made … but … good heavens how do you know the man is wearing a pair of my boots?”

Professor Hardcastle, eyes wide with astonishment behind the lenses of the pince-nez, turned to stare out of the window at the gardener, a man of around fifty years, who was scrupulously trimming privet just half a dozen yards beyond the window.

“Your gardener,” continued Holmes, fingers lightly pressed together, “is recently married to a good woman of a character similar to his own, that is both are hard working and anxious to please. Both love each other dearly. Moreover, the man wears a pair of boots once owned by yourself.”

Hardcastle squinted through his pince-nez at the boots. “Why? Yes. Yes. Those are – were my old boots. My wife, rather than throwing them out, would have seen that they were offered to Clarkson. And, yes, I found the man very eager to please, indeed anxious to give satisfaction for his wages, but how could you know that?”

Holmes smiled. “Gardeners don’t wear such expensive boots while they work. If he could have afforded such a pair he would have saved them for ‘Sunday best.’ Also from the way the man hobbles quite painfully, they are far too small for him. Indeed they would, sir, fit someone with your size feet. A size seven.”

“Ah, size eight.”

“I think you’ll find a trifle smaller. Nevertheless, the boots you gave him are too small, but rather than appearing ungrateful he makes a point of wearing them when you will notice.”

“That is why he’s wearing the boots so near the window?”

“Indeed so, and vigorously trimming a hedge that visibly requires no trimming. But he’s keen to create a good impression. I dare say you’ll find his more comfortable workboots concealed behind some nearby bush which he will change into once he’s demonstrated his gratitude to you.”

“And recently married?”

“Have you seen many a gardener with clothes so clean and trousers so carefully pressed? The wife is eager to please, too. And, he, in love with his wife, is so closely shaven that he has nicked his face four, five times. Now!” Holmes briskly rose from the chair and paced the room. As he did so, he appraised, with those two keen eyes of his, certain areas of the carpet, and paid particular attention to the crystal wine decanters on the table. Holmes continued, “My example of the gardener and his wearing another man’s boots disposes, I believe, with the apparently insoluble problem of Dr Columbine returning from the dead to plague you. Evidently, another man wore his coat and possessed his watch when he unfortunately fell in the Thames. Either stolen or purchased from the Doctor.”

“Then Columbine is alive?”

“Yes.” Holmes picked the aerolite from the table and held it between forefinger and thumb. “That is, if he were the only man to know that you found The Rye Stone in a patch of thyme?”

“Yes, he was … its place of landing is irrelevant to my experiments. I never once mentioned it to another living soul.”

“But not irrelevant to this case. As you realized, most powerfully, when you saw the sprigs of thyme and the stone together. That little conjunction of herb and stone was nothing less than a message to you, sir, from Dr Columbine, which states plainly: Professor Hardcastle, I am alive. I have not forgotten my threat. I have the ability to come and go into your home at will. Now I am merely biding my time before I strike.”

“My son?”

“Specifically, your son. He will murder your son in his bed within forty-eight hours.”

The man’s face turned white as paper. “Oh, heavens, what a horrible prediction. How can you know that?”

“I will return tomorrow morning whereupon. I will explain everything?”

“But my son is under a sentence of death. What you’ve told me is unspeakably cruel.”

“But necessary. When I return to tomorrow I will do my utmost to save your son – but we are dealing not just with a madman, but a man who is uncommonly intelligent.”

“Please don’t go.”

“I must make some very necessary preparations. But first please pass me the sprig of thyme from the table. Thank you, Professor.”

For a moment we sat there, I upon the sofa, the professor perched unhappily on the edge of the armchair, his wide eyes watching Holmes’s every move.

Holmes, took the sprig of herb to the window where the light was brightest. He gazed at the stem, then the leaves of the plant, in the peculiar introspective fashion which was characteristic of him. “It is
Thymus serpyllum,
more commonly known as wild thyme, a mat-forming undershrub, prevalent in dry grassy places, particularly heaths; its flowers possessing rounded heads of a reddish-purple.” He lifted the plant to his nostrils. “Quite aromatic.” He looked closely at the plant’s stalk. “Evidently the plant is Dr Columbine’s calling card; he intended it to be so. But let us see if … ah, yes!” said he in a tone suggesting a puzzle solved. “Let us see if the plant tells us a little more than Columbine intended.” Taking one of his own calling cards from his pocket, Holmes placed it face down on a small table by the window. Then quickly drawing a Swiss Army knife from his trouser pocket he opened a glittering blade and gently scraped one of the plant’s small leaves.