The Strange Return of Sherlock Holmes (4 page)

‘Nothing easier,' he replied, waving his thin hand through the air in the manner of a showman. ‘You mentioned that your brother was a great deal younger than you, an archaeologist from Chicago. In my reading during the past several months I have twice come across the name of the famous archaeologist C.D. Wilson, a professor in Chicago who specializes in studying the excavated Cretan town of Akrotiri on Santorini. Almost certainly your brother Charles is that same C.D. Wilson. So when I found black sand amongst the debris in his pocket knife, it was not much of a leap to imagine he visited the black sand beach of Kamari on Santorini.'

‘That's true,' I said. ‘He complained that he got sunburnt there, even though it was late in the season and the air seemed cool.'

‘The knife is at least thirty years old,' Coombes continued, ‘and you have told me you are sixty-four. A little mathematical juggling shows that if your brother is, say, ten to fifteen years younger than you, he would now be forty-nine to fifty-four – and if we subtract the age of the knife from that estimated age, we deduce that he acquired the knife when he was in his late teens or early twenties, which fits with the notion he acquired it at college. That his hair is dark stands to reason since yours is dark. I know that it has begun to turn grey because I found a single grey nose hair stuck to the inside of the tweezer. A man who troubles himself to pluck nose hairs is obviously more fastidious about his looks than most of us are. The two knife blades were carefully sharpened to a razor edge, which suggests the owner is both meticulous and orderly – and the fact he kept the knife for more than thirty years suggests he is both careful and frugal. The handle has been cracked and repaired – a fact which might suggest he is also sentimental, since many a man in his position would simply have purchased a new knife. He obviously wished to keep his old friend in his pocket.

‘As to the rest, I observed a bit of cork still on the corkscrew, indicating that at least on his last bottle of wine he forcefully pulled the screw straight out of the cork instead of screwing it out. This suggests he is sometimes impatient, despite his generally careful habits. The corkscrew was worn shiny but the bottle opener after thirty years had not the tiniest scratch on it, suggesting that while he liked wine he seldom drank beer – beer in a bottle, anyway, which is usually how it is sold in Europe. Fine bits of pencil lead clung to the small blade, and few people use pencils these days except for drawing, and fewer still have occasion to sharpen them with their pocket knife, but an artist might need to do this quite often if he is sketching in the field – as I do myself. When I rubbed them they smeared moderately easily, and long experience with pencil lead leads me to think he uses 2B to HB. Whether your brother Charles sketches as part of his archaeological activities or purely for pleasure, or both, I do not know.

‘Two Persian cat hairs beneath much of the fuzz in the knife cavity suggested a cat at home, and of course the tiny Masonic medallion attached to the ring of the knife would only be carried by a member of the lodge. Finally, a piece of paper currency had become wedged in the saw blade, and your brother – his impatience again – just tore it free without opening the knife. This left a tiny fragment of paper stuck to the blade. I have made a study of European currency and recognized both the colour and paper texture as characteristic of a Swiss fifty-franc note. It is a shame that most of the other countries on the continent now use the Euro – it makes crime detection so much more difficult.'

‘
Crime
detection?' I said.

‘Or any sort of detection or deduction one might wish to make,' he added quickly.

THREE

The Mystery of the Black Priest

T
he next morning Coombes fell suddenly into one of his more and more frequent fits of depression. He slept late, no longer wheeled his barrow of books through the streets of Hay, no longer darted his eyes from object to object or lightly leapt from topic to topic in our conversations. In fact, he hardly spoke. He sat in front of the fireplace in his slippers and robe, and stared. Occasionally he rolled his eyes dreamily up in his head. This went on for several days, and then got worse. One morning, after having refused my offer of breakfast, he said, ‘What I need, Watson . . .'

‘Wilson . . .'

‘. . . is a syringe of cocaine and a pipe of tobacco. My doctor allows me the cocaine but refuses to allow me the tobacco. I promised him I would abstain, but I fear I cannot stand this much longer. When I have no problems to solve, life has lost its meaning.' He looked frightful and distracted as he said this. He did not look healthy.

‘Let me get you some tea,' I said.

‘Thank you.'

‘Or maybe some gin might do you good.'

‘I have never used spirits,' he cried, ‘but I may need to try them.' He flung himself on to the couch and put his hands behind his head and stared at the ceiling.

Beethoven's
Für Elise
suddenly began to play somewhere in the room, and I looked about, wondering. Coombes began digging in his sport coat pocket and, to my surprise, he pulled out a mobile phone. He struggled to open it. But
Für Elise
played on. I hurried to him and showed him how to manipulate the telephone. Awkwardly he held it to his ear. I discreetly withdrew to the kitchen, but I could not help but hear his end of the conversation. I gathered from some fragmentary words that he was speaking to someone in London.
I really don't know if I can wait until our appointment, that's a week away. . . . I've already lived longer than anybody else, which ought to guarantee me a few privileges, doctor . . . not so sure we should have undertaken this experiment . . . I don't need medicine, I need work . . . yes, by all means tell my contact at Scotland Yard . . . he is a kind man but I doubt he can help; chance provides more cures than kindness . . . do my best, of course . . . only the leg is a problem . . . and my mind, my mind . . . goodbye
.

I emerged from the kitchen with his cup of tea. I set it beside him but he didn't even see it. He stared into the fire. I threw another log into the flames and left him to his reveries while I fixed myself a small lunch and then went out for the afternoon.

When I returned home in the evening, Coombes sat just as he had been sitting when I left him. This worried me considerably. The tea was cold beside him.

‘I say, Coombes, could you do for a little supper?'

No answer.

He seemed almost in a catatonic state or – if I wanted to characterize it a little more cheerfully – a state of deep meditation.

Eventually I climbed the stairs and went to bed, and for a while I lay awake listening for his footsteps. Then light rain began to fall on the roof, and lulled me to sleep, and I dreamt I was riding in a coach with Mr Pickwick who kept spilling his cake.

In the morning I was gratified to see that Coombes had moved during the night. The tea cup was in the kitchen sink. Cake crumbs on the counter indicated he had at last eaten something. I found him sitting on the little patio behind the house, all muffled up in his robe and jacket and slippers, watching the day bloom. Leaves occasionally skittered and flittered by his feet.

‘Good morning, Coombes,' said I, looking as cheerfully unconcerned as possible. Then I walked up the street, bought a newspaper, and read it while sipping coffee in my favourite little restaurant. An hour or two later I returned to Cambrai and found Coombes still on the patio.

‘Autumn days are the same in every century,' said he.

‘Are you feeling better this morning?'

‘I feel I am about to go mad,' he said, in a dull voice. ‘I need something to happen, Wilson. I shall go mad – I am sure of it – if something doesn't happen soon.'

And just at that moment something happened. It was almost as if the gods had heard his request and instantly answered it, or as if we were in a stage play in which things always happen right on cue but too conveniently to be entirely believable. What happened was that Sergeant Bundle of the local constabulary lurched up into view behind the back gate and hailed Mr Coombes.

‘Mr Coombes,' said he, stepping on to the patio. ‘So there you are. Have you got a moment, sir?'

Coombes nodded, dully.

The sergeant wore a white shirt and tie, with bars on his shoulders, and he looked very spiffy and bluff and also a bit downcast. He smiled with his mouth but his eyes squinted in worry. ‘Mr Coombes, I've just had a conversation with our mutual acquaintance at Scotland Yard – you know who I mean.'

‘Yes, yes, I do.'

‘Our mutual acquaintance informs me that you might be able to help us with a problem we have encountered here in Dyfed.'

‘Yes?' said Coombes, looking up sharply.

‘A murder, Mr Coombes.'

‘Murder?'

‘The gentleman at Scotland Yard has urged me to get into contact with you.' The sergeant raised a chubby hand. ‘We don't exactly
need
your help, you understand, Mr Coombes. But this case has some very strange components. We feel we could use your suggestions.'

Coombes was suddenly transformed. He sprang to his feet and stood as rigidly as a grenadier, leaning forward slightly, his face intent. ‘I will be very glad to assist you, if I am able.'

‘And this gentleman?' said Sergeant Bundle, motioning to me affably.

‘Quite safe, quite safe,' said Coombes. ‘This is Mr James Wilson.'

After having established that it was safe to speak in front of me, we three sat around the metal table on the patio and Sergeant Bundle described his problem, leaning forward and holding his thick hands over the table top as if he were holding the problem itself – which appeared to be about the size of a large brick. He turned the problem over and over as he spoke, as if to reveal all of its aspects.

‘Murder, Mr Coombes, is a common crime.'

‘Indeed.'

‘But this murder, sir, is baffling. There are no clues.'

‘Pray give me the details.'

‘I will try to be brief,' said Bundle. ‘I know your time is valuable.'

‘Actually, it is not terribly valuable,' said Coombes. ‘I am interested in all details, however minute.'

‘A young American named Calvin Hawes arrived in town last week, having come all the way from Georgia,' said Bundle. ‘He booked a room for a week at the Swan Hotel on Belmont Road. Yesterday evening he asked the man at the front desk, Mr Twembley, for directions to The Old Vicarage cottage, which lies in a secluded lane just outside of town. Twembley thought it an odd request because he knew that Mr Jenkins, who owns The Old Vicarage, has been away in Scotland for the past month. But Twembley drew him a little map, just the same. Calvin Hawes also asked Mr Twembley if he knew of a family in town named
Languish
. Twembley said he did not. Hawes then wrote out the name
Languish
but Twembley assured him that although he had lived in town a quarter century he knew no such family. The young man asked if Mr Twembley knew a girl in town whose Christian name was . . . Linda? Sylvia? I forget. No matter.

‘Calvin Hawes left the hotel about five o'clock, and Twembley noticed he was carrying a bouquet of flowers wrapped in gold paper, which Twembley thought charming but odd.

‘I must now explain something, sir. It is this: a hiking path leads from the town into Brecon Beacons National Park, right up to Hay Bluff. This path climbs over the hill just behind The Old Vicarage, and from it you can see the upper storey of the cottage, though mainly what you see is the roof and the chimneys. Last evening, just at dusk, two of our townspeople were descending the mountain path with their dogs when they noticed a light on in The Old Vicarage. They thought that their friend David Jenkins must have come back from Scotland earlier than planned, and they called his house phone to greet him – intending, you know, to say that they were standing on the hill behind his house and looking at him through his windows. But he did not answer. They assumed he must be taking a bath or some such thing, and they left a message on his answering machine saying they would be coming round in a few minutes to welcome him back.

‘These two descended the path to Oxford Road and drove in their Vauxhall round to Jenkins's place. But they could not rouse him. They went on home. But early this morning they telephoned Jenkins again. When he still did not answer they got concerned. They telephoned me at the station and asked if I would look in on The Old Vicarage. Officer Jones and I arrived there some hours ago. We found the place deserted. Several lights seemed to gleam within, but no one answered our knock. No vehicles were in the garage. Then we noticed that the front door had been jimmied and the lock broken. We pushed it open and went inside.

‘At first we saw nothing at all. Nothing appeared disturbed. The doilies were all in place on the table tops, the clocks were ticking. We assumed a burglar had broken in but we could not see what had been stolen. All seemed in perfect order. Then, by sheer chance, we glanced into the bathroom and saw what I had never expected to see.

‘I must now explain something, sir, and it is this: the tub in that bathroom is a very large tub, with lion feet. Over the top of that ancient tub had been laid a pane-glass door. It had been removed (as we later discovered) from where it had hung between the sitting room and the sun porch. We looked down through the glass door and saw the corpse of Calvin Hawes in a rosy tubful of blood and water. One of the large panes of glass had been smashed and the man's throat had apparently been gashed by the smashed shards that still hung like knives in the frame. Apparently he had sat up in the tub to escape drowning, had smashed his head against the pane, broken it, and when he fell back again the shards just slit his throat. His hands were tied behind his back. When we lifted him out of the water we found he was clutching a bouquet of flowers in his bound hands – almost as if he meant to whisk them out from behind his back and surprise someone.'