A Study in Terror (4 page)

“It appears to have been missing, dearest. I don't think it fell from the case.” He glanced questioningly at Holmes, who came out of the brown study into which he contrived to have fallen.

“Indeed it was missing, sir. Thank you, and pardon my clumsiness.”

“No harm done. I trust the instruments were not damaged.” He handed the case to Holmes, who took it with a smile.

“Have I, perchance, the honour of addressing Lord Carfax?”

“Yes,” the dark man said, pleasantly. “This is my daughter, Deborah.”

“Allow me to present my colleague, Dr. Watson; I am Sherlock Holmes.”

The name seemed to impress Lord Carfax; his eyes widened in surprise. “Dr. Watson,” he murmured in acknowledgement, but his eyes remained on Holmes. “And you, sir—I am honoured indeed. I have read of your exploits.”

“Your Lordship is too kind,” replied Holmes.

Deborah's eyes sparkled. She curtsied and said, “I am honoured to meet you, too, sir.” She spoke with a sweetness that was touching. Lord Carfax looked on proudly. Yet I sensed a sadness in his manner.

“Deborah,” said he, gravely, “you must mark this as an event in your life, the day you met two famous gentlemen.”

“Indeed I shall, Papa,” replied the little girl, solemnly dutiful. She had heard of neither of us, I was quite certain.

Holmes concluded the amenities by saying, “We called, your Lordship, to return this case to the Duke of Shires, whom we believed to be its rightful owner.”

“And you discovered that you were in error.”

“Quite. His Grace thought that it had probably belonged to your deceased brother, Michael Osbourne.”

“Deceased?” It was more of a tired comment than a question.

“That was what we were given to understand.”

Sadness appeared clearly in Lord Carfax's face. “That may or may not be true. My father, Mr. Holmes, is a stern and unforgiving man, which you no doubt surmised. To him, the good name of Osbourne stands above all else. Keeping the Shires escutcheon free of blemish is a passion with him. When he disowned my younger brother some six months ago, he pronounced Michael dead.” He paused to sigh. “I fear Michael will remain dead, so far as Father is concerned, even though he may still live.”

“Are you yourself aware,” asked Holmes, “whether your brother is alive or dead?”

Lord Carfax frowned, looking remarkably like the Duke. When he spoke, I thought I detected evasiveness in his voice. “Let me say, sir, that I have no actual proof of his death.”

“I see,” replied Holmes. Then he looked down at Deborah Osbourne and smiled. The little girl came forward and put her hand into his.

“I like you very much, sir,” said she gravely.

It was a charming moment. Holmes appeared embarrassed by this open-hearted confession. Her small hand remained in his as he said, “Granted, Lord Carfax, that your father is an unbending man. Still, to disown a son! A decision such as that is not made lightly. Your brother's transgression must indeed have been a serious one.”

“Michael married against my father's wishes.” Lord Carfax shrugged his shoulders. “I am not in the habit, Mr. Holmes, of discussing my family's affairs with strangers, but—” he touched his daughter's shining head “—Deborah is my barometer of character.” I thought his Lordship was going to ask what Holmes's interest in Michael Osbourne was based upon, but he did not.

Holmes, too, appeared to have expected such a question. When it did not come, he extended the surgical-case. “Perhaps you would like to have this, your Lordship.”

Lord Carfax took the case with a silent bow.

“And now—our train will not wait, I fear—we must be off.” Holmes looked down from his great height. “Goodbye, Deborah. Meeting you is the most agreeable thing that has happened to Dr. Watson and me in a very long time.”

“I hope you will come again, sir,” replied the child. “It gets so lonely here when Papa is away.”

Holmes said little as we drove back to the village. He scarcely replied to my comments, and it was not until we were flying back towards London that he invited conversation. His lean features set in that abstracted look I knew so well, he said, “An interesting man, Watson.”

“Perhaps,” I replied, tartly. “But also as repulsive a one as ever I care to meet. It is men of his calibre—they are few, thank heaven!—who stain the reputation of the British nobility.”

My indignation amused Holmes. “I was referring to
filius
rather than
pater
.”

“The son? I was touched by Lord Carfax's evident love for his daughter, of course—”

“But you felt he was too informative?”

“That was exactly my impression, Holmes, although I don't see how you became aware of it. I did not enter into the conversation.”

“Your face is like a mirror, my dear Watson,” said he.

“Even he admitted that he talked too freely about his family's personal affairs.”

“But did he? Let us assume him, first, to be a stupid man. In that case he becomes a loving father with an over-large oral cavity.”

“But if we assume him, with more difficulty, to be not stupid at all?”

“Then he created precisely the image he wished to, which I incline to believe. He knew me by name and reputation, and you, Watson. I strongly doubt that he accepted us as mere Good Samaritans, come all this way to restore an old surgeon's-kit to its rightful owner.”

“Should that necessarily loosen his tongue?”

“My dear fellow, he told us nothing that I did not already know, or could not have discovered with ease in the files of any London daily.”

“Then what was it that he did not reveal?”

“Whether his brother Michael is dead or alive. Whether he is in contact with his brother.”

“I assumed, from what he said, that he does not know.”

“That, Watson, may have been what he wished you to assume.” Before I could reply, Holmes went on. “As it happens, I did not go to Shires uninformed. Kenneth Osbourne, the lineal Duke, had two sons. Michael, the younger, of course inherited no title. Whether or not this instilled jealousy in him I do not know, but he so conducted himself thenceforward as to earn the sobriquet, from the journalists of London, of The Wild One. You spoke of his father's brutal sternness, Watson. To the contrary, the record reveals the Duke as having been amazingly lenient with his younger son. The boy finally tried his father's patience too far when he married a woman of the oldest profession; in fine, a prostitute.”

“I begin to see,” muttered I. “Out of spite, or hatred, to besmirch the title he could not inherit.”

“Perhaps,” said Holmes. “In any case, it would have been difficult for the Duke to assume otherwise.”

“I did not know,” said I, humbly.

“It is human, my dear Watson, to side with the under-dog. But it is wise to discover beforehand exactly who the under-dog is. In the case of the Duke, I grant that he is a difficult man, but he bears a cross.”

I replied, with some despair, “Then I suppose my evaluation of Lord Carfax is faulty, also.”

“I do not know, Watson. We have very little data. However, he did fail on two accounts.”

“I was not aware of it.”

“Nor was he.”

My mind was centred upon a broader prospect. “Holmes,” said I, “this whole affair is curiously unsatisfactory. Surely this journey was not motivated by a simple desire on your part to restore lost property?”

He gazed out of the carriage-window. “The surgeon's-kit was delivered to our door. I doubt we were mistaken for a lost-and-found bureau.”

“But by whom was it sent?”

“By someone who wished us to have it.”

“Then we can only wait.”

“Watson, to say that I smell a devious purpose here is no doubt fanciful. But the stench is strong. Perhaps you will get your wish.”

“My wish?”

“I believe you recently suggested that I give the Yard some assistance in the case of Jack the Ripper.”

“Holmes—!”

“Of course there is no evidence to connect the Ripper with the surgeon's-kit. But the post-mortem knife is missing.”

“The implication has not escaped me. Why, this very night it may be plunged into the body of some unfortunate!”

“A possibility, Watson. The removal of the scalpel may have been symbolical, a subtle allusion to the fiendish stalker.”

“Why did the sender not come forward?”

“There could be any number of reasons. I should put fear high on the list. In time, I think, we shall know the truth.”

Holmes lapsed into the preoccupation I knew so well. Further probing on my part, I knew, would have been useless. I sat back and stared gloomily out the window as the train sped towards Paddington.

Ellery Tries

Ellery looked up from the notebook.

Grant Ames, finishing his nth drink, asked eagerly, “Well?”

Ellery got up and went to a bookshelf, frowning. He took a book down and searched for something while Grant waited. He returned the book to the shelf and came back.

“Christianson's.”

Grant looked blank.

“According to the reference there, Christianson's was a well-known stationery manufacturer of the period. Their watermark is on the paper of the notebook.”

“That does it, then!”

“Not necessarily. Anyway, there's no point in trying to authenticate the manuscript. If someone's trying to sell it to me, I'm not buying. If it's genuine, I can't afford it. If it's a phony—”

“I don't think that was the idea, old boy.”

“Then what was the idea?”

“How should I know? I suppose someone wants you to read it.”

Ellery pulled his nose fretfully. “You're sure it was put into your car at that party?”

“Had to be.”

“And it was addressed by a woman. How many women were there?”

Grant counted on his fingers. “Four.”

“Any bookworms? Collectors? Librarians? Little old ladies smelling of lavender sachets and must?”

“Hell, no. Four slick young chicks trying to look seductive. After a husband. Frankly, Ellery, I can't conceive one of them knowing Sherlock Holmes from Aristophanes. But with your kooky talents, you could stalk the culprit in an afternoon.”

“Look, Grant, any other time and I'd play the game. But I told you. I'm in one of my periodic binds. I simply haven't the time.”

“Then it ends here, Maestro? For God's sake, man, what are you, a hack? Here I toss a delicious mystery into your lap—”

“And I,” said Ellery, firmly placing the notebook in Grant Ames's lap, “toss it right back to you. I have a suggestion.
You
rush out, glass in hand, and track down your lady joker.”

“I might at that,” whined the millionaire.

“Fine. Let me know.”

“The manuscript didn't grip you?”

“Of course it does.” Reluctantly, Ellery picked up the journal and riffled through it.

“That's my old buddy!” Ames rose. “Why don't I leave it here? After all, it is addressed to you. I could report back at intervals—”

“Make it long intervals.”

“Mine host. All right, I'll bother you as little as I can.”

“Less, if possibly. And now will you beat it, Grant? I'm serious.”

“What you are, friend, is grim. No fun at all.” Ames turned in the doorway. “Oh, by the way, order some more scotch. You've run out.”

When he was alone again, Ellery stood indecisively. Finally he put the notebook down on the sofa and went to his desk. He stared at the keys. The keys stared back. He shifted in his swivel chair; his bottom was itching. He pulled the chair closer. He pulled his nose again.

The notebook lay quietly on the sofa.

Ellery ran a sheet of blank paper into the machine. He raised his hands, flexed his fingers, thought, and began to type.

He typed rapidly, stopped, and read what he had written:

“
The Lord,” said Nikki, “choves a leerful giver
.”

“All
right!
” said Ellery. “Just one more chapter!”

He jumped up and ran to the sofa and grabbed the notebook and opened it and began to devour Chapter III.

CHAPTER III

WHITECHAPEL

“By the way, Holmes, whatever became of Wiggins?” I asked the question late the following morning in the rooms at Baker Street.

We had had a buffet supper the previous evening at the station after our return from Shires Castle, whereupon Holmes had said, “The young American pianist, Benton, plays at Albert Hall tonight. I recommend him highly, Watson.”

“I was not aware that the States had produced any great pianoforte talents.”

Holmes had laughed. “Come, come, my dear fellow! Let the Americans go. It has been more than a century now, and they have been doing quite well over there.”

“You wish me to accompany you? I should be delighted.”

“I was suggesting the concert for your evening. I have a few investigations in mind which are better made at night.”

“In that case, I prefer the easy-chair by the fire and one of your fascinating books.”

“I recommend one I recently acquired,
Uncle Tom's Cabin
, by an American lady named Stowe. A lugubrious work, meant to stir the nation to correct a great injustice. It was, I believe, one of the causes of the War Between the States. Well, I must be off. Perhaps I shall join you in a night-cap later.”

Holmes, however, returned very late, after I was abed. He did not awaken me, so that our next meeting was at breakfast. I hoped for an account of his night's work, but none was forthcoming. Nor did he appear to be in haste to get on with things, lounging lazily in his mouse-coloured dressing-gown over his tea and clouding the room with heavy exhalations from his beloved clay pipe.