The Big Book of Sherlock Holmes Stories (25 page)

EDMUND LESTER PEARSON
(1880–1937) is best known as a career librarian, humorist, expert on real-life crimes, reviewer of books, and the author of a weekly column of essays and stories titled “The Librarian” that was published in the
Boston Evening Transcript
from 1906 to 1920. Born in 1880 in Newburyport, Massachusetts, Pearson graduated from Harvard College in 1902 and went on to obtain a BLS from the New York State Library School in Albany in 1904. While at Harvard, he published his first writings in the school periodical, the
Harvard Advocate
. After graduating, Pearson held the position of Librarian in the Washington, D.C., Public Library, worked in the Library of Congress in the Copyright Division, and worked in the Military Information Division of the War Department. In 1914, he became the Editor of Publications at the New York Public Library.

Pearson's most famous work is a collection of essays on true crimes,
Studies in Murder
(1924), in which he details the Lizzie Borden murders, among other crimes. Other publications include
Murder at Smutty Nose and Other Murders
(1926) and
Five Murders
(1928), several autobiographical books focused on his childhood, and three books about books:
Books in Black or Red
(1923),
Queer Books
(1928), and
Dime Novels
(1929). In addition to “Sherlock Holmes and the Drood Mystery,” Pearson's other works in the Sherlockian world are “Ave atque Vale, Sherlock!” in the July 20, 1927, issue of
The Outlook
, and “Sherlock Holmes Among the Illustrators” in the August 1932 issue of
The Bookman
.

“Sherlock Holmes and the Drood Mystery” originally appeared in the April 2, 1913, issue of the
Boston Evening Transcript
; it was first collected in
The Secret Book
(New York, Macmillan, 1914). It was later published as a separate pamphlet (Boulder, Colorado, Aspen Press, 1973).

“
WATSON
,”
SAID SHERLOCK
Holmes, beaming at me across the breakfast table, “can you decipher character from handwriting?”

He held an envelope toward me as he spoke. I took the envelope and glanced at the superscription. It was addressed to Holmes at our lodging in Baker Street. I tried to remember something of an article I had read on the subject of handwriting.

“The writer of this,” I said, “was a modest self-effacing person, and one of wide knowledge, and considerable ability. He—”

“Excellent, Watson, excellent! Really, you outdo yourself. Your reading is quite Watsonian, in fact. I fear, however, you are a bit astray as to his modesty, knowledge, and so on. As a matter of fact, this letter is from Mr. Thomas Sapsea.”

“The famous Mayor of Cloisterham?”

“Quite so. And for pomposity, egregious conceit coupled with downright ignorance, he has not his peer in England. So you did not score a bull's-eye there, my dear fellow.”

“But what does he want of you?” I asked, willing to change the subject. “He isn't going to engage you to solve the mystery of Edwin Drood?”

“That is precisely what he is doing. He is all at sea in the matter. Come, what do you say to a run down to Cloisterham? We can look into this matter to oblige the mayor, and take a ramble through the cathedral. I'm told they have some very fine gargoyles.”

An hour later, we were seated in a train for Cloisterham. Holmes had been looking through the morning papers. Now he threw them aside, and turned to me.

“Have you followed this Drood case?” he asked.

I replied that I had read many of the accounts and some of the speculations on the subject.

“I have not followed it as attentively as I should have liked,” he returned, “the recent little affair of Colonel Raspopoff and the czarina's rubies has occupied me thoroughly of late. Suppose you go over the chief facts—it will help clear my mind.”

“The facts are these,” I said. “Edwin Drood, a young engineer about to leave for Egypt, had two attractions in Cloisterham. One was his affianced wife—a young school-girl, named Miss Rosa Bud. The other was his devoted uncle and guardian, Mr. John Jasper. The latter is choir-master of the cathedral. There were, it seems, two clouds over his happiness. One of these was the fact that his betrothal to Miss Bud—an arrangement made by their respective parents while Edwin and Rosa were small children—was not wholly to the liking of either of the principals. They had, indeed, come to an agreement, only a few days before Edwin Drood's disappearance, to terminate the engagement. They parted, it is believed, on friendly, if not affectionate terms.

“The other difficulty lay in the presence, in Cloisterham, of one Neville Landless—a young student from Ceylon. Landless has, it seems, a strain of Oriental blood in his nature—he is of dark complexion and fiery temper. Actual quarrels
had occurred between the two, with some violence on Landless's part. To restore them to friendship, however, Mr. Jasper, the uncle of Edwin, arranged for a dinner in his rooms on Christmas Eve, at which they were to be the only guests. The dinner took place, everything passed off amicably, and the two left, together, late in the evening, to walk to the river, and view the great storm which was raging. After that they parted—according to Landless—and Drood has never been seen again. His uncle raised the alarm next morning, Landless was detained, and questioned, while a thorough search was made for the body of Drood. Beyond the discovery of his watch and pin in the weir, nothing has been found. Landless had to be released for lack of evidence, but the feeling in Cloisterham was so strong against him that he had to leave. He is thought to be in London.”

“H'm,” remarked Holmes, “who found the watch and pin?”

“A Mr. Crisparkle, minor canon of the cathedral. Landless was living in his house, and reading with him. I may add that Landless has a sister—Miss Helena—who has also come to London.”

“H'm,” said Holmes. “Well, here we are at Cloisterham. We can now pursue our investigations on the spot. We will go to see Mr. Sapsea, the mayor.”

Mr. Sapsea proved to be exactly the pompous Tory jackass that Holmes had described. He had never been out of Cloisterham, and his firm conviction of the hopeless inferiority of all the world outside England was so thoroughly provincial that I suspected him of some connection with “The Saturday Review.” He was strong in his belief that young Neville Landless had murdered Drood and thrown his body in the river. And his strongest reason for this belief lay in the complexion of Landless.

“It is un-English, Mr. Holmes,” said he, “it's un-English and when I see a face that is un-English, I know what to suspect of that face.”

“Quite so,” said Holmes; “I suppose that everything was done to find the body?”

“Everything, Mr. Holmes, everything that my—er—knowledge of the world could possibly suggest. Mr. Jasper was unwearied in his efforts. In fact he was worn out by his exertions.”

“No doubt his grief at the disappearance of his nephew had something to do with that, as well.”

“No doubt of it at all.”

“Landless, I hear, is in London?”

“So I understand, sir, so I understand. But Mr. Crisparkle, his former tutor, has given me—in my capacity as magistrate—assurances that he can be produced at any moment. At present he can be found by applying to Mr. Grewgious, at Staple Inn. Mr. Grewgious is a guardian of the young lady to whom Edwin Drood was betrothed.”

Holmes made a note of Mr. Grewgious's name and address on his shirt-cuff. We then rose to depart.

“I see,” said the mayor, “that you are thinking of paying a call on this un-English person in London. That is where you will find a solution of the mystery, I can assure you.”

“It is probable that I shall have occasion to run up to London this evening,” said Holmes, “though I believe that Dr. Watson and I will stroll about Cloisterham a bit, first. I want to inspect your gargoyles.”

When we were outside, Holmes's earliest remark was, “But I think we had better have a little chat with Mr. John Jasper.”

We were directed to Mr. Jasper's rooms, in the gatehouse, by a singularly obnoxious boy, whom we found in the street, flinging stones at the passers-by.

“That's Jarsper's,” said he, pointing for an instant toward the arch, and then proceeding with his malevolent pastime.

“Thanks,” said Holmes, shortly, giving the imp sixpence, “here's something for you. And here,” he continued, reversing the boy over his knee, and giving him a sound spanking, “here is something else for you.”

On inquiry it appeared that Mr. Jasper was at home. He would see us, said the landlady,
but she added that “the poor gentleman was not well.”

“Indeed?” said Holmes. “What's the matter?”

“He do be in a sort of daze, I think.”

“Well, well, this gentleman is a doctor—perhaps he can prescribe.”

And with that we went up to Mr. Jasper's room. That gentleman had recovered, apparently, from his daze, for we heard him chanting choir music, as we stood outside the door. Holmes, whose love for music is very keen, was enraptured, and insisted on standing for several moments, while the low and sweet tones of the choir-master's voice, accompanied by the notes of a piano, floated out to us. At last we knocked and the singer admitted us.

Mr. Jasper was a dark-whiskered gentleman who dwelt in a gloomy sort of room. He had, himself, a gloomy and reserved manner. Holmes introduced us both, and informed Mr. Jasper that he was in Cloisterham at the request of the mayor, Mr. Sapsea, to look up some points in connection with the disappearance of Edwin Drood.

“Meaning his murder?” inquired Mr. Jasper.

“The word I used,” said Holmes, “was disappearance.”

“The word I used,” returned the other, “was murder. But I must beg to be excused from all discussion of the death of my dear boy. I have taken a vow to discuss it with no one, until the assassin is brought to justice.”

“I hope,” said Holmes, “that if there is an assassin, I may have the good fortune—”

“I hope so, too. Meanwhile—” and Mr. Jasper moved toward the door, as if to usher us out. Holmes tried to question him about the events of Christmas Eve, prior to the young man's disappearance, but Mr. Jasper said that he had made his statement before the mayor, and had nothing to add.

“Surely,” said Holmes, “I have seen you before, Mr. Jasper?”

Mr. Jasper thought not.

“I feel almost positive,” said my friend; “in London, now—you come to London at times, I take it?”

Perhaps. But he had never had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Holmes. He was quite sure. Quite.

We departed, and as we strolled down the High Street, Holmes asked me if I would object to spending the night in Cloisterham.

“I shall rejoin you tomorrow,” he added.

“But you are going away?”

“Yes, to London. I am going to follow Mr. Sapsea's advice,” he added with a smile.

“I thought you wanted to see the gargoyles,” I objected.

“So I did. And do you know, my dear fellow, I believe I have seen one of the most interesting of them all.”

Holmes's remark was entirely enigmatic to me, and while I was still puzzling over it, he waved his hand and entered the omnibus for the station. Left thus alone in Cloisterham, I went to the Crozier, where I secured a room for the night. In passing the gatehouse I noticed a curious looking man with his hat in his hand, looking attentively at Mr. Jasper's window. He had, I observed, white hair, which streamed in the wind. Later in the afternoon, having dropped in at the cathedral to hear the vesper service, I saw the same man. He was watching the choir-master, Mr. Jasper, with profound scrutiny. This made me uneasy. How did I know but what another plot, like that which had been hatched against the nephew, was on foot against the uncle? Seated in the bar at the Crozier, after dinner, I found him again. He willingly entered into conversation with me, and announced himself as one Mr. Datchery—“an idle buffer, living on his means.” He was interested in the Drood case and very willing to talk about it. I drew him out as much as I could, and then retired to my rooms to think it over.

That he wore a disguise seemed clear to me. His hair looked like a wig. If he was in disguise, who could he be? I thought over all the persons in any way connected with the case, when suddenly the name of Miss Helena Landless occurred to me. Instantly I was convinced that it
must be she. The very improbability of the idea fascinated me. What more unlikely than that a young Ceylonese girl should pass herself off for an elderly English man, sitting in bars and drinking elderly English drinks? The improbable is usually true, I remembered. Then I recalled that I had heard that Miss Landless, as a child, used to dress up as a boy. I was now positive about the matter.

I was on hand to meet Holmes when he returned the next day. He had two men with him and he introduced them as Mr. Tartar and Mr. Neville Landless. I looked with interest at the suspected man, and then tried to have speech with Holmes. But he drew me apart.

“These gentlemen,” said he, “are going at once to Mr. Crisparkle's. They will remain there until tonight, when I expect to have need of them. You and I will return to your hotel.”

On the way I told him about Mr. Datchery, and my suspicions about that person. He listened eagerly, and said that he must have speech with Datchery without delay. When I told him of my belief that Datchery was the sister of Landless, in disguise, Holmes clapped me on the back, and exclaimed:

“Excellent, Watson, excellent! Quite in your old vein!”

I flushed with pride at this high praise from the great detective. He left me at the Crozier, while he went forth to find Datchery, and also, he said, to have a word with Mr. Jasper. I supposed that he was about to warn the choir-master that he was watched.

Holmes returned in capital spirits.

“We shall have our work cut out for us tonight, Watson,” said he, “and perhaps we will have another look at the gargoyles.”

During dinner he would talk of nothing except bee-keeping. He conversed on this topic, indeed, until long after we had finished our meal, and while we sat smoking in the bar. About eleven, an ancient man, called Durdles, came in, looking for Mister Holmes.

“Mr. Jarsper he's a-comin' down the stair, sir,” said he.

“Good!” exclaimed Holmes, “come, Watson, we must make haste. This may be a serious business. Now, Durdles!”

The man called Durdles led us rapidly, and by back ways, to the churchyard. Here he showed us where we could stand, hidden behind a wall, and overlooking the tombs and gravestones. I could not imagine the object of this nocturnal visit. Holmes gave our guide some money, and he made off. While I stood there, looking fearfully about, I thought I saw the figures of two men behind a tomb, at some little distance. I whispered to Holmes, but he motioned for silence.

“Hush!” he whispered, “Look there!”

I looked where he indicated, and saw another figure enter the churchyard. He carried some object, which I soon guessed to be a lantern, swathed in a dark wrapping. He unfolded a part of this wrapping, and I recognized by the light the dark features of Mr. Jasper. What could he be doing here at this hour? He commenced to fumble in his pockets, and presently produced a key with which he approached the door of the tomb. Soon it swung open, and Mr. Jasper seemed about to step inside. But he paused for an instant, and then fell back, with a fearful scream of terror. Once, twice, did that awful cry ring through the silent churchyard. At its second repetition a man stepped from the tomb. Then Jasper turned, and ran frantically toward the cathedral.

The two men whom I had previously noticed sprang from behind a monument and pursued him.