The Big Book of Sherlock Holmes Stories (59 page)

“Naturally,” said Sherlock Holmes, when we had reached his rooms and joined him in a goodnight cigar, “you expect me to lay bare the processes and so rob my performance of its sole element of fascination. Watson has taught you in his memoirs to expect it. My button quest was certainly directed against his Lordship's under butler, but at the first inquiry it turned up, to my surprise, the entirely unexpected valet of quite another person. It was a curious fact, the tailor declared, that he should twice in one day have calls for that identical button, and he innocently alluded to the valet of Pole-Carew. This was sufficient clue to start upon.

“Investigation in proper quarters not only established the palpable innocuousness of the under butler, but afforded such insight into the existent relations between the captain and his valet as I doubt not will again bring them into the sphere of my attentions. It was plainly the brain of the master that conceived the robbery, but the hand of the valet executed it. I even paid a most enjoyable visit to our friends at the Langham, as I had promised.”

The Americans looked at each other.

“That could hardly be,” they said. “We were not out of our rooms, and our only caller was a clerk from the curio shop with a message from the dealer—an impertinent old fellow he was, too, who followed us about the rooms with many senile questions as to our tour.”

“In this profession I have to adopt many disguises,” Holmes smilingly explained. “Of course I could have called on you openly, yet it amused me to fool you a bit. But a disguise would not serve my purpose in getting into Captain Pole-Carew's apartments, which was the thing now most desired. Looking back upon the achievement, I flatter myself that it was rather ingeniously pulled off. You know, Watson, of my association with the theaters and how easily under such a connection one can learn who has reserved boxes.

“I confess that here things played into my hand. I perceived that Pole-Carew recognized me—that is your doing, Watson—and I was not
surprised when I saw his glance single out a person in the gallery, with whom he presently got into conversation. I say conversation, for Pole-Carew I discovered to be an expert in the lip language, an accomplishment to which I myself once devoted some months of study and which I have found very helpful in my vocation. It was an easy matter to intercept the message that the captain from his box, with exaggerated labial motion,
lipped
above the heads of the audience.

“ ‘
Hide the vase!
' was the message, several times repeated. ‘
Hide the vase!
'

“That was the moment when I left the theater for consultation with a friendly detective in the lobby. I strongly suspect,” said Sherlock Holmes, with a chuckle, “that the reason the captain failed to find his valet at home could be traced to the prompt and intelligent action of that friendly detective. Our foisting ourselves upon the reluctant captain was merely a clever bit of card forcing, arranged quite in advance, but the rest of it was simplicity itself.

“Inasmuch as you declare that it is the property only, and not a criminal prosecution, that you desire, I do not think anything remains?”

“Except,” said the gentleman warmly, taking the jewel from his pocket, “to pay you for this extraordinary recovery.”

Sherlock Holmes laughed pleasantly.

“My dear American sir,” he replied, “I am still very much in your debt. You should not lose sight of Edgar Allan Poe.”

ONE OF THE
world's foremost experts on Sherlock Holmes, Leslie Stuart Klinger (1946– ) has written extensively on the subject and, more significantly, has edited some of the most distinguished scholarly works about Holmes of recent years.

His magnum opus is
The New Annotated Sherlock Holmes
, published in three massive volumes (2004–2005), in which he provides background information for virtually all references, no matter how arcane, within the sixty Holmes adventures written by Arthur Conan Doyle, as well as numerous maps, photographs, and other illustrations. The first two volumes, released together, won the Edgar Award for the Best Biographical/Critical Work of the year; the third volume was issued the following year. This three-volume edition, aimed at the general public, followed his annotations for the ten-volume
Sherlock Holmes Reference Library
(2001–2009), produced for more scholarly Sherlockians, with even more esoteric information.

Other Sherlock Holmes–related books edited by Klinger include the two-volume tome
The Grand Game
(2011–2012), coedited with mystery writer Laurie R. King, with whom he also edited two anthologies of short stories inspired by the Holmes canon:
A Study in Sherlock
(2011) and
In the Company of Sherlock Holmes
(2014).

Klinger has also edited
The New Annotated Dracula
(2008),
The Annotated Sandman
in four volumes (2012–2015), and
The New Annotated H. P. Lovecraft
(2015).

“The Adventure of the Wooden Box” was originally published as a chapbook by the Mysterious Bookshop (New York, 1999).

IT WAS IN
October 1900, with the turn of the century nigh upon us, that I shared with Sherlock Holmes the most bizarre case of our years together. That morning, the fog swirled languidly against the bay window as Holmes passed over the newspaper. “There, on page three, Watson. I believe he was a school chum of yours.” I glanced at the headline to which Holmes's long finger pointed: “SURGEON ROBBED, SLAIN AT DOCKS.”

“Smithfield and I were at Netley together,” I said, after I had scanned the article. “Poor old Smithfield, stabbed to death.”

“Did you know him well?”

“Hardly. He was a queer fellow, always afraid that someone was getting the better of him. It appears that someone finally did.”

“Hmmm…” mused Holmes. “The description of the knife wounds is most suggestive of…”

Holmes's reverie was interrupted by a knock at our door, which I recognized as Mrs. Hudson's signal.

“Mr. Holmes—Inspector Hopkins is wanting to see you!” she announced.

“Send him up, Mrs. Hudson,” cried Holmes. He turned to me, revealing that rare luster that sparked his penetrating eyes at the beginning of a case. “So, Watson, we may soon know more of your friend's demise. Ah, come in, Inspector Hopkins!” Holmes sprang from his chair, taking the wet, troubled-looking Scotland Yard man by the arm. “Watson, some brandy for our chilled friend!”

“Mr. Holmes, I don't know what to make of it,” said Hopkins, after he warmed himself. “It looks to be a simple case of robbery and murder, but it troubles me. Have you read the account in the papers?”

“I trust you mean the Smithfield case,” said Holmes.

“Why, yes,” stammered the young detective. “I'm sorry.”

“I thought as much,” said Holmes. “Your name was mentioned in the account, and I rather thought those knife wounds might send you 'round.”

“Mr. Holmes, you constantly amaze me! How did you know what was bothering me?”

“Tut, Inspector, even Scotland Yard may find it hard to explain as armed robbery a murder case in which the victim was found lying in the open with knife wounds in his chest!”

“I don't follow, Holmes,” I interrupted.

“In the chest, my dear Watson! If one were set upon in a dark alley, such wounds might be possible. But chest wounds imply a frontal attack, Watson. If one's attacker approached from the front unexpectedly, signs of flight would surely be expected. Were there such signs, Inspector? I thought not from the newspaper account. Therefore we must consider the possibility that Dr. Smithfield allowed his assailant to approach him. Hardly consistent with armed robbery!”

“Exactly, Mr. Holmes! I had not thought it through, but even though the doctor's money was taken, my report of armed robbery did not sit right with me. What troubles me most, Mr.
Holmes, is why the doctor was down at the docks at so strange an hour.”

“Splendid, Hopkins! You have stolen my next suggestion from my lips! Let us consider under what circumstances a gentleman would be out strolling by the docks at midnight and yet allow a brigand armed with a knife to come within striking distance. What do you say, Watson?”

“A beggar, perhaps?” I ventured.

“Or rather that he knew the man, eh?” Holmes paused to relight his pipe. “Does not an assignation suggest itself? Well, enough supposition. If I am to assist you, Hopkins, I must have facts. Theorizing before knowing the facts is not only useless; it may narrow one's view to the point where one ignores facts.”

“Very well, Mr. Holmes,” the young inspector replied. “You know that I try to follow your methods, and I will reveal to you what I have learned. As to the body of the doctor, you may examine it if you wish. I have determined that the wounds were made by a right-handed man, about six feet in height, with a broad-bladed knife, while standing close to the victim.”

“Very good, Hopkins! I presume that you determined his height and habits from the angle of the wounds.”

“Exactly, Mr. Holmes. The body revealed nothing further of an unusual nature, except that the doctor's left arm was bandaged tightly to his body, although he had no apparent wound on it.”

“Indeed!” interjected Holmes, his eyes twinkling. “Were the bandages fresh?”

“I did not note,” said Hopkins. “I also examined the ground near the body as carefully as I could in this morning's rain. The footprints were quickly washing away, and it was not easy to tell, but I could see no signs of a struggle. Of course, the rains may have taken their toll already by the time I arrived at the scene.

“Later this morning I went 'round to the doctor's house and spoke to his assistant, Philip Buckram, who lives with him. He could add little. No caller had come for the doctor after supper, and he had no idea why the doctor should be at the waterfront so late. Buckram did see the doctor go out last evening, bundled up in his greatcoat. He noticed that the doctor was carrying under his arm a long, narrow box, which he had not seen before. We could find no sign of the box this morning. When I questioned him about the doctor's recent behavior, he reported that Smithfield had been extremely agitated since his return from America a fortnight ago.”

“From America, you say?” said Holmes. “On what ship?”

“The barque
White Star
from Virginia,” Hopkins answered, looking pleased.

“Excellent, excellent, my boy! You shall be a fine detective yet!” Holmes cheered.

“Thank you, Mr. Holmes,” murmured the young man. “Now, if you would like to inspect the body…”

“I would rather see where the body was found,” said Holmes, leaping up and seizing his hat and cape. “Come, Watson, there is sunshine on even the foggiest day!”

A quarter hour later, we were alighting from a cab in a grimy street near the waterfront. A constable welcomed us to the gloomy wharf, where the shadows of soot-covered warehouses made it ever twilit.

“Good afternoon, Constable,” said Hopkins. “Show Mr. Holmes here to the spot where the body was found.” The constable led us to a corner of the wharf near the road, where a street lamp hung.

“You are right, Inspector,” said Holmes. “The rain seems to have left us little.” Holmes bent to the ground and walked in widening circles, like a hunting dog seeking a scent. “Halloa!” he cried. He dropped to his knees in the dirt under the eaves of the adjacent warehouse.

“Halloa! Watson, what do you make of this? Inspector, you have not cast your eye far enough afield!”

I looked where Holmes pointed. A wide, flattened channel with straight sides was clearly visible on the patch of dry earth. “A box, Watson! Someone has pushed a box through the dirt here!” He peered under the building, where a
small but cavernously dark space had been left by the builders. Seizing my umbrella, he flung himself on the ground and stretching out his long arm, proceeded to angle in the blackness until we heard a solid thump. Holmes manipulated further and then slid out by the handle a long, narrow box.

“Holmes!” I cried. “It is a casket, a child's casket!” Holmes nodded and, whipping out his glass, bent to examine the exterior of the box.

“For God's sake, Mr. Holmes, let us open it!” cried Hopkins. Holmes reluctantly pocketed his glass. “Go ahead, Constable,” he said. The stalwart policeman stepped forward, hesitated a moment, then lifted the cover. He staggered back, uttering a cry of surprise. Hopkins and I pressed forward and gasped. There, amidst velvet cushions, lay a raggedly severed human arm. Holmes's eyes shone.

Reminding myself of the numerous men I had treated in the field and the cadavers I had dissected in the laboratories, I bent to the box and examined the arm professionally. “It is a male arm,” I stated, determined not to be outdone by Hopkins, “adult, probably about thirty years of age. It appears to have been severed by a ragged series of cuts.”

“Cut off in an industrial accident?” asked Hopkins.

“No,” I said, remembering my patient Victor Hatherley, whom Holmes had consented to help. “No, it appears to have been cut off with a surgical saw, but rather clumsily.”

“Or quickly,” suggested Holmes. He stooped to examine the hands and fingers. “How long has it—he—been dead, would you say, Watson?”

“Well, the saw marks appear fresh. But the decomposition of the flesh is too advanced for death to have been recent, Holmes.”

“Would you agree that the arm was not cut off a living man, Watson?”

“I can't say for certain, Holmes, but why…”

“The lack of blood, man! This arm, and presumably the remainder of its owner, has been embalmed!” He turned to Hopkins. “Inspector, I suggest that you inquire after a carpenter, approximately thirty years of age, about five feet ten inches in height, who smoked heavily, was of Semitic descent, and who recently died of heart disease. I should like to speak to his physician.”

“But, Mr. Holmes…” Hopkins blurted, gesturing feebly at the coffin.

“Come, Hopkins, I thought you were learning my methods. His height we may estimate from the length of the arm. His heavy smoking is evident from the tobacco stains on his fingers, and the calluses on the hand are characteristic of carpentry. I thought I had lent you my little monograph on that subject. Dr. Watson will confirm that the clubbing of the fingertips displayed there suggests recent heart disease, and the color and texture of the skin manifest his descent. Elementary, eh, Watson?”

I nodded.

“And his age, Mr. Holmes?” asked Hopkins.

“Ah, there we must make a stab! The calluses are not so heavy as to indicate long years of carpentry, yet the profession requires a significant apprenticeship. I should estimate that our friend had just begun to establish himself as a master carpenter.”

“We'll get on it right away, Mr. Holmes,” Hopkins demurred.

“There is nothing further to see here, Inspector. I think, however, that I should like to talk to the captain of the
White Star
. He may be able to cast some light on Dr. Smithfield's anxiety. Watson, can you join me, or is your wife due back from the country today?”

I resisted his chaff regarding my domesticity, and we left the inspector to conduct his search for Holmes's one-armed carpenter. Once we were on our way to Pall Mall in a cab, I queried Holmes on his theories. “Really, Holmes, did you expect to find that gruesome box?” I asked.

“I rather expected to find something, Watson,” he replied, “although not even I could have foretold its grisly nature. One does not expect a surgeon to keep a midnight assignation with a man unless something is to pass between them. If it were information, a telegram or a letter would suffice. Therefore I searched for some
clue as to that box with which he had left and which must have been intended to pass. I hardly expected to be so dramatically rewarded. We must now wait to see whether the find is as informative as it is ghastly.” With that, Holmes drew out his pipe and leaned back into the seat.

A brief inquiry in Pall Mall brought us to the offices of Jos. Brunard and Sons, Shipping Merchants, where the manager shook his head in dismay. “I'd like to help you, Mr. Holmes,” he said, glancing covetously at the guinea in Holmes's hand, “but the
White Star
and all her crew have sailed for Boston. We can't afford to leave our ships idle in the harbor, and she docked here over a fortnight ago.”

“I am interested in her last voyage,” said Holmes. “Had she any untoward incidents?”

“None reported, sir,” said the shipper.

“Might I see the list of crew and passengers?” asked Holmes, pressing the guinea on him.

“Certainly!” he responded eagerly, passing over a bound notebook.

Holmes glanced down the page. “Odd,” he murmured. “Smithfield's name is not on the list. Think, man,” he said to the shipper, “is there no one who can tell us of this ship?”

“Well,” said the manager after some thought, “there is Billy Morse. He was a mate on the voyage, but he's caught sick and couldn't ship out. He'll be at the Royal Hotel down the street.”

The Royal Hotel little reflected its name. Holmes inquired briefly with the clerk, then led the way up decrepit steps to a thin, greasy door. He knocked with authority.

“Leave me alone, I'm sick,” a voice rasped.

“I must talk to you,” said Holmes.

The door inched open. “What d'ye want?” asked the sailor, peering cautiously through the crack.

“Dr. Smithfield,” said Holmes. “Was he a passenger on the
White Star
from Virginia?”

The sailor laughed, then coughed gaspingly. “A passenger—you might say. But what's it to you?”

“The doctor is dead,” said Holmes. “Murdered by a sailor.”

“A sailor, eh?” snarled Morse. “Well, I ain't surprised, a sniveling one, that. But it weren't me, matey.”

Holmes pushed open the door, and the sailor staggered back to his cot. “I know it wasn't you, Morse, but Scotland Yard might not believe me. I must know how Smithfield came to be on board the
White Star
. After you tell us, you can get some more medicine.” Holmes looked meaningfully at the empty gin bottle on the bedtable.

The sailor sighed, coughed rackingly, and lay back in the bedclothes. “We was sailing down to Cuba for some trade on our way back from Virginia,” he began. “We had but two passengers, two tobacco traders bound for Scotland on holiday and too cheap to sail on a finer ship. We was passing through the Providence Channel when we spotted wreckage floating off the port bow. It was pieces of a ship, we could see, and broken up small like it had been chewed up by the sea. She must have foundered on the rocks—there are hidden troubles there for an unwise skipper. Anyway, we made a search for survivors in the water, but there weren't none. Just before we was ready to weigh anchor again, the bo'sun spotted men dancing and waving from one of the far-off islands. We sent a skiff on over there—I was in command—and when we beached, we found four howling maniacs, so's I thought. They was the sole survivors of the
Virginia Dare
, out of Savannah. Their ship had been smashed in a storm, and the four of them had managed somehow to be washed up on the island. I don't know how they lived there for two months—that island had nothin' on it, just a few bushes and a little water. They must have had a queer time of it, those four. Anyway, we took 'em on board and brought 'em by way of Cuba to London with us.”