The Lost Radio Adventures of Sherlock Holmes (21 page)

“Organ music? I
heard no organ music.”

In disgust,
Holmes forced the lumbering man aside.

“Come on,
Watson!”

We rushed into
the chapel, trying to see through the darkness that surrounded us.

“Great heavens,
look at him!” I said when I saw Harley.

“We’re too late,
poor devil! A knife through his heart.”

“It’s obvious
who did it, Holmes. That fellow Pendragon. I’ll go and grab him before he gets
away!”

Holmes stayed my
movement.

“No, no, Watson.
He’s not our man. This murder was planned with devilish cunning.”

“Curious thing.
There’s no sign of a struggle at all,” I remarked as I examined the body of our
friend, “Looks as if he just stood here and allowed himself to be stabbed.”

“Observe these
chalk marks with which the body is surrounded, Watson. It’s known as a
pentagram, often used to ward off evil. He thought it would protect him from
the supernatural forces.”

“Poor chap, for
once his research went too far.”

“Yes, because
they touched not on the supernatural, but upon natural evil. And remember,
Watson, that only three people besides ourselves and David Pendragon knew of
this vigil.”

“You mean
Brownlee, his daughter and young Miles, his secretary.”

“Exactly. Go
back to the house, will you, and bring them here! Perhaps we can lay a ghost by
trapping a murderer!”

It was not long
before I woke the household and brought them to the chapel. Holmes began his
questioning immediately, for now was as good a time as any to catch them off
guard.

“But that’s all
I know, Mr. Holmes,” said Leonard Miles.

“You’ve not
established much so far, Holmes,” I said, “the three of them all swear they
were asleep and that they didn’t hear the organ.”

“Correct,” added
Mr. Brownlee, “and you can’t prove otherwise, Holmes!”

“I think I can
prove that not only one of you was awake, but also murdered Mortimer Harley!”

“But why should
any of us want the poor man dead, Mr. Holmes?” Dorothy said in agitated tones.

“In your case,
young lady, I confess that I find it hard to conceive a motive.”

“Implying that
Mr. Brownlee and I might have one?”

“Well Mr. Miles,”
I interjected, “you must admit that you are responsible for Mr. Harley coming
here.”

“And you, Mr.
Brownlee, must admit that you did everything in your power to prevent the dead
man from carrying out his investigations. Why? What are you trying to hide?”

“Nothing, Mr.
Holmes, it’s just that I wanted to sell the manor house. All this talk about
ghosts was giving this place a bad name. And if it had gone on, I’d never have
disposed of the property.”

“Well,
speculation can get us nowhere,” Holmes said in grim determination. “Let’s get
down to facts. Is there any other entrance to this chapel besides the front and
side doors?”

“None,” came Mr.
Brownlee’s pointed answer.

“There was an old
smuggler’s cave which came out near the organ loft, but father had it bricked
up some years ago.”

“I had to, the
tourists kept crawling in!”

“Go and examine
it, will you, Watson?”

I did as Holmes
asked, but I examined it quietly so that I might still hear the conversation as
it echoed about the chapel walls.

“If you don’t
mind my saying so, Mr. Holmes,” young Miles spoke up, “it seems obvious who did
this murder.”

“You’ve told us
David Pendragon admitted that no one went in or out as he stood guard,” added
Mr. Brownlee. “He must have done it himself! You can tell the man’s
half-witted—”

“And
superstitious. He might have killed Mr. Harley because he was attempting to
interfere with the ghost.”

“And then played
the organ to celebrate the occasion?” Holmes said sarcastically. “I think you
overestimate David Pendragon’s capabilities, Miss Brownlee. Mr. Miles,
Pendragon is waiting outside. Would you be kind enough to ask him to come here
for a moment, please?”

“Certainly.”

As Miles left to
bring in Pendragon, I returned, brushing the dust and filth from my clothes.

“What did you
find out, Watson?”

“Well, it’s easy
to see where it was bricked up. It’s a solid wall now; no one could get in that
way.”

“But if no one
came in or out,” questioned Mr. Brownlee, “who else could have killed Harley
except Pendragon?”

“The ghost,” Holmes
answered, “or rather the person disguised as a ghost. The dead man expected a
psychic manifestation. When he saw the supposed ghost coming towards him, he
offered no resistance. You can see there was no struggle if you carefully
examine the dust on the floor here. Harley believed that the magical pentagram
would protect him . . . . Ah, there you are, Pendragon.”

“Aye, here I be,
sir. But I don’t know nothin’ more than what I told ye.”

“Don’t be
frightened, Pendragon,” Holmes said reassuringly, “all we want is the truth.”

“That’s what I
told ye, sir.”

“When you said
no one had entered the chapel tonight, you meant that NO MORTAL MAN had
entered, didn’t you?”

“That I did,
sir. But how could I say I’d seen the ghost when Mr. Brownlee here told me I’d
lose my job if I spoke of the ghost again.”

“Now we’re
getting somewhere,” I said. “So you did see the ghost?”

“That I did,
sir. The poor soul walking through the moonlight with no head on his body!”

“You saw it
quite clearly?” Holmes said pointedly.

“Just as clearly
as I sees you now, sir.”

“How tall was
he?”

“He was . . .
would you mind standing against the wall, sir?”

Holmes stood
against the wall as Pendragon eyed him carefully before speaking.

“He was as tall
as . . . well, his shoulders come to just where your shoulders come now, sir.”

“A tall man,
then. So we narrow it down to either you, Mr. Brownlee, or you, Mr. Miles,” I
said.

“This is utterly
ridiculous!” shouted Mr. Brownlee.

“On the contrary,
gentlemen, the case is solved!” Holmes said triumphantly as he lit his pipe.

“Which one was
it, Holmes?” I said in expectation.

“Neither!
Remember that the ghost is headless. That means the impostor must have built up
fake shoulders covering the head. On either of these men it would have brought
their shoulders to the level of my head.”

“Holmes,” I said
in astonishment, “you’re implying that—”

Suddenly the
chapel filled with echoing laughter. We all turned to face Dorothy Brownlee,
her face a mask of twisted anger and hate.

“Bravo, Mr.
Holmes, I didn’t think you’d catch me!”

“Miss Brownlee I
must warn you that—”

“Keep back, don’t
anyone come near me! As you see, I have a revolver!”

“Dorothy,” Mr.
Brownlee yelled in astonishment, “for heaven’s sake!”

“Don’t speak to
me of heaven! You thought I was a sweet little girl, didn’t you father? You
didn’t know your dear, demure daughter could murder a man, did you!”

“Why did you
kill Mortimer Harley?”

“Because he was
a meddler, Mr. Holmes. For months I’d been practicing black magic here. For
months I’d been building up the legend of the Headless Monk and the organ
music. It made me so wonderfully alone, so gloriously free to practice the
rites!”

I stood there in
horror listening to this once quiet young lady now ranting and raving, her eyes
burning with the fierce fires of madness. I couldn’t move. Holmes stood beside
me, his body tense, listening as intently as I.

“And then,
Harley came here,” she continued. “I let him live that first night because I
thought he was a fool! But on the second night, when he said he was going to
exorcise this chapel, to purify it he said, he signed his death warrant! If you
could have seen his face. If you could have only seen his stupid, startled face
as I plunged the knife into him. He bled so beautifully!”

“Holmes!” I
yelled, “She’s as mad as a hatter! What are we going to do?”

“Miss Brownlee,
give me that revolver!”

“And let you
take me to prison or an asylum, Mr. Holmes? NO! You’ll never catch me!”

She began to
ascend the stairs leading to the organ loft, her maniacal laughter ringing
throughout the chapel.

“Dorothy,
Dorothy, come back!” Mr. Brownlee screamed in agony as he watched his demented
daughter withdraw.

“Look out . . .
the railing behind you!” Holmes yelled, moving forward at last. Miss Brownlee
raised the gun, aiming squarely at Holmes. He stopped abruptly.

“What, Mr.
Holmes,” she ranted, “and turn my head away from you so that you can attempt to
stop me? No, I—”

She never
finished her words as the weight of her body pushed against the railing,
causing its rotting structure to collapse. With fear in her eyes, she went over
screaming to crash heavily against the stone floor below. Even as she rolled to
stillness, I could see from where I stood that she had broken her neck the instant
she made contact.

In grief Mr.
Brownlee ran forward to take his daughter in his arms. But it was too late. She
had been mercifully killed in the very place where her black magic had reigned.

Holmes went to
the sobbing Mr. Brownlee, standing over his crouched form.

“Mr. Brownlee,” he
said gently, “the powers of evil can be very frightening. You must come to
realize and accept that your daughter has killed one man and might have killed
more. She was insane. Hopelessly insane.”

There was little
any of us could do. Holmes gestured to me.

“Watson, be so
kind as to help Mr. Brownlee to return to the manor house as soon as he is
able. I shall send Pendragon to fetch the authorities so that we might clear up
the remaining details of this case. When you are through, let me know. I think
it is time we leave this sad place.”

As we sat in our
compartment on the Cornish express taking us back to London, both I and Holmes
became acutely aware of the absence of Mortimer Harley. We sat quietly for a
long time until, finally, Holmes broke the silence.

“I think it
best, Watson, we leave this case unchronicled. Mortimer Harley would have
wanted it to be that way.”

“No Holmes, I
disagree. Although you and he had different approaches to this case, he was not
far off the mark. I think he would want the public to know that such beastly
goings on exist in a world we hope and pray will be one of peace and caring.
Harley was a gentle man. I’d like to do him justice by writing about this case
so that his name will not be totally forgotten.”

“Well, my dear
Watson, do as you see fit,” he said with a heavy sigh.

Holmes turned
towards the window as dawn was just approaching over the countryside. I leaned
back against the seat, exhausted by this adventure, determined to get some
sleep before we reached London, when I heard Holmes speak in so soft a voice,
it was almost below a whisper.

He said, “Rest
in peace, Mortimer Harley, rest in peace.”

Return to table of
contents

THE
story I am about to reveal began in 1887, a rather busy time for both Holmes
and myself. To be exact, it was the same year that Holmes solved the case of
the AMATEUR MENDICANT SOCIETY, who held their meetings in a luxuriously
furnished vault below a furniture warehouse. This particular case seemed to top
off what I consider an unusually exciting year.

It was late in
October and the equinoctial gales had set in with exceptional violence. All day
the wind had howled and the rain beat against the windows of our Baker Street
lodgings. It was around midnight, as best I remember, that the storm grew
louder, and the wind in the chimney sobbed like a child. Our only solace came
from the warmth of the fireplace and our comfortable lodgings. Much to our
surprise, the door bell jangled, and, not wishing to disturb Mrs. Hudson, I
ushered our midnight visitor in and he soon stood before us. He was a man of
about forty-five years, pale of complexion, and trembling from, I felt quite
sure, not only the cold of the storm, but from some inner fear that was written
upon his face, like that of a man weighed down with great anxiety. And yet when
he spoke, his tone was business like, and almost aggressive.

“I’ve come to
you for advice, Mr. Holmes.”

“That’s easily
obtained,” said my illustrious friend.

“And help,” the
gentleman continued.

“That is
not
always so easy. Help the gentleman off with
his coat, will you, Watson?”

I did so and
offered the gentleman a seat which he gladly accepted. I continued my
observations as he went on.

“I heard of you,
Mr. Holmes, from Major Prendergast. He said that you could solve anything.”

“I’m afraid he’s
said too much,” returned Holmes, lighting his pipe.

“He also said
you’ve never been beaten at crime detection.”

“I’ve been
beaten four times, sir. Three times by men and once by a woman. But suppose you
introduce yourself. My friend here is Watson, Dr. Watson. I assure you he can
be trusted in all matters discreet. Now, please continue.”

“My name is
Lovelace. Edmund Lovelace.”

“And what, pray,
brings you to me at this hour of the night, Mr. Lovelace?”

“I’m in terrible
trouble, Mr. Holmes. You don’t know anything about me, but if you’ll accept my
case, you can save four lives.”

“I wouldn’t say
that I know nothing about you, sir,” Holmes interrupted, “though it is true I
know little beyond the somewhat obvious facts that you’re single, you keep a
dog, and that you are much preoccupied with your business which I take to be
some form of insurance.”

“What is this?”
Mr. Lovelace questioned in total surprise.

“Nothing to
worry about. But I’d wager that my friend is right, isn’t he, Mr. Lovelace?” I
said with some amusement.

“Perfectly. But
I’ll be hanged if I can see how he knows it.”

Holmes smiled
and leaned back in his chair, taking deep puffs on his pipe.

“It’s the
practical application of logic, sir. The briefcase that you carry might at
first indicate a barrister or some other professional man, but your brisk,
business-like manner counteracts that suggestion. An insurance broker who must
visit clients at odd hours is the likeliest man to combine that manner with a
briefcase at midnight.”

I had seen
Holmes do this many times, so I merely sat back and chuckled to myself, mostly
out of my own astonishment that my friend never ceased to amaze me by his deductive
logic.

“But the wife?”
Mr. Lovelace asked in confusion, “and the fact that I am preoccupied with my
business?”

“Your cuff links
do not match, sir. Each is from a different pair. That would suggest
preoccupation, and it’s a mistake that neither a wife nor a man servant would
have allowed to pass.”

“How about the
dog, Holmes?” I asked.

“Oh, surely that’s
obvious, Watson. I shall let you ponder on that matter while Mr. Lovelace tells
us his problem.”

“Mr. Holmes, are
you as interested in preventing a murder as in solving one?”

“Naturally I am,
Mr. Lovelace, even more so. But please tell me your story.”

“I live with
four cousins of mine in an old house in Camberwell. My grandfather left the
house, and a sizeable fortune, to the five of us on condition that we live
together and maintain the family unity. It probably won’t surprise you to know
that we’ve grown to get pretty much on each other’s nerves.”

“What happens if
one of you dies?” I asked.

“His share is
divided among the others, Dr. Watson.”

“The wonder to
me is, sir, not that a murder may take place, but that it has not happened long
ago,” Holmes said chagrined. “Who is responsible for the administration of the
estate?”

“My cousin
Gerald. He’s much older than the rest of us and he’s a thoroughly unpleasant,
cantankerous man. He gets an extra share in the estate as administrator and in
consequence he doesn’t work. We feel, of course, that he lives off us and we’re
continually quarreling with him about it. There’s going to be trouble, Mr.
Holmes, I know it. Gerald hates us, and he’s jealous of our share in the estate.”

“You spoke of
preventing murder just now,” Holmes said, leaning forward in his chair, “yet I
can see that you’ve selected your cousin Gerald as the potential murderer, am I
right?”

“Yes, you are,
Mr. Holmes, but don’t think it’s personal prejudice that makes me suspect him;
I have good reason for doing so.”

“What reason?”

“This evening,
just before dinner, I helped Gerald off with his topcoat and went to hang it up
for him. As I did so, I heard a strange metallic ‘clink’ in one of his pockets.
I slipped my hand inside it and found a hypodermic syringe and a small vial of
liquid, which I opened and smelled. Gentlemen, it reeked of bitter almonds.”

“Cyanide,” I
said.

“And what did
you do?” Holmes asked.

“I thought of
destroying it, but I realized that would put him on his guard, so I replaced it
in his pocket. Of course, I warned the others. And we decided that I’d come to
you. I had to see a most important client tonight, or I would have been here
earlier. Please forgive me for intruding on you at this unlikely hour,
gentlemen.”

“Perfectly all
right, Mr. Lovelace,” Holmes said. “Besides, you are already here and, quite
frankly, I am intrigued by your problem. That’s a most interesting stick you
carry, sir. May I examine it?”

“Of course.”

I laughed, for
now I understood about the dog.

“I see now,
Holmes, how you deduced that Mr. Lovelace has a dog. There are the marks of the
dog’s teeth on the stick.”

“Yes, my dear
Watson. But these marks, under scrutiny, give us even more specific
information. He’s a large dog, you’ve had him for some years, Mr. Lovelace, and
he’s now old and feeble.”

“You are again
perfectly right, but I simply cannot see how you can tell that from looking at
a walking stick.”

“This stick is
covered with teeth marks,” Holmes went on, “therefore it has been carried many
times by the dog. Now it’s a heavy stick so only a large dog could have carried
it. And the teeth marks also indicate a large jaw. The older marks are deep,
look here. The fresh ones, where the wood has not yet darkened, are shallow.
Yes, it’s obvious the jaws are losing their strength.”

“That’s very
clever of you, Mr. Holmes,” Mr. Lovelace said with somewhat obvious irritation,
“but I don’t see what it has to do with the case in hand.”

“No? Surely it
tells us that your story, Mr. Lovelace, may bear more implication than you
think. On the other hand, its implication may be even more terrifying. I shall
have to take the time to explain this later. Right now, though it’s late at
night, I feel that any further delay in this matter would be extremely
dangerous. I suggest we get a cab and come to your house in Camberwell at once.”

“What, Holmes?”
I said. “In this weather?”

“Yes, Watson. We’ve
been through weather such as this before. Come on, my dear fellow, grab your
coat and hat. The game’s afoot!”

The lashing rain
beat against the cab as it hurried through the drenched and misted London
streets. It was some of the foulest weather I had seen in years. Holmes sat
beside me with Edmund Lovelace facing him, directly opposite. During the entire
trip nothing was said, yet I had occasion to observe my dear friend as he
contemplated quietly to himself. Mr. Lovelace seemed quite impatient to arrive
home, and when we at last did so, he hurriedly ushered us into his house. As I
gazed about, I could tell this was a moderately furnished house, speaking not
of riches, but of the working man who had attained wealth by decent hard work.
Mr. Lovelace’s servant took our rain soaked coats and hats and placed them near
the fireplace where they might dry. Seated in the living room were a woman and
a man, who, upon our entrance, stood to greet us.

“Alice . . .
Randolph,” said Mr. Lovelace, “I’m glad you are still up. I was able to
persuade Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson to come back with me. Gentlemen,
this is my cousin Alice Harley and my cousin Randolph Lovelace. I told them
about the whole business, Randolph, so we can all speak perfectly freely.”

“Let’s begin by
sitting down, shall we?” said Alice Harley as she showed us two very
comfortable chairs near the fireplace. “Randolph and I have just finished a
little cold supper as we’ve been to the theatre tonight.”

As we seated
ourselves comfortably and the conversation began, I took the time to observe
both Alice and Randolph. Alice Harley was of small build, but full, and bore
little resemblance to Edmund Lovelace in facial appearance. Randolph Lovelace,
on the other hand bore a striking resemblance to Edmund, but was much taller
and thinner and seemed to possess a quiet nature. When he spoke his voice was
even and measured in tone almost as that of a minister.

“Well, Mr.
Holmes, I suppose Edmund told you about finding the hypodermic syringe, and the
cyanide in Gerald’s coat pocket?”

“Yes indeed,” Holmes
answered, “may I ask where your cousin Gerald Lovelace is now?”

“We left the
house at seven, but I imagine Gerald went upstairs at eight as usual, didn’t he
Edmund?”

“That’s right,
on the stroke of eight, Alice. He’s very fixed in his habits, Mr. Holmes. He
goes up to his room every night at eight. There he reads, or works on his
accounts and eventually goes to bed any time between ten and one.”

“He might still
be up,” Randolph said.

“I should like
to speak to him a little later. In the meanwhile may I ask you two young people
to tell me, quite honestly, your feelings about your cousin Gerald?” Holmes
asked.

“And you might
as well be frank,” Edmund said, “I’ve kept nothing back.”

“All right,” Alice
said, sitting up stiffly in her chair, “Randolph and I hate him! First of all
we’re sure he is jealous of our shares in the estate and then we . . . we . . .
.”

The young lady
hesitated, then looked at Randolph.

“Alice and I
want to get married, Mr. Holmes,” Randolph said, “and Gerald won’t hear of it.”

“But you’re
cousins, aren’t you?” I asked.

“Only second
cousins, Dr. Watson. Gerald is dreadfully conventional. He’s threatened us that
if we do get married he’ll go to court and try to have our shares in the estate
annulled.”

“And from the
way the will is worded,” Randolph added, “I wouldn’t be surprised if he could
do it. So you can see why we have no great love for him, and why we’re afraid
of him.”

“You mentioned
there were five cousins in the house, Edmund,” Holmes said, “the three of you
are here, and Mr. Gerald Lovelace is upstairs. Who and where is the fifth
cousin?”

“The fifth
cousin is my brother, Gilly. He’s something of a tragedy, I’m afraid. You see,
Gilly’s twenty, but he never developed mentally beyond the age of eight. He had
a bad fall in a hunting field when he was a young boy and has been like this
ever since,” Randolph offered.

“I’m sorry to
hear that, sir,” Holmes said.

“But he’s the
dearest and most gentle boy you’ve ever met,” Alice said.

“And,
incidentally,” Edmund added, “the one person in this house who doesn’t hate
Gerald.”

“The poor fellow
doesn’t understand the conditions of the will, I suppose?” I asked.

“No,” returned
Alice, “but if he did I don’t think it would make any difference. I swear that
Gilly loves every living thing, especially Gladstone. Gladstone is the name of
his dog.”

Holmes placed
his hands together before he spoke, a thoughtful look on his face.

“His dog. Yes.
The dog may be the key to this whole matter.”

“The dog?” I
asked, puzzled. “What makes you say that, Holmes?”