The Sherlock Holmes Megapack: 25 Modern Tales by Masters: 25 Modern Tales by Masters (31 page)

Holmes sighed. “Send Miles Cavendish inside.”

Her crying sputtered to a stop. “How do you know?”

“You looked outside, I assume a man is waiting. If it isn’t Miles Cavendish, then surely you are followed.”

She went to the window and opened it, then she gestured. Minutes later we were joined by a stranger. He had a tiny beard growing at the tip of his chin in the fashion of Disraeli, but it started directly under his lip and sprouted downward. His eyes were black and deep-set.

“Ah, the Amazing Cavendish!” Holmes remarked. “With the signature ‘Vanishing Lady’ act. A fellow conjurer. Perhaps it was you who killed Sun Ching Foo?”

His face frowned. “I assure you, nothing can be further from the truth. Sun Ching Foo was no friend, but he was no enemy, either. Suggesting I killed Sun Ching Foo for his business is like me suggesting that you should kill Lestrade to snatch more cases to solve.”

Holmes chuckled. “Very well, who do you think killed him?”

“A spurned lover, angry creditors, or even himself? If he committed suicide, shouldn’t we search for a note?”

“If he committed suicide, then what is the mechanism? Thomasina, you say you don’t know how the trick worked, but how did he set it up?” Holmes asked.

She shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know. We all had tasks to do—I was preparing other things while he was working on the gun.”

Holmes asked, “Did he do anything to the guns after a performance?”

She nodded. “Why yes! See, the gun was not meant to fire. So every night, Cecil took apart the rifle to extract the bullet. He would shake the powder out and put that back in the container, too.”

“Usually, the gun did not fire? If it wasn’t supposed to, then how did Cecil simulate the sound of shooting?”

She shrugged. “It was all part of the magic of Sun Ching Foo.”

“Where was he before the show? What was he doing?”

Thomasina was quiet; instead, Cavendish spoke up. “Sun Ching Foo was in the company of a woman besides his wife.”

“How is it that you know this?” Holmes asked.

“His colourful social habits were known to all at the Bixby Club, of which we were both members.”

“It is imperative that I question this woman, Mister Cavendish. Give her name to the Yard, and they will bring her in for questioning.”

Holmes turned to Thomasina. “You ask for help, madam, and I shall offer it. But even without your plea, I would see this through to the end. A man has died in front of my eyes. The honour of my trade is at stake.”

Jealousy, anger, vengeance—I saw none of that on the wife’s face. She showed only silent despair. “Thank you, Mr Holmes.”

* * * *

We returned to the Metropolitan Police. Parliament’s clock tower looked at us over St Stephen’s House. Lanners explained to Holmes that the woman was found, and they discussed what questions had been posed already and her answers. Once Holmes had his fill of this information, Lanners walked us to the same room where Alastair Reynolds had been questioned.

Inside the office, she waited. I will spare this woman her decency by concealing a name, but I shall describe her as a young Scotchwoman wearing a Norfolk jacket with leg-of-mutton sleeves and a skirt. Her hair curled loosely over greenish-blue eyes.

“Questions from one constable were not enough, now he brings two more?” she muttered.

“I am Sherlock Holmes, an independent consulting detective, and this is Doctor John Watson, who attended Cecil Windham in the final moments of his life.”

“Well? What do you want with me?”

“How long did you know Sun Ching Foo?”

“Since the start of the summer,” she said. “When he first began performing his show, he found me working in a laundry and invited me to see a matinee for free. When I went, I didn’t know he was Sun Ching Foo. But calling on me afterward, he told me—and amused me with his sleight-of-hand.”

“Think carefully now, miss. Did he promise you anything?” His stare grew intense.

She rolled her eyes and laughed. “All men promise, Mr Holmes. Cecil was no different.”

“But what did he promise you?”

“That he loved me, that we could be together. He wanted to set up a touring company and travel with me. First, to Scotland, and then to the Continent or to South America. He promised that we could be happy together.”

“And what about his wife?”

She looked away. “I knew he was married, but he never mentioned her. And I never asked. I said that all men promise, but I don’t think that they keep their promises.”

“Did you know that his wife lived with him, here in London?”

She shrugged noncommittally.

“A Chinese woman who could not speak the language, who knew nothing of our land or culture?”

She grimaced and her gaze fell. “Please stop, you make me ill. I am ashamed.”

He muttered quietly, “The poor woman has no family here nor a penny in her own name. She will most likely die in the gutter. She is a prisoner without walls.” Then Holmes’s voice grew hard as steel. “Your womanly scheme killed her husband, the one man she trusted with her wretched life!”

A whimpering cry erupted from the woman’s lips. “No, Mister Holmes! I will confess all of my sins to you, but I didn’t hold plans against Cecil! I had nothing to do with it! I beg you to believe me!” She threw her hands over her face and cried.

Holmes looked at Lanners. “Take her away. She is of no use to us.”

As he escorted her out of the office, I remarked, “Holmes, you are a cold-blooded liar.”

“Nevertheless, I produced the truth in her. We should re-examine the gun next.”

Lanners returned and led us back to the Jezail. Holmes held it up and inspected it, turning it around in his hands.

“These screws seem strangely placed,” he said. He reached into his satchel for tools, then slowly removed the screws. Without them, the barrel and ramrod tube fell away from the breech.

He picked up a screw and carefully eyed the threads, then he focused his magnifying glass upon the holes in the pieces of rifle.

“Eureka, gentlemen!” Holmes chuckled and reassembled the Jezail.

A mixture of puzzlement and relief washed over Lanners’s face. “What is it Holmes?”

“The soldier, Alastair Dayton, loaded gunpowder and the bullet,” Holmes said, sliding a finger from the hole down the length of the barrel.

“Yes, go on,” Lanners said.

“The rifle’s firing mechanism, however, is blocked off from the barrel. Instead, it looks connected to this tube which, as I remarked yesterday, is bigger than a ramrod holder.” He touched the extra compartment.

I nodded. “And Lai Way—Thomasina—took the ramrod back. The soldier didn’t rest it there after the bullet was loaded. The gun itself was part of the trick?”

“Right. This was an extra firing chamber. There must have been gunpowder inserted here by Sun Ching Foo before the show. When the trick works correctly, a soldier pulls the trigger and the powder in this chamber ignites. But the powder in the barrel remains untouched.”

“So what happened in this case?” Lanners asked.

“It starts with the use of an old gun. The false chamber and real barrel must have been assembled years ago. To hold them together against the breech of the stock, holes were drilled in. The screws go from the stock, through the extra chamber, and into the barrel. Slowly, rust accumulated between the screw and the holes holding the pieces together.”

Lanners’s gaze became unfocused. “All very interesting, Holmes but—”

“Patience, inspector! As I was saying, when that connection deteriorated, a slight opening formed. Gunpowder from the barrel leaked into the hole where the screws fastened the gun together. Sun Ching Foo never cleaned it properly, but he just shook out the powder. Over time with successive performances, excess particles accumulated to form a charge through the hole. So now, when the flash from the percussion cap travelled down to the secret chamber, it also went up into the barrel. Thus, the whole gun shot off and the bullet was fired.”

To prove his point, Holmes took a pitcher of water off the desk and slowly poured water down the barrel. After a moment, drops dripped from the attached tube. “Poor Cecil Windham had no idea what happened when he died.”

By day’s end, Lanners released Alastair Dayton. Later that month, Cecil Windham’s body returned to the United States with his widow.

By the next morning, newspapers barely mentioned Sun Ching Foo. There was no mention of his wife, nor any mention of Holmes, either.

He laughed. “An error I’m sure you will correct!” Closing his eyes with a smile, he said, “I’ve helped countless people, Watson, but I don’t expect to be remembered. No, the only memories made on Baker Street will be from Madame Tussaud’s waxen people or in a childhood visit to the zoo in Regent’s Park.”

I chuckled with him, promising to myself to write this adventure some day to ensure the memory of Sherlock Holmes as well as the tragic death of the man London knew as Sun Ching Foo.

Dr WATSON’S FAIRY TALE, by Thos. Kent Miller

I collect old manuscripts and have published some books on the subject. Recently I had nothing better to do and was listlessly surfing the Internet, simply plugging interesting words that came to mind into various search engines, and then following links to other links, deeper and deeper and deeper into what eventually must be a kind of digital catacombs of the Net.

Eventually, something fleetingly crossed my vision as my mouse clicked away. I backed up and saw a black and white photograph of a faded old piece of stationary with the letterhead “John H. Watson, M.D.” and a salutation that read “My Dear Holmes:” My heart raced as I counted 31 pages total, all written in a proud and round, but often shaky, hand. All four margins of some of the sheets were filled with copious comments in a totally different and crabbed script. Here follows the document verbatim with the marginal notes presented in brackets following the approximate spots of the text to which they allude. On the first page was crammed the following note starting at the top of the page above the letterhead and running into both margins to the bottom of the sheet:

[My! Mr Holmes is quite cantankerous today. For all intents and purposes he is ordering me to take dictation, and I have half a mind to remind him that I’m not his secretary, but his old landlady paying a pleasant country visit to her eccentric former tenant. I suppose he is cranky because he has just returned from a trip abroad on who knows what business, and has taken to bed with influenza for his trouble. I was rearranging his provisions in the pantry into some sort of order, with a shelf devoted to jars of different varieties of honey, when he called out, “Mrs Hudson, may I have your assistance, please? I am happy to see that our Dr Watson has taken a few moments out of his hectic schedule to correspond. I do hate to trouble you, but I’ve tried to read these letters, and between our friend’s declining script and a weepy eye from this damnable flu, I am having some difficulty. Might I ask you to pull over that chair to make yourself comfortable and read aloud to me these missives? They are rather lengthy as these things go.” Of course, I assented. “And, also,” he continued, “if you will please take down any extemporaneous comments that I may make during your reading, I would be obliged. My memory is not as keen as it used to be, I don’t want to lose the thread of my own thoughts later on should I ever need to refer back to them and when they are no longer conveniently cached in my head.” ] [To help keep Mr Holmes’s records straight, I should say that the envelope of this first letter was stamped on June 15th and must have arrived about ten days ago, for it is today June 28th.]

John H. Watson, M.D.

June 13th 1924

My Dear Holmes:

It’s difficult to believe that it was only six weeks ago that I paid my lovely visit with you at your little farm on Sussex Downs. Though on some level I always understood that beekeeping was unique in its own way and hugely satisfactory for those with a love for the insects, I dare say that you have made that avocation into an art form. Your hives are veritable cities, complete with upper classes and lower classes. I find this wonderful no matter how many times I visit! And the honey we enjoyed on our toast for breakfast was nothing less than divine. I wished that I could have stayed longer than a week, but my work, even at this point in my life has its many responsibilities, and I, unlike you, am not quite ready for retirement.

The irony is, however, that I had no sooner returned to my lodgings and practice than I received a wire I from an old college classmate, whom I may have mentioned once or twice in our Baker Street rooms, Lynwood Reginald McCabe, that necessitated precipitous action.

At the point when I began the serious study of medicine, he was studying mathematics and later went into architecture, developing quite a name for himself and opening his own offices. His strength, as is my understanding, was his emphasis on function, and his designs included grocery markets and barber shops, as I recall, and eventually banks and centres of finance. He has long since retired and bought a sheep ranch in southern Ireland. I had not thought of him in years, and here was this note nearly begging me to drop everything and come to his aid—in Ireland of all places!

I packed, arranged yet again for two of my long-suffering colleagues, to whom I’m greatly indebted, to divide my patients between them for the duration, and found myself before dawn standing in the swirling mist trackside at Victoria Station. There followed multiple rail connections, two ferries, more rail connections, at least one omnibus, and cabs to the extent that I’ve lost count, I finally arrived at the Bottle Hill Hotel on the main street of the tiny town of the same name some 45 miles north of Cork.

The proprietor sent word of my arrival to McCabe who dispatched a car and by seven p.m., when it was still warm and light. I was sitting on the porch of my old friend’s villa overlooking a long stretch of hilly green pasture that was thick with grazing sheep and lambs, who filled the atmosphere with their plaintive “baahs” as the shepherds and their dogs coaxed them to other ranging areas.

As of yet, despite my vigorous enquiries, McCabe would not come immediately to the point to explain either the reason he sent for me or the apparent urgency of his letter. From where I sat, he seemed as fit as a fiddle, and all seemed placid enough. It was over a simple but plentiful supper prepared and served by his staff that he finally explained the purpose of my rushed visit.

“Watson,” he began with a forkful of lamb and carrot casserole paused halfway to his mouth, “I asked you to come because I have a bit of a mystery on my hands.”

“Well, then, McCabe, I am flattered by your faith in my prowess, but I fear that over the years, despite my best efforts, I am not in the same league as my friend Sherlock Holmes, and he, as you may know is in retirement and seclusion, not to be disturbed under any circumstance.”

“Oh, I had no idea. But I did not ask for Mr Holmes, I asked for you—because my mystery seems to have a medical basis, and naturally your reputation as a physician is known far and wide.”

I must say I could feel myself blush at this remark.

“Watson, before I explain the problem, I must preface it by relating some of its circumstances. My ranch manager is a man named Donald O’Neary. He’s been with me for many years. All my crops, sheep, other livestock, and land are under his supervision. Some days ago, he mentioned in passing to me that he’d noticed a hedge of blackthorn bushes had sprung up near one of the stream crossings.”

[Ah! Blackthorn! Fascinating stuff! I could and should write a monograph solely on this bush and its berries. It’s said that Christ’s crown of thorns was made from it. And blackthorn is used to make magic wands! In fact, Little People are supposed to live in its branches! Heinous crimes, even village genocide, are known to have had at their heart assumptions and presumed knowledge about blackthorn! This is not a bush to be trifled with, Mrs Hudson!]

McCabe continued: “Donald shouldered a shovel, rake, and shears and began to march across the pasture. I suggested that he take his son, Tieg, along or another man, but he can be obstinate and said they had their own work to do and there was no reason, in any case, as he was perfectly capable of handling the task himself. Altogether he seemed happy and in good health. That was in the morning, and when he wasn’t present to supervise moving the flocks.

“In the afternoon, Tieg went looking for him. About an hour later one of the shepherds rushed in and said that they had found Donald sound asleep near the stream, but they couldn’t get him to awaken. They were bringing him in, and I sent for the doctor. We tried to make Donald comfortable in his own bed in his own house behind this one. It was then we discovered that there was a small circle of fungus growing on his chest. The local doctor, Dr Abernathy, who is about half our age, mind you, confirmed that Donald was unconscious and confirmed that there was a fungus growing on his chest, but all he could prescribe was castor oil. Otherwise there was nothing he can do because Donald clearly had been tampering with the fairies.”

I jumped up and exclaimed, “Unconscious! Fairies! Why are we sitting around? Show him to me!”

“There’s no hurry, Watson. You see, all this happened a week ago, and he seems not to have changed at all.”

“A coma?” I asked.

“I don’t know. That’s why I asked for you.”

Fairies! Holmes, can you believe it? I was in for one rude awakening after another!

“You say that the local physician cannot help the man because your man is under a fairy’s curse?”

“I fear that is accurate enough. But you see, the doctor is a child of this land. He grew up here, went to Dublin and then London to receive his medical training and returned to be of use to his own people. As a result, it seems the community’s folklore is as alive to him as it was in his ancestors.”

“Enough of this. Show me your man.”

I grabbed my bag and we went out the door. McCabe led me to an outbuilding that lay near his home. Before we reached the door, a young man exited and came towards us. He was 20 years old or so, possessed a strong, dark body that was covered by a pair of baggy, brown trousers and a long-sleeved, red-plaid, woolen shirt. His pants were held up by a pair of yellow suspenders.

“Dr Watson, this is Tieg O’Neary, Donald’s son.”

We perfunctorily shook hands. It was difficult to get out of the boy any information that could help me. His principal communication were words to the affect of “It doesn’t seem right. I don’t know what to think. Do you think you can do something? It just couldn’t be fairies!”

I finally pushed past the boy, saying, “Let me be the judge of that!”

Inside the cabin, I found in his bed an older man of the same sort as the boy. I began my examination. His pulse, temperature, skin tone were all consistent with a man who was sound asleep. I could see his eyes moving under his closed lids in the manner of a man who was dreaming intensely. I pulled down the blanket to reveal his chest, and yes, there was a circle of lichenous fungus about five inches in diameter encircling a patch of greasy, blistered and bubbling, greenish brown mold. I had never seen anything quite like this, and I had to force myself from turning my eyes away!

McCabe touched my arm and said quietly, “It has grown. It was only a small patch when we found him a week ago, perhaps an inch across.”

Young Tieg O’Neary said then, “I remember he laughed as he was leaving. He jokingly said he hoped that they weren’t fairy bushes, those he was planning to pull out! My father never took that sort of thing seriously. Usually, he would play along when the subject of fairies came up among our staff and the villagers, but he always told me that the folks around here were ignorant and knew no better and would even go so far as to hallucinate music that they claimed was fairy music when he knew perfectly well that there was no music at all.”

Tieg went on to explain that it was common enough for some of their neighbours to leave lights on or candles lit in the windows at night to ward off the beings. On the other hand, he’s heard of some in other districts who left whiskey out at night for the benefit of the fairies.

What am I to make of all this nonsense. Well one thing is for certain: I have an extremely ill patient, and I had better find out what what’s ailing him. I saw to the comfort of Donald O’Neary, and McCabe arranged to have one of the less nervous neighbours stay with him all night. We then adjourned to the main house.

As we smoked around the fire, I realized that I hadn’t seen O’Neary’s wife, the mother of Tieg. Approaching the subject indirectly, I could see that Tieg, as well as McCabe, was reticent to discuss the subject, but eventually I learned that some 15 years before, when Tieg was but a boy and McCabe had not yet even come to the area, Tieg’s mother was kidnapped from her own house, or presumed so, and was never seen again—though, of course, there were rumours for a time that she had been spotted in Dublin and London and even Paris. The majority opinion in the neighbourhood was that she was “taken by fairies!” Frankly, I’m sorry I brought it up as all I did was dredge up bad memories.

They also explained how the morning following Tieg’s finding O’Neary, McCabe took a party out to see what they could see. In fact, there was a hedge of blackthorn bushes near the stream, and one of them had been hacked down and lay broken on the ground. Tieg showed McCabe the spot where he had found his father laying on his back motionless. They saw nothing else at all that suggested wrong-doing or mischief of any sort. It was just as though the man had had a stroke and fell where he was standing.

Before I retired I made clear that if I was to help, I had to see the spot myself and interview the doctor, and that was arranged for the next morning. McCabe showed me the room that would be at my convenience during my stay. It is quite comfortable and has three lamps, a four-poster bed, a closet, and a sturdy oak secretary where I am sitting and composing this note to you. I hope to add the sequel with more data tomorrow before I post it to you.

John H. Watson, M.D.

June 14th 1924

To Continue, Holmes:

Before dawn this morning, I was introduced to Dr Abernathy (which to his credit seemed unperturbed by the early hour), and we discussed the matter over breakfast. I questioned him quite firmly without stating outright that I believed him to be incompetent. Nevertheless, here follows an approximation of our conversation.

* * * *

“Dr Abernathy,” I began, “I have examined O’Neary and, while his symptoms are indeed curious, I’m told that without benefit of a thorough examination, you have decreed the case hopeless and the work of fairies, and, furthermore, you’ve declared castor oil—castor oil!—is some sort of universal cure that will eradicate the fungus growth!”

“Dr Watson, I would hesitate to put any of the facts in exactly those words, but my examination was not as perfunctory as you’ve been led to believe, and, furthermore, I am expert on the maladies of these parts, of its culture and peoples. And I in no way suggested that Donald O’Neary’s case was hopeless. Please take it as fact that I pride myself in knowing how to speak to my patients in language they understand. For example, under normal circumstances would you explain to the parents of an injured girl that because her patellar tendon attaches to the tibial tubercle on the front of the tibia and because that tendon is also attached to the bottom of the patella where the quadriceps tendon is attached, when the patellar tendon ruptures, the patella therefore loses its anchoring support to the tibia? Or would you simply say that she has injured her knee?