Steven Hunley
08-14-2015, 05:45 PM
Nice story, Steve. I haven't read your latest posts, but have read several of your older ones. I know most of what you write are real life experiences. Sometimes the relationship with Barb seems too good to be true and borders on being too sweet, but originality in the writing always keeps it fresh and entertaining. I'd love to see you challenge yourself and do something really biting, maybe something totally fictional, or maybe something that starts out as a real life experience and then give it a fictional turn - something dark or bizarre or fantastic that you can run with. What you do is great; I think you can do more.
An oldie but goodie:
Physician Heal Thyself
by
Steven Hunley
Dr. Bell was busy shuffling papers. Dr. Frobisher was doing the same. How they hated grading midterm exams. Frobisher was getting more upset by the minute.
“Just look at this one, Bell. Just look at it! This essay answer reads more like a penny dreadful than a proper medical answer.”
“Doyle again?”
“Who else?”
“Let me see it. It’s a standard question. What are the causes of appendicitis?”
He scanned the exam with great interest, pausing here and there, smiling slyly, then continuing to the bitter end.
“With a not-so-standard answer, I’m afraid,” remarked Frobisher, twisting his handle-bar mustache nervously.
“I see what you mean. But I like the part where he wrote,
‘The cause of appendicitis relates to blockage of the inside of the appendix, commonly known as the lumen. The terrible blockage reminds me of the blockage of the tea tax by British colonists in Boston during the revolutionary war with England. They actually dressed up as Indians and dumped tea in Boston harbor! This increased pressure, devastating in its effects, can lead to impaired blood flow, and finally, in the most dangerous case scenario, full of breathtaking drama at every step, to inflammation. If the blockage is not treated immediately, things can go horribly wrong, and gangrene and rupture (breaking or tearing) of the appendix can result.’
“I disagree Bell, I don’t like it at all. It’s not medical enough. Not enough Greek terminology to my way of thinking. Not up to snuff. And speaking of snuff would you care for some?”
He fingered a gold filigree Castellani snuff box.
“Thank you, no. My nose is running enough the way it is. I think I’m coming down with something."
Bell drew a linen handkerchief out of his pocket and looked outside with his piercing grey eyes. The blue sky was threaded with white wispy clouds. He missed nothing, not a detail. Frobisher was definitely acting distraught.
“I don’t know what to do with the lad, Bell. I really don’t.”
Just then the ivy-clad bell tower of Edinburgh University tolled four times, and a dozen white pigeons took flight and circled. The hand-blown window panes of the office gave a beautiful yet distorted view of the square below with it’s carefully tended lawns and brick walkways. Frobisher took out his gold watch and gave it a look.
“Frobisher, is that a new watch?”
“It’s not just a watch Old Boy, it’ a Patek Philippe perpetual calendar moon phase minute repeater chronograph.”
“What a mouthful! You are fond of valuable things aren’t you?”
Frobisher secreted it back in his vest pocket and blushed.
“Let’s talk about this further, and break now for tea. But really Bell, something must be done.”
Bell blew his narrow aquiline nose and carefully folded his handkerchief, placing it in his pocket while taking his coat off the rack. Frobisher held open the door. Tea was always a good time for discussing students, current world events, how the sun never set on the empire, and most importantly, cricket matches. They walked down the dark oaken stairway. The railing was polished smooth by thousands of student’s hands, hands that would later heal thousands of others. That is, if they passed their medical exams.
The last thing Bell said was,
“Frobisher, if Doyle is giving you that much trouble you can always turn the young man over to me.”
Doyle’s room was a mess. The beds was unmade, various papers were scattered her and there, and a single sock lay under the table where he and Mulvanney sat at their books. Lord only knows where the other sock was. Grey’s Anatomy lie open between them, and the only sounds were the scratching of pens on paper and the Seth Thomas clock ticking on the mantle. Bars of light streaming down through the windows were speckled by gold twirling dust.
Finally Doyle threw down his pen and remarked,
“There’s too much to remember! I’ve had it! Had it up to here,” he motioned his fingers to his neck.
“Me too!” cried Mulvanney, and cast his pen like a dart into the table top where it stuck and shuddered like an arrow shot by Robin Hood into an oak. Other holes nearby showed he’d been practicing on the sly.
“It’s just not that there’s so much information,” Mulvanney continued. “It’s that it’s in Latin!”
“Yes, I concur. A foreign language at best.”
“And a dead one at that!”
Mulvanney took out his pocket knife and sat on his bed to re-sharpened his pencil.
“As dead as one of Frobisher’s cadavers,” noted Doyle, checking the mirror for the length of his mustache.
“How do you think it looks?”
“First rate Doyle, first rate. Pure upper-class-man type of mustache. It will look perfect during graduation. Makes you look older and distinguished.”
“I won’t feel so distinguished if I fail.”
“You mean there’s a chance...”
“If I don’t pass the finals, that’s exactly what I mean.”
“It’s not your fault Doyle. It’s Frobisher’s fault. He lectures at the ceiling. It’s those damnable half-frame glasses. He never has eye contact with the students. Never! That’s why he caught us falling asleep last week.”
“I wish there was a way I could transfer out, but it’s too late in the semester for that. I’d have to go to the Dean with some wild excuse.”
“It would take an act of God.”
Doyle walked over to his bed and got down on his knees. He placed his elbows on the mattress and folded his hands together. Mulvanney knew what was coming and smiled. It wasn’t the first time his roommate acted silly. He had such a vivid imagination. Doyle crossed himself and whispered solemnly while looking up,
“Please Lord, if it isn’t any bother, deliver me from Frobisher and grant me success in my studies.”
The bars of golden light from the window played over his head. Only the clock ticked it’s sound, and besides that it was as quiet as a cathedral.
Mulvanney was about to break the silence with laughter when an envelope appeared inch by inch from under the hallway door. He picked it up.
“It’s addressed to you, Old Man.”
Doyle unfolded the note and read,
“Dear Mr. Doyle,
You are hereby informed that you are being transferred. You are to be my new assistant. Please report to me Monday and be ready for work.
Respectfully,
Professor Joseph Bell as per recommendation of Professor Frobisher.”
The two medical students gave each other a look.
Their usual pastime on Sundays was chatting up girls at the local pub and punting on the Water of Leith while it wound its way through quiet green ribbons of wood lands. But that particular Sunday found them both attending mass. The girls would have to wait.
***
The next day at eight Doyle was sitting in an over-stuffed red leather armchair waiting for Bell. Frobisher had the day off. Doyle sat in their office. It was the first day of autumn and it arrived with a cold snap which Doyle compensated for by buttoning up his white lab coat. Still, feeling a chill, he noticed the window that led to the roof was opened a crack. He looked out and saw that the gardeners were neglected the trees, as the one nearest the building hug over the roof with its branches.
“Perfect way for a burglar to get in,” he reasoned. “But then again, what would they take? There’s nothing of value about.”
He scanned the room from right to left and found out he was mistaken.
Bell’s side was neat as a pin. Sparse or Spartan was the word to described it. A desk, a chair, a coat rack and a filing cabinet, all neat and tidy.
Frobisher’s looked a different story. It was a wonder he hadn’t noticed it from the start. The desk was the same. Everything else was different. On the corner was a large silver bell with chased Sanskrit letters, most likely from a Tibetan temple. The pen holder held expensive gold-nibbed ink-pens next to a silver ink-bottle holder. Rose-scented red sealing wax and a silver seal with an ivory pommel rested nearby.
Behind the desk on the wall was a priceless Buddhist Tanka, a scroll with intricate symmetrical pictures describing the life of the Buddha. The only other he’d seen hung in the British Museum. On the wall facing that were commendations from his old outfit in India, and another frame packed with gold and silver medals pinned to black velvet. In a smaller frame hung a little bronze cross made out of a cannon captured at Sevastopol, bearing the proud inscription For Valor, from the Afghan wars. Doyle hadn’t noticed them at first.
“Obviously, Frobisher is more than just whiskers and surface. So much for my powers of observation.”
He thumped his scull with his thumb.
On the filing cabinet was a brass incense burner. The joss stick had burned out long ago but the sent of patchouli still hung in the air. A long column of ash lay dead on the floor.
“Hullo, what’s this?”
Near the ash was a small empty custard dish almost hidden by the cabinet leg. Doyle remembered the girth of Frobisher’s belly and laughed.
“Professor Frobisher is so conceited about his figure he probably hides his deserts from Professor Bell. I’d be surprised if Bell hasn’t noticed. They say he’s sharp as a tack.”
At least that was his reputation. Mulvanney had supplied the particulars. He was a brilliant diagnostician. Private surgeon to Queen Victoria when she was in Scotland. Written various medical books, quick as a whip. Etcetera, etcetera, and so forth.
“I can’t imagine what drew his attention to me.”
The door opened swiftly and in walked the doctor, thin and dark, gray-haired and narrow-nosed, with piercing gray eyes that read his students like so many books.
“You’re Doyle, I deduce, as I never presume.”
“Yes Sir, please to meet you.”
They shook hands like any two gentlemen.
“Come, we’re off to Edinburgh Royal Infirmary.”
The two walked with such a quick pace all you saw were two lab coats fluttering in the wind like laundry flying off a doctor’s clothes line in a storm. It was as if they both had become unpinned.
Doyle started patting his pockets and reported,
“Doctor Bell, I must go back. I’ve left my stethoscope behind.”
“Tut tut Doyle, You have all the instruments you need right now. Eyes and ears to see and hear and memory to record the senses. Such are the implements of a successful diagnosis.”
The next thing he knew they were at the hospital. Bell handed his student a notebook and asked for the next patient in line. He wasted no time on formalities and walked straight away, in through the dark oak double doors marked with a brass plate that read Examination Theatre. Doyle located a rumpled up man in the outpatient clinic and delivered him within minutes. Bell was already addressing the class. Toomey, McDougal, Harwich and McLean were in their seats taking notes. Burroughs sat at the top of the tiered seats.
Bell was something of a showman, and here he was in his element. Doyle ushered the patient to the center of the floor. He was forty if he was a day, balding, and trying to make up for it with side-whiskers and walked with an irregular gate.
Bell drew Doyle aside and whispered,
“Observe carefully, deduce shrewdly, and confirm with hard evidence. We’ll teach you The Method. And by all means take notes!”
He gave the rumpled man a glance up and down then took his hands saying,
“Let’s give you a wee look.”
He held the man’s hands in his and turned them over. Then he stepped back and said loud enough for the students to hear,
“I see you've been across the west links today.”
“How in the world did you know that?”
“I see by the red clay on the soles of your boots. It’s the only part of Edinburgh where you’ll find a fine clay like that. You’re a sailor out of Portsmouth. And by the way Old Fellow, how is Krishna O'Hooligan doing? I haven’t seen him in over a year.”
The man took on a puzzled look. “How do you know I’ve been in O'Hooligan's place?”
“Because the tattoo on your forearm has an anchor with a distinctive blue-lined chain. Only Bridges and Sons of the Salty Dog Tattoo Parlor in Portsmouth do chain work like that and O'Hooligan's is only two doors away. One either gets drunk there before hand to deaden the pain, or afterwards to celebrate the tattooing. On the other arm is a Maori design which was picked up in New Zealand if I’m not mistaken.”
The man nodded. He could only nod at this point, words having failed him.
“But enough of this sea-going travelogue. There’s a medical diagnosis afoot. What’s wrong with him Burroughs?”
“He has hip problems, Sir.”
Dr. Bell took out his handkerchief and coughed, then continued,
“Ah, no, but that’s not his real problem. His real problem is he’s got chronic alcoholism. Look at the rubicund nose, the florid face. And, since you must make a complete diagnosis, you will notice, sticking out of his right coat pocket, a pint bottle of rum. You must always verify your conclusions."
These incredible diagnosises went on for a week. Doyle was dumbfounded at Bell’s attention to detail and his analytical mind. His conclusions were accurate in almost every case. It wracked Doyle’s brain and set him thinking. Not just during class or at the infirmary either, but at all hours of the night and day.
Doyle could not sleep. He felt restless. Too many ideas crowded his mind. He got out of bed and put on his clothes and his shoes and coat and left the confines of his room. Out into the night for a wander. The moon was full but the clouds played havoc with it’s light, plunging the scene through extremes. One moment a patch of pavement lay in darkness and shadow, the next moment it glittered with sparkling blue moonlight.
It was two in the morning and no one was was there but Doyle. He walked between the buildings of brick and stone, past piles of bicycles stacked against the wrought-iron fences and gates. Then across George Square. Each building had a past. History hung heavy in Edinburgh. The castle with its’ cannons dominated the heights of the city like an armed phantom highwayman dominating a road.
It prompted Doyle to say to himself, “Stand and deliver, or is it your money or your life?”
Threading himself between more bricks and stones and wrought-iron fences found him below the the faculty offices. He wondered what was wrong with his mentor. Bell referred to his illness as a common cold. Yet its symptoms hung on and hung on. There seemed no end to them. Bell tried to ignore them and played them off as if they were nothing, but Doyle, in contact with his mentor on a daily basis, began to add them up.
On Monday he noted Bell's watery eyes and cough. On Tuesday it was his difficulty breathing. On Wednesday his sneezing drove him near madness with it’s frequency, and so on. So the handkerchief, always the handkerchief.
“There must be something I can do, but what?”
Out of the corner of his eye he saw a movement and heard the rustle of leaves. A shadow, though one could hardly call a thing a shadow if it was white, flashed up a tree and over the roof top like a small insignificant ghost and was gone.
“Oh, I need more sleep. It's seeing things, I am.”
He promptly returned to his room and warm bed where the only sounds were the tips of stray branches tapping against his window pane and Mulvanney’s sonorous snoring. Then he fell into a deep dream-filled sleep.
***
The next day found Doyle back in the office, alone, waiting for Bell to accompany him to class as was their habit. He sat in the leather armchair as usual and everything seemed exactly the same at first glance. There was one exception. Doyle had changed, and his attention to detail was more acute. This time, when he scanned the room, he noticed that the empty custard dish had moved a few inches. He got down on his knees for a closer look. A sort of scum was on the bottom. Smelling it, he recognized cream, not custard.
“Most unusual.”
And the leg of the cabinet, now only inches away from his face, showed fine vertical scratches.
He thought they might have been caused when the furniture was moved, but the other leg was untouched. Turning around to get up, he noticed another detail he would have never seen while sitting in the chair. A few inches from the floor, the leather had tiny pinpricks dotting the surface, dozens of them, and like the leg of the cabinet, on one side only. Then he noticed a white hair on the red Persian carpet, another one of Frobisher’s “Fine Things”. Men who would be aghast at someone stealing from an English church were paying people to loot treasures from Islamic mosques. That wasn’t uncommon. But this one was purchased by Frobisher from Ziegler and Co., of Manchester, and cost a pretty penny.
“There’s another symptom. Bell is losing his hair! By Jove, what’s wrong with the man?”
There were others on the carpet, and a trail of them led to the wall under the window.
“Analysis is what’s needed here.”
Folding a piece of paper into a packet, he placed a few of the hairs inside.
Just then Dr.Bell opened the door.
“I say Doyle, what are you doing?”
It was most embarrassing, having your instructor find you on your hands and knees on the floor, but Doyle recovered quickly replying,
“I dropped half a crown, and it rolled under the cabinet. Here it is now,” and stood up. “I need my mother to sew up this hole in my pocket.”
Bell was satisfied and too busy taking stacks of papers off his desk, in too much of a hurry to notice that there was nothing in his hand. On the other side of the coin, Doyle noticed something on Bell’s hand, a discoloration, the start of a rash.
They left the office and almost ran to the infirmary, Bell with his hands full of papers and Doyle with his brain full of clues.
The next morning at breakfast Mulvaney had coffee and a thoughtful look on his face. The coffee worried Doyle, as did the look it engendered. Coffee always made Mulvaney think too much.
“You know Doyle, I’d like a pet. Something colorful, something lively, something with wit to keep me amused and liven up our dorm. A Scarlet Macaw, yes that’s it. I want a parrot so bad I can taste it.”
“Mulvaney you must be losing your mind. You want a parrot? With their endless chatter and piles of seeds all over the floor? You are aware, they don’t allow pets on campus!”
“Oh yes, I forgot.”
“No dogs or cats or birds or anything. Remember last year when Nicolson’s Burmese python escaped and got into the plumbing? He was expelled straight away. My bum refused to get near the toilets for weeks.”
Mulvaney took on a somber look.
“Yes, I remember, now that you mention it. I can’t think of what came over me.”
“Lack of sleep and too much studying, that’s what. Have you a lab this morning?”
“Every morning but Sunday, Old Boy.”
“I have something I want you to check out.”
Doyle pulled out a packet from his coat pocket.
“This is a sample of hair from Dr. Bell. I think he’s losing it. It needs to be checked for toxins and such, can you do it?”
“Of course, for Joe Bell, in an instant. You’ll have the results by dinner.”
Classes lasted all day and that night the two met for their evening meal. Mulvaney took his knife and his fork in his hand a started on a leg of lamb. Doyle was already on his desert. His hungry roommate didn’t even look up when he said,
“The hair was pretty interesting Doyle, but I’m afraid you’re barking up the wrong tree. There’s no toxins to find. You said they came from Bell’s head?”
“That’s it.”
“Impossible, Old Man. For one thing they were too long for Bell and for another, they weren’t even human. The color matches, but nothing else.”
“Not human? Look up at me will you?”
Their eyes met and locked.
“Cat hair, Good Fellow, long strands of cat hair, that’s what they were. Packed with flea eggs and dander galore.”
Doyle dropped his spoon in his pudding, got up and left, suddenly needing fresh air. He walked to the commons where he could breathe.
The facts he considered.
The coughing, the sneezing, the rash on his hand. Always out of breath. His office, the entire office where he spent hours on his notes and papers. The last few days, every detail, all the details. He walked across George Square. If he could only sleep. All the endless studying was getting to him. His various walks in the night, and my God, he was here again, walking along under Bell and Frobisher’s offices. His thoughts raced over the last few hours, then minutes, then seconds. Ghosts, Bell, Frobisher, Fine Things, barking up the wrong tree. Pacing back and forth under the very tree he’d seen from the office window, noticing a foul smell. It was near. Where was it coming from? Was it his shoe? By Jove, it was his shoe!
Suddenly he stopped. You have to be still to grow crystals and a crystalline thought was growing in his brain.
Perfect, genuine, complete, crystalline, pure.
He had the answer.
He found a twig and cleaned off his shoe and then wiped it a few times on the grass. If you’re going to burst into your mentor’s office with a complete diagnosis without an appointment and run riot, it was best not to do it while stinking.
Doyle was up the oak staircase and knocking on the office door in a flash.
“Come.”
Bell was sitting behind his desk. Frobisher was digging in his file cabinet and looked up.
“Just came by to see how the cold was doing, Dr. Bell.”
“Same as usual,” remarked Frobisher. “He’s been sneezing all day.”
Bell nodded agreement.
“He’s silent because his throat’s been scratchy too. I advised him to save it for lectures tomorrow.”
“Yes Sir, I agree. He should save it. But better yet, we should cure it.”
“Well of course Doyle, but it’s not as easy as all that.”
Frobisher did a bit of snuff and snapping his box shut continued,
“Doyle, this malady Dr. Bell is suffering from is one of those mystery illnesses.”
Doyle stood like a rock, looked at each of them in turn, and announced,
“Then I’m sure you two gentlemen will allow me to solve their mystery.”
Doyle took the ruler off Dr. Bell’s desk and holding it with one hand, began tapping it in the palm of his other hand while pacing the floor.
“First, gentlemen, the symptoms. Rash, scratchy throat, sneezing, out of breath, tearing eyes, and so forth. But then there’s environment to be considered. Dusty office overlooking the campus where on the surface everything looks normal but on closer examination, things are not as they seem.
“Not as they seem?”
“Hidden things going on...things I was unable to account for until the lab work came back.”
Now he had both their attentions held hostage.
“Lab work?” scratched Bell weakly.
“The scientific analysis of the evidence brought it all together, Dr. Bell. But I’m not one hundred percent sure unless Dr. Frobisher gives us just one more bit of information.”
“I’ll gladly add my expertise Doyle. Anything to help a student who shows promise.”
Doyle sat down in the red leather arm chair and put the ruler back on the desk. He placed his fingers together like a temple of science.
“You were in the Afghan Wars, were you not? And while on leave, tramped through Kashmir and in addition, though you never mentioned it to any of your superior officers, visited the Forbidden Kingdom of Tibet?
“Why, yes. It’s all quite true.”
Frobisher took a seat behind his desk.
“Your officer’s commission, and success in your lucrative practice and teaching career has left you decently outfitted financially, and allowed you to develop a taste for, as you call them,
your “Fine Things.”
“I suppose one could say that.”
His cheeks took on a pinkish glow.
Bell whispered, “Like Carroll’s Alice, things get curiouser and curiouser.”
“One might say then you enjoy collecting fine and exotic things from the Himalayas?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I do. But I don’t see what this has to do with Dr. Bell.”
“I put it too you Dr. Frobisher, that your collecting has everything to do with Dr. Bell and his condition. Although Dr. Bell is a brilliant diagnostician, he needs one more trait or skill to make his most important diagnosis and cure himself of his malady. Objectivity. Dr. Bell is having trouble seeing the forest for the trees, to use a cliche.”
Bell’s pupils dilated and his gray eyes became sharper than ever. Hawk-like at this very moment.
Doyle reached over and picked up the ruler. He started near his feet.
“These needle-like pin-pricks on the leg of this chair. The scratches on the cabinet leg.”
He pointed.
“The love of “Fine Things” Exotic art-like rare things from the Himalayas. The cream left in the custard dish.”
Frobisher looked down. He pushed the dish under the cabinet with the toe of his shoe but was minutes too late. Sweat formed on his brow.
“I really don’t see...”
“But it’s Dr.Bell who never sees, not the forest for the trees! My goodness, I sound like a poet! You’re keeping a secret from your colleague in medicine, aren’t you, Dr. Frobisher?”
“Well...I...”
Just then a white Himalayan kitten poked its head under the window sill and mewed. It jumped down on the Persian rug, sauntered silently across its surface like a ghost, approached Frobisher and sprang in his lap. Frobisher turned a brighter red than ever before.
“I should have mentioned the trail of cat hairs to the window. It’s an allergy to cats Dr. Bell. That’s what you’ve got.”
“Frobisher, why didn’t you tell me?”
“They’re against the rules, Old Boy. I didn’t want to have you as my partner in crime in case I was found out. The professional implications were horrendous. Professors setting bad examples of behavior. Bad form and all that.”
Bell took out his handkerchief and blew his nose a final time. He put it away and looked at Doyle and sighed,
“Doyle, well done. I needed a mirror for a diagnosis and you were that mirror. Doctor to doctor, I congratulate you.”
He got up, took a step towards Doyle and shook his hand.
“You mean I’m passing?!”
“If that’s what you deduce Doyle, make your own conclusions.”
Bell opened the door and watched Doyle walk to the head of the broad dark oak stairway.
Doyle looked back at his mentor as the light of the office streamed out into the dim hallway, marking a golden rectangle of learning on the floor.
Joe Bell was lit from behind, the edge of his gray hair glowing, his eyes like a hawk while attending to his student.
Doyle took his leave having one final image. It wasn’t the dark stairway or the dim hall or the head of his professor.
It was the embarrassed gray-whiskered old-rusty-medaled campaigner holding his expensive long-haired cat in his lap.
He was a study in scarlet.
©Steven Hunley2011
Steven Hunley
09-11-2015, 06:19 PM
I really appreciate the comments. As you know, plenty read but few comment. Frobisher was based on Nigel Bruce's Watson. Bell was fashioned out of historical Bell sayings and Holmes' physical appearance as represented by Brett and Rathbone.
I do have one more unexpected treat. Another true-to-imitation Holmes story. I shouldn't really put it here, since it's an old post. It's also highly entertaining and more racy than anything Doyle would have done, after all the old fellow was almost Victorian. But since there's no law against such things, and since I'm a self-serving b*st*rd anyway, and will do anything to in the way of self-promotion, anything controversial in fact, here goes.
The Bloodstone Pair
I was interviewing Holmes for the Times Sunday supplement. As he was getting ready to tell me a story, and another story, almost out of nowhere, appeared right before my eyes. He was busy pulling some black shag from his Persian slipper. My eyes were scanning the room and came upon a small curio in the cabinet under the picture of General Gordon of Khartoum.
“What’s that?” I asked. They proved to be the best two words of my life.
“A heart-shaped bloodstone,” he said, without looking up. “One of a pair.”
It looked perfect, like a hand-carved mineral Valentine.
“Where’s the other?”
“Destroyed, by accident if I’m not mistaken, and I rarely am."
He lit his Meerschaum, I’d given him a Meerschaum for his birthday, and sat down in the chair next to the window, after removing the wax dummy of himself. He opened the window and looked out.
“There’s no need to worry. This is no night for sharp-shooters or crack shots,” he cautioned, “Just look at it.”
It was as wet if not wetter than it had been for the last three days. And this was only October. The sun had gone down and it was late. Street lamps reflected irregular beams of light on the cobblestones. Rain made everything sparkle. The black rain-slicked carriages, dark leather harnesses on the backs of the horses, even the men’s silk top hats glittered as they were leaving the theatres.
“I first saw the stone when Watson showed it to me. Damn Watson anyway, having been in the Afghan Wars he’s much more knowledgeable about the East than I am. I don’t care if people think he’s a bumbler. He’s not. Being a bumbler is just his strategy for dealing with fools.”
“The rags that masquerade in London as newspapers portray him as a side-kick.”
“I agree, and they couldn’t be more wrong. Did you know that it happened, the stone happened, on All Hallows Eve? And the weather was just like this.”
I sat down and grabbed my pencil and notebook. Holmes went on.
“Watson fairly ran through the door that night and his umbrella was dripping all over the carpet. I could hear it making a mess.”
“Get a purchase on yourself Watson, and place it in the elephant’s foot.”
“Do you know what this is, Holmes?”
I was distracted, playing my violin at the time, and didn’t even look up. You know how it is with old friends.
“No Watson, what is it?”
“It’s a clue. That’s what it is, old boy, a clue.”
I put down my fiddle immediately and turned. My God, if the man’s eyes weren’t sparkling.
“A clue to what?”
“A clue to a mystery of course. And perhaps a disappearance.”
Naturally I was intrigued. I put out my palm and he handed it over. It was small, about the size of your thumb. It was a stone, heart-shaped, or I should say, valentine-shaped. Green with red irregular spots, a bloodstone. This stone had been held in someone’s hand and polished over and over. Not with jeweler’s rouge mind you. I examined it under my glass. There were no scratches.
“Inspector Lestrade told me to ask you to have a look at it.”
I gave Lestrade’s name a look of distain. This wouldn’t be the first time Scotland Yard had bungled things.
“This isn’t a clue. It’s only a piece of a clue! It’s environment that counts. Where was it found?”
“On a stone railway bridge at Maidenhead. Next to that was a Webley with one shot fired. The neighbors reported the noise at 2:00 AM.”
“So what’s this got to do with a disappearance? “
“Captain Burrows-Smythe of my old regiment has gone missing. And that was his service revolver. The stone is from Afghanistan. It was one of a pair.”
“How do you know that?”
“They’re always sold in pairs, didn’t you know? Always sold in pairs.”
It didn’t make much sense. A man loses a Webley and a stone heart and the same time in the same place. Highly unlikely. Not much to go on. Few deductions to be made. But when you’ve eliminated the impossible, only the possible remains. The next day Lestrade had news for us and sent a note.
Watson was reading the paper about some young woman in Kensington who was run over. Had no business in the street at that hour. I believe she was in her nightgown. He was thinking of taking the case himself. People never credit the poor man’s abilities. He’s more than just my biographer.
“Here’s your answer about the disappearance old fellow, it’s a note from Lestrade. Scotland Yard has just fished his body from the Thames. One shot in the head.”
Watson was shocked. He looked absolutely unbuttoned.
“Can’t imagine him being a coward and taking that way out. Man was a professional soldier and all that. You should have seen him on the Frontier. Or how we fought shoulder-to-shoulder through the Khyber Pass. That’s where I picked up that Jesail bullet. He won the Indian order of Merit in the process. He was a brave man, be assured of that.”
“London is a big city Watson, and has its own stresses. One shouldn’t discount them. Pray tell me more about him.”
“He was handsome, and had a way with women. It was his manner and the way he moved, with a certain degree of insolence. He was tall and regular-featured. He could talk for hours on any subject. There was an odd side to him though, now that I think of it. He was dabbling in the black arts, and would take his off duty days and wander the native bazars and curio shops. And I believe, from what I know of him, he was a bit of a rake. We bivouacked together on and off for nearly two years.”
Just then there was a knock on the door and grey-haired Mrs. Hudson appeared with the mail.
“Here’s a letter for you Dr. Watson,”
He opened it up. As he read the lines I read his expression. He was astonished, and perplexed, and then so dumb-founded he had to sit down.
“This is the most curious letter I’ve ever read. I can hardly believe that it’s true!
He dropped it right on the floor.
“Have a glass of sherry old man; it will help steady your nerves. Do you mind?”
“No, not at all. Have at it.”
It was addressed to Watson and read as follows:
“Dear John,
You will find this an almost unbelievable tale. It started one day when I was with you at Kandahar. You may not believe what I’m about to tell you, but when they find my body, you’ll have your proof. A terrible thing has happened. I’m responsible for a girl’s death. It was brought about due to my greed and lust. I’m as good as a common murderer.
I was in the native bazar, looking for something unusual. At an antique shop, through a dusty window pane, I noticed the glitter of sunlight on a pair of stones. They sat near the window in a green velvet box. I could see from the outside they weren’t worth too much, they were matched, but they were bloodstones, a semi-precious stone at that. I fancied they make a pair of cufflinks. I could have them mounted cheaply and went in to inquire.
The shop smelled of sandalwood incense. The bell attached to the door rang as soon as I entered. Then a little brown man appeared wearing wire-rimmed glasses. His face was as wrinkled as an old crocodile but his smile was a sweet as Patchouli. Odd fellow, that’s what I thought.
“How much for the stones?” I inquired.
“Three hundred rupees,” he answered.
“Oh, I say, they’re not diamonds you know! They’re only semi-precious stones.”
He was ready to make a fool of me, but I know my stones. He looked me up and down.
“They’re bloodstones Sahib, and this particular pair is worth more than any two diamonds of similar weight” he cackled, “Why, they’re a bargain at three hundred rupees!”
I was getting upset. The man didn’t know who he was dealing with. I’d show the old fool how to bargain!
“So what makes them so special?”
“I’ll tell you but you must keep it a secret. Oh, they are precious, have no fear about that!”
He examined me again.
“You’re a handsome gentleman,” he looked at the gold on my epaulettes, “Captain. I suspect you are a ladies’ man.”
He started walking around me. Sizing me up. It was unnerving I tell you, unnerving.
“Flattery will get you nowhere with me, you impudent fellow!”
“Now don’t have a fit! Steady. Don’t you want to know about the magic?”
“Magic?”
“The magic in the stones. The power they hold is worth a fortune to a man like you.”
At that he closed the door, put a sign in the window and made fast the lock.
“Now, Sahib, if you don't mind," he said, rubbing his hands together. “Let’s get down to business.”
***
He placed one of the stones in my hand.
“Examine it closely, Sahib. Memorize every shape and drop of blood on it. Take your time.”
I looked at one side and then at the other, and memorized each and every spot of blood and its’ shape. At the curves where it met like a woman’s breasts, and at the point on the bottom.
“Now look at this one.”
I did, but it looked exactly the same. I thought he’d switched them, using some sort of sleight of hand, and handed me back the same one.
“It’s the same one again. I can tell. There’s no difference at all.”
“Indeed, there is no difference! Yet, it is the twin. They’re exactly the same and cut from the same larger stone. They share a certain something and more.”
I was getting impatient. I wanted the stones and I’d had enough of this little Wog and his damned tomfoolery and told him so.
“Tomfoolery is it? We’ll just see! Stand over there behind the counter where I can’t see you and you can’t see me.”
“Anything to get this over,” I said, and went behind the counter.
“Now what?”
“Put it on your palm and keep your hand opened flat.”
I did, and as it sat there, I noticed a warm breeze. I could feel it on my palm. I looked for an open window, because I thought he’d the shop locked the shop up tight. And even more distressing was the fact I thought I smelled curry powder, as if someone was cooking.
“I say, you’ve left a window open here somewhere and your neighbors must be cooking.”
He laughed and then positively cackled, “So that’s what you think is it? Step out and see.”
What happened next was hard to explain. He was blowing on his palm, on the twin stone, and when he stopped my perception of curry-filled breezes ceased at once. It was if someone had closed the window.
“Now watch this,” he said next, “close your hand over it and button your eyes as well.”
I followed his instructions to the letter. I noticed the stone getting warm and then warmer and warmer. When I opened my eyes he was rubbing its twin on a rough piece of sack-cloth. It was warm, so mine was warm too!
“You believe in your famous telegraphic apparatus, don’t you?”
“Yes, of course.”
“These stones have telepathic powers. They convey energy, both physical and mental.”
“What do you mean by mental?”
“I mean, if you were to give one, to a lover for instance, whatever image you wanted to convey would be seen and felt by her when you concentrated. Any emotion. Any feeling you desire. Like your telegraph, but better! No matter the distance. And it doesn’t charge by the word!”
“Why, that’s extraordinary!”
It set my mind reeling. The possibilities seemed endless. The things I would be able to do! I must admit, when it came to the ladies I was a brute. I peered back at him and he had a look on his face. Smug, that’s what it was. He knew he had made me. He’d taken my measure the moment I stepped in his shop. The man was a tailor of men.
“You’ll have your three hundred rupees by tomorrow,” I barked, and walked out the door straight to my bank.
All that night I couldn’t sleep, you can well imagine. I had to have the stones and would have paid any price to get them. Three hundred seemed a bargain, the old fakir was right.
Just then Watson stopped reading. He loosened his collar and said,
“My mouth is getting dry, could we ask Mrs. Hudson for tea?”
“Why not? We’ll take a break from this and do some deductions.”
He called down for tea. Just then Watson announced,
“You know Holmes, when I think back, I’ve seen this before. It was one of a pair in a green velvet box on his dresser! One disappeared, and the other, for some reason, he’d started to carry around with him.”
“Like a charm or a rabbit’s paw for good luck perhaps?”
“Perhaps, but if it were that, I think he would have had taken it with him on patrol, or during an engagement. The times I remember him opening the box was when he was leaving for a weekend or night off duty. He’d get dressed, splash on some cologne and then take the remaining stone out of the box and place it in his pocket. If it was for luck, then why not for battle?”
“It may be, Watson, that it was for a battle of a different sort. And another thing that’s most peculiar. This letter reads more like a narrative than a death-note. Did the man have literary aspirations that you know of?”
“Quite so, old man! He started off writing dispatches in the Army when General Roberts marched on Kandahar and always kept a journal. Later, when he returned, he wrote a column for a daily newspaper.”
Mrs. Hudson arrived with the tea and complained,
“Why you two gentlemen would want to drink tea so late in the day is beyond me! Don’t you know it will keep you up?”
“Tut tut, Mrs. Hudson,” said Holmes, “that’s exactly what we want it to do.”
“Well, I never!”
“Of course you haven’t, Mrs. Hudson, of course you haven’t,” replied Holmes, and gently ushered the old woman out.
“Now do continue.”
Watson cleared his throat and read on.
Once I got my hands on the stones, you can imagine how I felt. Like a boy on Christmas with a bright shiny wind-up train and ready to play, that was me. But where would I try it out? We were on the frontier. White women were not common. Most were engaged or married to other officers. But there was one, a girl that worked at the East India company bank. I’d asked her out numerous times before. To company picnics, strolls in the park, that sort of thing. She was an ice queen, and always refused. Here was an opportunity to test it. To turn a woman so unwilling around would be proof of the stone’s power.
I took one to a jeweler and had a silver clasp made so it could be fastened to clothing like a broach. Then I went to the bank and said like an innocent babe,
“Here, this is for you. I know you think I’m a bounder. I’m sure I’ve bothered you quite enough. But you’re a lovely woman and I’m about to be discharged back to England, so it wouldn’t hurt if you took it. Accept it as an apology. There’s no interest to accrue, if you get my meaning. My dearest grandmother gave it to me.”
She was a lovely woman. That part of it was true. Even with her spectacles on and her hair in a bun you can see she was pretty. Even with her collar up so high it nearly touched her ears it was readily apparent. Her eyes were soft and doe-like, as was her manner.
“Why thank you,” she answered, turning it over in her hands. “I’ll wear it tomorrow when I go to church. I have a green dress with a red bow it will match. I did think you were a bit of a bounder, but now I see that you’re not.”
That was it. I’d planted the seed.
Sunday I went to the park. It wasn’t a proper English park but it would do. I sat on the commons and waited until about eleven o’clock. Then I took the stone from my pocket and began thinking. That hair, those eyes, what was under that collar. I’ve always like women’s necks you see, especially at the back where their hair curls when it’s up. I concentrated on the path to the park and then the park itself. How cool it was in the shade of the trees and the man selling flavored ices near the benches.
I was concentrating for almost an hour and grew impatient.
“Bloody Wog!” I thought. “I should go right now and get my money back. The whole thing was some kind of a hoax!”
Just then she appeared. She saw me at once and came over.
“Fancy meeting you here,” she cooed. “I was just thinking of you!”
“Really now, I was doing the same thing!”
“Yes, it was so hot when we got out of Sunday service. I remembered the shade here and the trees,” she laughed, “And the man over there selling ices. Why are you here? It is lovely. Do you come here often?"
“I’m trying to brighten myself up,” I answered, “I just found out my grandmother is in ill health.”
“Oh really, how awful!”
“I’ll be going home to attend her soon. I’m her only grandson.”
It was so sad, and I said it so sincere-like that she had to react with those soft brown doe eyes. She looked down and noticed the heart on her dress.
“Then here, give this to her with my blessing. She’ll want to know you still have it, that it’s precious to you.”
She undid the clasp and placed it in my hand.
“I think it’s best this way,” she said softly.
“I agree. It’s the right thing to do. Old Gran has always valued it highly. Want an ice?”
I helped her up and we went to get flavored ices. She never let go of my hand the rest of the afternoon. And she was correct, that soft little bank clerk, the stone was precious to me. It was growing precious and more precious by the day.
Two weeks later I was discharged and took a steamer home. The trip back took…
Here Watson stopped.
“Don’t stop now Watson, carry on!” I cried.
“I can’t, it’s the end!”
“What, he stopped writing?”
“No, the paper, it’s ripped!”
“Then look in the envelope man and find the rest.”
***
Watson re-examined the envelope and found more paper, but it wasn’t the end of the letter, it was a note from the Royal Mail. It read,
“Dear customer,
We are sorry for the inconvenience, but due to an error your letter has been damaged. We were testing out a new-fangled mail sorting machine and it got clogged with correspondences. Your letter was torn in half, I’m afraid. It will take us a day to unassemble the machine and retrieve your letter. You’re not alone however. We calculate that one hundred and two letters are in the same condition including fifty invitations to the Queen Mother’s Royal Ball. Your letter is good company. We sincerely regret the delay.
So very sorry,
Postmaster General, Henry Cecil Raikes
“Let me examine that, Watson,” I barked.
“Look here,” he said. “The post mark is from Kensington, yet the body was found near the railway bridge at Maidenhead. And the bottom of the envelope had been resealed.”
“Probably happened when the machine went wrong, Holmes.”
“Yes, Watson, I’m sure of it. Machines do certain work badly; they’ll be the death of us yet. Leave it to the Royal Mail to deliver your correspondences in pieces.”
I stepped over to the door and took my deerstalker hat off the peg and grabbed my coat.
“Watson, we can’t sit around waiting. I’ll catch the express to Maidenhead and investigate. You go to Kensington for your case. We’ll meet tomorrow and see what our work turns up.”
“Detecting is not all accomplished from one’s study,” agreed Watson, putting on his coat.
“Yes, Watson, that’s correct. The game is afoot!”
After we left, the only sounds left in the study were the clinking of porcelain tea cups as Mrs. Hudson cleaned up the mess, the mantel clock ticking, and the quick sounds of horses hoofs clattering on the cobblestones as two Hansom cabs pulled away in opposite directions.
By the next evening we had much to discuss, and pouring tea again, as she usually did, Mrs. Hudson remarked,
“Now gentlemen, don’t you agree, this is a more proper time for your tea?”
“You’re correct as usual, Mrs. Hudson,” chorused the two of us like two errant schoolboys.
“Well Watson,” I continued “It was a suicide, of that I have no doubt. He sat on the bridge railing before he fired the shot. There was a thread from his trousers caught on one of rough stones, and Lastrade showed me his service revolver. On the trigger guard was a small piece of the same stone as well. The revolver wasn’t placed there, it was dropped.”
“The only way a soldier takes that way out, is if he’s done something dishonorable,” replied Watson, pouring cream in his cup.
“That’s exactly what he referred to in the letter. It must have prayed on his mind. The murder of an innocent girl. If true, it deserves more investigation. What about your case in Kensington Watson?”
“The young woman was hit by a milk wagon at four in the morning. I saw the body in the morgue. Mangled, horribly mangled. She was wearing a black Japanese silk dressing gown, a Kimono, and under that a white cotton nightgown. The milk man couldn’t have possibly seen her at that hour. He was the only witness, and he’s been exonerated, naturally”.
“But was she a rich girl or a poor girl or what, and what did her jewelry look like, and her shoes? And who’s been by to claim the body? I would think by now, she would have been identified.”
“Her shoes and jewelry were put aside and locked up. No one has identified her yet. As I said, she was horribly mangled. But her face wasn’t touched, and can I tell you one thing for certain Holmes, the young woman was beautiful.”
“Yes?”
“It wasn’t like looking at a death-mask at all. It was like seeing a bust of a Greek goddess at the Louvre. She had marvelous features cut in perfect proportions. Like a singular delicate porcelain figurine with no match.”
I sipped my tea and began to pace back and forth.
“Jewelry is an indicator of taste, position and style, Watson. Go back and see what you can about her things, perhaps I’ll go with you and we’ll take a look together tomorrow It’s best in these cases to strike while the iron is still hot. The trail to her identification may have already grown cold. But I’ll say one thing old man; a poor woman doesn’t wear a silk kimono, and has no business in Kensington, especially at that hour.”
“I agree, and I would appreciate any help you can give me.”
“Think nothing of it old fellow, that’s what consulting detectives are for.”
“Hello, what’s this?”
The doctor was adding sugar to his tea when he noticed a corner of an envelope sticking out from under the tea tray. It was his letter! It was in a new envelope and addressed with a typewriter. It contained another note of apology, and the rest of his letter.
“Well, what’s keeping you?” I cried. “Read on!”
He did, although it was a chore. Many parts were glued together and some were missing entirely.
The steamer home took it’s time. I had no ship-board romances, as most of the voyage I was sea-sick. I’m no good at sea. That’s probably why I joined the army.
London was packed with more white people than I’d seen in years. There were plenty of opportunities to use the stone, but then again, there weren’t. Women, loose women, could be enjoyed for a mere pittance. So enjoy them I did, and found much of my entertainment in the West End, and I not referring to theatres. Drinking, gambling and women. That’s how it was, at least up until I met the most incredible girl. It was a charity ball, and many of my fellow officers were going and suggested I go. Comrades in arms, and all that. I was hesitant at first, but I was swept away by the obligations I’d given, and a man’s only as good as his word.
Besides, I’d always looked good in uniform. It still fit like a glove. It was one of those fund raisers where women of station would dance with a man for a donation. I’d always aspired to marry an upper-crust woman, but the places I frequented I never ran into any, you can understand that.
That night things changed.
The ball room at the Savoy in Westminster was lit with new electric lights and filled with soldiers and sailors. The dancers moved as a body and swung past me in circles as the band played, at one with the hypnotic music. There were dozens of ladies in expensive ball gowns, wearing ropes of lustrous pearls and white gloves, everyone with her hair up, each more alluring than the last. The officers in their red uniforms wore glittering gold braid on their shoulders. Enchanting, that’s the impression it gave me.
I don’t know why but I felt out of place.
Just then a magnificent creature appeared. Fair, but with dark hair, ringed with luxuriant curls. It fell in black cascades over her pale shoulders. She was the sole woman with her hair down. Her cheeks blushed like a budding pink rose, and her lips were coral.
When the music stopped I struck like a viper. I outranked the subaltern that was her partner.
“I’m next on your card,” I said. He gave me a look and noticed my rank, and retreated in good order.
“Which one are you?”
I glanced at her card. There were quite a few names, so I did what I do best, I improvised, and picked one at random.
“Right there,” I said. “Reginald Frobisher, that’s me, at your service.”
I bowed. The band started again. Taking her gloved hand in mine, I placed my other hand around her waist, and before she could say more, we were off.
She danced marvelously. Not too close, not too far. She was light as a proverbial feather. Her green eyes reflected the sparkle of the chandeliers like a hundred glittering stars. We danced faster and faster and she laughed an incomparable laugh. I’ve seen nothing like her before or since. A wild extravagant creature. When they stopped playing we danced out through the tall French doors that led to the veranda. Then we gazed at the moon like two lovers and talked the rest of the night away. I realized that although I was supposed to have a dance card, I didn’t. I hadn’t bothered to pick mine up, and didn’t know her name, and for all I know, she wasn’t even on it. I fumbled in my pocket saying,
“I believe I’ve lost my card! And I don’t really know your name.”
“It’s Val****** Carn*****.”
“I can’t read it Holmes, her name is all a jumble!”
“Let me see, Watson. Yes, it’s been re-glued here and they’ve smeared the ink. The fools! They have no idea what they’re doing! Keep reading though, we may be able to find out who she is from what’s left.”
“All right old man, I’ll continue.”
And he did.
“Mine’s…” I stumbled. “It’s…”
“Reginald Frobisher, isn’t it Captain?”
“Yes, that’s it.”
The music stopped and the ball was over. Time flew by like a comet. The hours had been nothing. She started to leave, but when she hesitated, I took the opportunity to ask,
“Will I see you again?”
“I’m going the Tate Gallery this weekend on Sunday at three, try there.”
I was pleased no end, like a kid watching fireworks explode. Right before she crossed through the French windows she turned one last time and informed me,
“By the by, Captain, Reginald Frobisher was the man you took me away from. Next time guess farther down on the card!”
I was stunned. She was a remarkable woman indeed and just ravishing.
I couldn’t wait to get at her.
We met at the Tate on Sunday as planned. I’ll never forget that afternoon. When I saw her she was sitting on a bench, looking at Turner’s painting of Parliament lost in the fog. I admit I was dazed at her radiance, and lost myself in the beauteous fog that was her. We held hands and looked at the Constable’s next. The entire afternoon was sort of a dream.
The next weekend was the British Museum and tea. We had several more meetings after that, until her mother put a halt to it. It seems her mother got wind of my reputation. Rake and a cad is what she called me. I would soil the family name is what she said. Her father was out of touch with the family, and spent his days in the library reading books on Egyptology. He could care less. Her mother was the problem.
By then she’d been wearing the stone for weeks.
“My mother told me to give back the stone.”
“Really, is that true?”
“But I won’t. I refuse. I’ll hide it instead. I’ll take it off my dress and wear it on my nightgown right next to my heart.”
That’s another thing I liked about her, she was strong-willed.
“I’ll be visiting my maiden aunt in town soon. I’ll not be locked up in a castle. Perhaps we can meet clandestinely.”
“Of course we can, Darling. We’ll meet on the sly.”
I took note of this last line about the castle. My eyes narrowed and I exclaimed,
“So she lives in a castle does she? Not many do. That narrows the field, Watson.”
“Perhaps it was just her girlish imagination, old man.”
I put my fingers together and considered
.
“Perhaps, but read on.”
One night I’d had enough of waiting. I’d been drinking heavily at the club. The alcohol was fueling my desperate lust. I thought of nothing but her. Her figure, her hair and her eyes in consort, had cast a wicked spell on me. I felt I must have her, and it had to be that very night. I went home and got the stone out of the box. Then I fluffed every pillow in the house. I made up the bed with my finest Egyptian cotton sheets. I lit incense and candles and opened the window. It was late but I didn’t care a whit. Her reputation meant nothing to me in the state I was in. I planned to deflower her right on the spot, and deal with the stained sheets tomorrow. Everything was I, I, and more I.
Then I rubbed, caressed, and fondled that wonderful heart-shaped stone, singing,
“Rub a dub dub. Rub a dub dub.”
This was going to be a night of supreme passions unleashed, and no nursery rhyme, I assure you.
“Rub a dub dub.”
Then all Hell broke loose with a vengeance. Within moments my dream was shattered right before my eyes. The image of what happened haunts me like a specter. I take full responsibility for what occurred and have decided to make amends by doing the honorable thing. It’s the only path left.
Your fellow soldier,
Captain Henry Burrows Smythe
“Well, that’s that,” I said, and handed Watson his coat. “We’re off.”
“Where to?” he asked like a scout without his compass.
“I, to the mortician’s and you to the scene of the accident. I want you to look for possible witnesses. This case of mine is definitely closed. Now it’s time for me to help you work on yours old fellow, remember?”
In an hour I was at the mortician’s. He was a tall fellow and wore wire-rimmed glasses on an irregular face as best he could by bending the frames. A white blood-stained coat completed his look and pinned to that was a bright brass badge with his name.
“Dr. Goodblood, I presume?”
“You presume correctly, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” he answered, “I’ve seen your engraving in the papers!”
“Very well, then you’ll show me the effects of the Jane Doe that died in the accident in Kensington. By the way, where’s the body?”
“Oh that, Sir, is already secured in a pauper’s grave in Whitechapel. We couldn’t ‘ave it stinking up the place, now could we?”
He shuffled off and opened a box near the window.
“But as for ‘er stuff,” he continued. “‘ere it is.”
What a bloody mess it was. There lay in the cardboard box a cotton nightgown once white. On the neck was an embroidered label that read “Oriental goods Limited, Bond Street” stitched in silk thread. Under that was a tiny pair of Persian slippers, eggshell colored, and under that a black silk kimono with dragons and poppies making symmetrical patterns. I noted the label on the slippers. Only one gold ring was found on her finger. The kimono, now stiff with clotted blood, defied detection, and was unlabeled. I was turning to leave when Dr. Goodblood laughed and said,
“I don’t suppose they’ll ever find out who she was,” as if it were chanting a fact he chanted a thousand times.
A beam of light, having escaped the blinds, reflected off his shiny brass name badge and directed itself to the kimono like a spotlight, which had previously been hidden in shadow.
I turned back again to give one more look.
“Hello, what’s this?”
I took out my glass.
There, under the folds of the garment, was an unexplained glitter. It looked like a metallic or mineral substance of some sort, made up of microscopic red and green flakes. Under those was a sliver setting mashed flat with a pin. I took a paper from my pocket and folded it into a packet, scooped the powder in, then ran out of the door, as if I was on fire.
“How rude these consulting detectives can be,” said Dr. Goodblood behind me, scratching his head, “Not even a thank you or a fare-thee-well!”
Later that afternoon we two met again at Baker Street and had tea.
Watson looked puzzled and I, for a change, had a satisfied look on my face. After the first cup I asked,
“Well Watson, tell me what you’ve found.”
“It’s the most curious thing yet Holmes, I sure of it.”
“Go on.”
“I couldn’t find any witnesses. But when I was ready to leave a man was putting a sign in the window just overlooking the scene. It announced that the flat was to let. I considered that the former tenants might be possible witnesses and went to inquire.
“That’s just it,” he answered straight out. “My tenant has disappeared.”
I thought I was done for. The last possible witness had taken off.
“Oh, I suppose they couldn’t pay the rent, was that it?”
“By George no, sir, not him. He was well off. An officer just decommissioned. He had plenty of money.”
I had my connections with the army and decided perhaps I could look up his new residence so I asked his name.
“Captain Henry Burrows Smythe,” he said, “Here’s his card.”
‘Holmes, you could have knocked me down with a feather!”
“It makes so much sense! Now all the pieces are in place.”
“What do you mean, “The pieces are in place?”
“Just so. Have another cup, old friend, and allow me to tie the pieces together while we eat a piece of Mrs. Hudson’s marvelous cake. You’ll see our two cases are one.”
Watson could hardly believe it. And when I look back on it, neither could I.
“I traced the shoes to their maker, and going on my description and reputation, they gave a woman’s address. It was a present for her daughter, not for herself. But the address was distinctive. It was Highclere Castle in Berkshire. Lord Carnarvon. The woman was Almina Victoria Maria Alexandra Wombwell Carnarvon, his wife, and the slippers were for their daughter,Valentine Carnarvon.
“The V and C!”
“Yes.”
“Astounding.”
“There’s more facts even more astounding, old man. I noticed a mineral substance on the black silk kimono. It was smashed bloodstone in a flattened silver setting, crushed by the wheels of the milk wagon.”
“But what was she doing in that part of town at that hour?”
“Simplicity itself, Watson. She was visiting her maiden aunt who lived only two blocks away. Here’s what I deduced happened. Your captain took a flat in the city. He was an admitted rake and wanted the stone to work its power on her. The other was still in her possession. When she awoke early in the morning just before dawn it was close to her heart, pinned near her breast on the black silk kimono which she used as a dressing gown. He was just two blocks away working the magic. As he rubbed it and stroked it, the fire in her veins began coursing through her body as relentlessly as the passion he had in store for her. Its force was undeniable. She put on her slippers and ran out the door.”
At this point Watson stopped stirring his tea. He was focused immediately on the scene.
“Although there was a full moon that night, the clouds were ominous and black. The moon, as bright as it was, failed to penetrate their deadly shadows. She saw his study alight through the open window, and dashed across the street. She wouldn’t have been seen by the milk wagon, and it was too late to stop its crushing wheels. He must have heard her scream from the window and looked out.
By the time he ran down the stairs she was dead, a victim of his ardent desires. He wrote the note to you, posted it in the mail on his way to his home where he kept his revolver. Then he walked to the bridge and took the only acceptable way out.”
Watson’s spoon dropped. He sat back.
“I don’t believe in black magic, Holmes.”
“Neither do I, Watson, as a rule. Yet I believe that’s how it happened. When you’ve eliminated the impossible, only the possible remains.”
“It’s incredible.”
“Let it be a lesson to us both, old man. Great power in the hands of the wrong man is often abused, with catastrophic results.”
Watson had given up on his tea, and the cup was cold as he stared vacantly at the bust of the bard sitting on the bookcase. It was so much larger than life. Then he muttered,
“And therefore as a stranger give it welcome.
There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,
Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”
I replied solemnly, “Hamlet, Act one, scene five.”
With that he ended his story. I stopped writing and put my pencil back in my pocket.
I knew out of respect to his Lord and Ladyship the Times would never print it.
And they never did.
©Steven Hunley2013
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