The Mammoth Book of New Sherlock Holmes Adventures (67 page)

Suddenly Holmes clapped a hand to his brow. “Lestrade, has anyone touched the jar of chloral hydrate?”

“Why, no,” the detective replied. “There was no immediate need.”

“Mr Dowling?”

“I did not, sir. The contents are plainly marked. I fear that John knew what he was doing.”

“Not John,” Holmes said harshly. “Hugh.”

“I don’t understand, Mr Holmes. What do you mean?”

“I mean,” said my friend, “that your partner was poisoned by his brother. Quick, Lestrade, let us go upstairs. The question now is whether we can prove our case.”

It was late the following night before my friend and I had the opportunity to talk at length about the case over a whisky-and-soda at Baker Street. By then John Abergavenny had died, a victim of cardiac and respiratory collapse, without having regained consciousness and his brother had been arrested on a charge of fratricide.

“My interest in the case”, Holmes said, “was aroused by the differences in the way John Abergavenny reacted when his senior partner put complaints to him. He quickly acknowledged his acts of carelessness. It was plain that he was over-tiring himself. That might have been because he went out drinking every night, but it seemed entirely out of character for him to do so. Besides, there was a possible alternative explanation. Perhaps he was continuing to work on his fiction late into the night after a full day’s legal work, keeping it a secret because of Dowling’s disapproval and a natural lack of confidence in his own literary talents. I also entertained a degree of scepticism about the incidents reported by both Bevington and Stewart – which John vehemently denied. Yet why should the witnesses lie? The contradictions intrigued me. When I mentioned the case to you originally, I drew an analogy with Stevenson’s romance and from the outset the business seemed to me to possess certain of the features of a cheap thriller. An apparently respectable man leading a double life, dipping his toe in the world of vice. It is a perennial theme.”

He took another sip from his glass. “I had only to meet Bevington and Stewart to be sure that they were not lying. On the contrary, they seemed unimpeachable. So – either John was behaving as wildly as they described, or someone was impersonating him. I noticed at once that Hugh resembled him in build and features. True, he did not have a moustache, was balding and his hair was different in colour. But any actor worth his salt could easily change all that.”

“But Hugh was a writer, not an actor,” I objected.

“He had been a court advocate,” Holmes said impatiently, “and few men are better suited to playing a part than barristers. They have the advantage of professional training coupled with constant practice. I once said to you, Watson, that when a doctor goes wrong he is the first of criminals, but I should have added the rider that a practitioner of the law comes a close second.” He gave a grim chuckle. “I hope I was not unduly prejudiced because I had found his writing slick and meretricious. It puzzled me that, as little better than a hack wordsmith, he had not published a book for some time. With that in mind, I regarded his explanation for haunting his old chambers as less than convincing.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Surely he was wise to be seeking out fresh stories?”

“If that was so, why had he been silent for so long? I wondered if he was suffering from simple inability to write. It is a curse which, I believe, afflicts many authors. I had rather the impression of a man living on past glories, a pathetic shadow of his former self, hanging around the legal world where he had scored his early successes. A sad man, too, no doubt overtaken by younger men who had not been distracted from their careers by the lure of appearing in print. Did you notice that his cuffs were threadbare?”

“I thought it a Bohemian touch, appropriate enough in a man who had given up his wig for the pen.”

“That is no doubt what he hoped people would think,” Holmes said dismissively. “He seemed alarmed to see us, which further fuelled my suspicions. Yet he was no fool. How careful he was to portray himself as a man on the brink of renewed success. I could not guess why he would wish harm to his brother – who had, according to Dowling, always envied him. I was concerned for John, but failed to realize that his life was in imminent danger. As soon as he knew of my involvement, Hugh decided that the time had come to perfect his plan.”

“The cold-blooded devil,” I said with a shiver.

“The legal world is small and enclosed. He must have known Bevington and Stewart or known of them and he successfully used them as his dupes. He was intent on creating the impression that his brother was on the downward slope and contemplating suicide. His own visit to Dowling ensured that the calumny seemed credible. Yet in his haste he made a crucial mistake. After he left us, he called on his brother – who had returned home to cool his temper after quitting Essex Street – and pretended to sympathize with him about Dowling’s behaviour in calling on my assistance. They had a drink together. When a chance came, he slipped a murderous dose of chloral hydrate into his brother’s glass. But in his haste to be away before the poison took effect he forgot to wipe the jar containing the sedative.”

“Leaving his fingerprints on it, then!” I exclaimed.

“As Lestrade has now established, I am glad to say. Do you recall that as recently as last December, Lord Belper’s committee of enquiry recommended that Edward Henry’s method of identification of criminals by fingerprints be adopted in place of anthropometry and dactylography? The details are in my scrapbook, if you care to consult it. The decision is an excellent one, by the way. Henry is a sound man and he has been kind enough to acknowledge the assistance of a monograph of my own in compiling his textbook for police on the science of fingerprinting. Hugh Abergavenny was back in King’s Bench Walk before it occurred to him that it would be prudent to clean the jar. Thankfully, by the time he returned to his brother’s rooms, Dowling was on the scene and Hugh had no opportunity to make good his mistake without arousing suspicion.”

“How did you hit upon the truth?”

“By reading the manuscript. The first chapter of the new book was written too beautifully and boasts a plot too original for it to have been the work of a man who could never aspire beyond the pot-boiler. I realized at once that Hugh Abergavenny had lied when he claimed it as his own. It must have been the story which his brother had lent him for an opinion. Hugh told John it was worthless at the same time as he was covertly transcribing it in his own hand.”

Holmes sighed. “I shall always regret my inability to save John Abergavenny, Watson. There is only the crumb of consolation that his novel will serve as a fitting memorial to him.”

“It is a kind of justice,” I said.

My friend’s sallow cheeks flushed. “And I sincerely trust that Hugh Abergavenny, too, will receive his just deserts when his case comes to trial.

It was a sentiment that I echoed, but the murderer contrived to cheat the law. Five days before his trial, Hugh Abergavenny hanged himself in his prison cell. It emerged that he, rather than his younger brother, had a long history of nervous trouble and he had once before attempted to take his own life, when the last book he managed to complete was rejected by every publisher in London.

The Legacy of Rachel Howells

Michael Doyle

Preface

Another very singular case came within my own observation. It was sent to me by an eminent London publisher. This gentleman had in his employment a head of department whose name we shall take as Musgrave. He was a hard-working person, with no special feature in his character. Mr Musgrave died, and several years after his death a letter was received addressed to him, in the care of his employers. It bore the postmark of a tourist resort in the west of Canada, and had the note “Confl films” upon the outside of the envelope, with the words “Report Sy” in one corner.

The publishers naturally opened the envelope as they had no note of the dead man’s relatives. Inside were two blank sheets of paper. The letter, I may add, was registered. The publisher, being unable to make anything of this, sent it on to me, and I submitted the blank sheets to every possible chemical and heat test, with no result whatever. Beyond the fact that the writing appeared to be that of a woman there is nothing to add to this account. The matter was, and remains, an insoluble mystery. How the correspondent could have something so secret to say to Mr Musgrave and yet not be aware that this person had been dead for several years is very hard to understand – or why blank sheets should be so carefully registered through the mail. I may add that I did not trust the sheets to my own chemical tests, but had the best expert advice without getting any result. Considered as a case it was a failure – and a very tantalizing one.

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

“Some personalia about Sherlock Holmes”

The Strand Magazine
, December, 1917

Over the years in which I have been associated with Mr Sherlock Holmes many players have appeared on our little stage at 221b Baker Street. The appearance of each was, of course, closely scrutinized by Mr Holmes and myself but once the spotlight has shifted these actors have all too often exited through the wings, never to return. I have often wondered what has become of these clients, and those associated with them in the cases which I have recorded – and in the hundreds which still await the attention of a competent biographer.

To this pattern there have been several exceptions. Professor Moriarty is a constant presence: his influence, if not the man himself, is likely to continue; the dark side of human nature will, it seems, be always with us. His colleague Colonel Moran, spectator of the Reichenbach drama, has appeared more than once on our stage as have Inspector Lestrade, his colleagues at Scotland Yard, our dear Mrs Hudson, our page boy Billy, my wife Mary and some few others. Of the majority however we have heard no more. For Sherlock Holmes, whose interest wanes rapidly with the solving of each problem, this is of little moment: friendship, like any other emotion, is to him distractive and to be avoided. To me however the passing of these ephemerae is a matter of regret; I am glad therefore for this opportunity to lay before the public a case which returns to the limelight a woman whose intelligence – and avarice – Sherlock Holmes had grievously underrated when he first had occasion to be involved in an investigation in which her wicked hand had played a part. This intriguing affair has not yet been brought to a conclusion. Tracing the final threads, and the identification and arrest of the murderer, whom neither Holmes nor I have yet met face to face, appear likely to provide a bonus: a visit to the Americas, and to the splendid young country of Canada. I have every hope of being accompanied, if the activities of the London criminal permit, by Sherlock Holmes himself.

With or without Holmes – for I make bold to say that the final steps can, if necessary, be entrusted to me – this excursion will bring home guilt to the person in question; until then however it cannot be positively asserted. The reader will forgive me if I obey the dictates of discretion by declining to specify the exact date on which these anticipatory words are penned.

It was in the spring of 1901, while Holmes and I were investigating the disappearance of the Priory School student and the murder of his bicycling German master in the north of England, that we learned of the death of Reginald Musgrave. The newspaper’s account was terse: Sir Reginald, member of parliament for Hurlstone, West Sussex and squire of its Manor House and estates, had been tragically killed in a shooting mishap on Monday May 13th. A verdict of accidental death had been returned at the inquest; a memorial service was to be held at the village church and the estates were to be maintained by the deceased’s next of kin, his cousin Nathaniel Musgrave.

“Is it not an irony,” said Holmes, his distress obvious as we surveyed this brief announcement, “that we learn of the death of Musgrave, who inherited his estates from his father but died a bachelor, just as we make clear that the Holdernesse family has one son too many? The sibling Saltire is lured away, like young Copperfield to Dover, on the promise of a maternal affection which is not to be found at home, by a treacherous elder brother whose only aim is his destruction. Which is the better, to father two sons and such a misery or, like Musgrave, none at all?”

“That must be decided by each man for himself, Holmes. Opportunity travels always with risk as its companion.”

“Just so, Watson, but I regret that Musgrave’s sudden end has denied him the chance of an heir,” replied Holmes thoughtfully “and also the pleasure of taking his own son through the family ritual. And what means ‘shooting mishap’? One would expect from the press less reticence and more clarity. The coroner however has evidently found nothing amiss so, unless the fates decree that I am consulted in the matter, nothing appears to be done save to bid a silent
ave atque vale
to my erstwhile university friend and early client.”

The fates were so to decree but, perversely, they stayed their hand for nearly two months; it was then their sister Atropos they sent. She came to us in the thin disguise of our landlady, bearing the morning’s tray of correspondence and requests for appointments, medical for me, criminal and otherwise for Holmes. Her rap at our door, thus effected, was so gentle, and her tap so faint, that we were unaware she had entered our chamber. She gave no warning of the remarkable train of events, of the brazen attempt at an audacious new crime – and delayed retribution for a hideous old one – that would ensue; nor was I prepared for the demonstrations of my friend’s amazing powers of observation, deduction and inference, of the quick workings of his intellect and of his astonishing ability to create and test hypotheses until the truth was revealed as clearly as are the pure golden tailings and nuggets in the pan of the prospector.

Thus it was that ten days ago Sherlock Holmes and I were visited by the eminent London publisher Garrison Bolt. He wished, he had said in his letter requesting the appointment, to consult Holmes about a matter arising from his business. On the grounds that this might involve my role of chronicler Holmes had asked me, despite a period of considerable activity in my medical practice, to be present. The shrewd, scholarly face of the bookman was known to us, although we had not met for some years. It was with the house of Bolt that I had negotiated publication of my account of one of our earliest cases. I remembered very well the hard bargain he had struck and admit to harbouring some resentment as a result, a resentment heightened by the contrasting generosity of the public, whose approval of my later efforts stood in such sharp contrast to Mr Bolt’s parsimony. Despite the numerous reprints of my work, from which Mr Bolt’s firm reaped a considerable income, nary a penny was paid over the modest sum agreed, a circumstance which directed me to other, more generous publishers. But a bargain is a bargain and neither Holmes nor I had ever allowed ourselves the indulgence of bearing any grudge or ill will towards Garrison Bolt save that, on the occasions when he had requested my contribution of short introductions to later editions, my dislike of his business ethics always caused me to respond with a positive “No!”. We greeted him cordially as he entered our Baker Street rooms and seated him as comfortably as our quarters permitted.