The Sensible Necktie and Other Stories of Sherlock Holmes (15 page)

“Well, how do you explain it then?”

“I have been sitting here by myself all day. I am tired of my own thoughts. What are your reflections?”

I sipped my glass of sherry, trying to come up with some concrete hypotheses. “I cannot say I have been wracking my brains on this problem all day, like you. But it does seem to me that the most apparent theory would be to assume that there was another person in Parkins' room.”

“I quite agree, Watson, but how do you account for this person's sudden disappearance right in front of Parkins' eyes?”

“It was the middle of the night and he had been sleeping. Perhaps he wasn't quite awake yet? Or perhaps he was fast asleep still, all of it simply being a really violent nightmare?”

“Ah, you mean it was a nightmare as in the old definition of the word? The incubus riding its victim. Demons creeping out of their hiding places by the shelter of darkness.”

“Well, not exactly, old fellow, do try to take me a bit seriously. I am trying to give you as good natural explanations as I can come up with. For instance, I know some doctors who have ascribed nightmares and ghost sightings to indigestion.”

Holmes bobbed in his seat. “Was it not how Ebenezer Scrooge accounted for his experiences? ‘An undigested bit of beef, a blot of mustard, a crumb of cheese, a fragment of an underdone potato.' Well, these are all perfectly decent explanations for strange phenomena, but they don't quite fit this particular case, do they?”

“You could relieve me of my agony by just saying what conclusion you have reached yourself.”

“I have reached none as yet. But I have been staring myself blind at the strange details of the case, for I believe they hold the key to the solution.”

“Such as?”

“Such as the curious disappearance and reappearance of the curtains in Professor Parkins' hotel room.”

“There is no mystery about that. The maid removed them to be cleaned and only replaced them in the morning.”

“Yes, perhaps.”

“What else?”

“Well, that is really it, apart from the more apparent things, like the little boy and the figure he saw in the window, and the immediate destruction of the bed clothes, all of which point to the inference that Colonel Wilson is behind it all somehow.”

“Aren't you forgetting something?”

“What?”

“The tin whistle that Parkins found.”

“What about it?”

“It just seems that it plays some part in this. Professor Parkins implicitly connects it to the ghost, and his narrative was founded on the notion that his playing it summoned something from the other side.”

“The only thing it summoned, Watson, was a devilish plan of deception. I'm tired of sitting in this chair now, it is time to act. Get your hat and coat and we will be on our way.”

“Where to?”

“The Burlington Club!”

Holmes was visibly annoyed during our cab ride to St James's, mumbling to himself and impatiently knocking on the windowsill with his knuckles. Holmes had insisted on a growler instead of a hansom, but the noise from the traffic outside was still too loud for me to be able to hear what he was whispering to himself, although at one point it seemed to me he was repeating one word over and over. “How? How? How?” I made some feeble attempts at reassuring him, quoting his own motto about eliminating the impossible until the only likely scenario remains.

“That is what you have done,” I said.

“Yes, but I still have no answer. I know what did not happen, but I do not know what did happen.”

“Then we shall ask him.”

“Ask him?”

“Exactly. We are quite certain he has something to do with it, are we not? Then we will ask him how it was done.”

“I don't know, Watson.”

“Come, Holmes. This despondency is not like you.”

“It has been increasing of late. Oh Watson, it's at times such as these I get images in my head of that farm in the Sussex Downs.”

“You have been talking about that farm for years, Holmes, but you never seem to be able to acquire one. You are a town rat, Holmes, you would not last a fortnight living in the countryside.”

But he wasn't listening. The driver had stopped at an intersection, and Holmes was looking out the window at the commotion on the pavement. There was an unusually large crowd of people assembled there for some reason. When Holmes turned his head back to me, he was smiling broadly.

“I think we will be able to face our adversary with our heads held up high.”

As our cab started moving again, he chuckled and rubbed his hands together, every inch the cunning reasoner I was so familiar with. He had evidently made a mental leap that rekindled his confidence.

“I say, what happened, Holmes?”

“Only something that should have happened several hours ago. I hope I'm not losing my touch, Watson. But I can hardly be blamed, for it is a very clever and devious man we are dealing with. And oh, what a sinister thing it is he has done. What a pleasure it will be to reveal it.”

Holmes' epiphany could hardly have come at a better time, for we were now turning into one of the back lanes adjoining Piccadilly, which was the location of the Burlington Club. This club had been completely unknown to me, and its address seemed to guarantee its place in the margins of club land respectability while at the same time safely ensconced in relative obscurity. Holmes had made some researches into it during the day, uncovering that its origins were of quite recent date, being a branch of a religious organisation which had established some mission chapels in the most spiritually deprived areas of the East End.

“As far as I can apprehend,” said Holmes, “it is a sleepy congregation of retired vicars and charitably minded elderly gentlemen of modest means who wish to signify connections with a club that lies in the neighbourhood of the more respectable London clubs. The image, then, is hardly one of a diabolical circle of criminals, which, of course, in itself is exceedingly suspicious.”

We came to a halt in front of an unassuming door without steps, wedged in between houses of a more grand appearance. Holmes paid the cab driver while I accosted it. A minuscule brass plaque next to it read “The Burlington. Gentlemen's Social Club.” Below it was a bell, which Holmes' gloved hand quickly reached out and pulled.

“What is the plan?” I asked him.

“If my estimation of this man is correct,” he replied, “it will be enough to let him know that we know. That, I think, will frighten him sufficiently.”

“What do we know?”

Holmes turned to me. “Just agree with everything I say, Watson.”

“Right you are, Holmes.”

The door was opened by a liveried servant, who let us into a very small front room with only a desk and a man in it. The man rose from his chair behind the desk, saying, quite simply:

“Yes?”

“We are looking for Colonel Desmond Wilson,” stated Holmes frankly.

The man asked us to wait, and disappeared through a door at the back. The servant stood to attention next to us, but the diminutive size of the room gave me the feeling he was peering over my shoulder, making it impossible for Holmes and me to talk privately. Thus there were a few moments of silence until the receptionist returned with a distinguished elderly gentleman in tow. His age and his bearing made for an unlikely villain in this drama, but while being scrutinised by his penetrating gaze as we introduced us, I felt that there was shrewdness and duplicity behind his façade.

“What can I do for you, gentlemen?” he asked.

“We are operating on account of Professor Perivale Parkins, whom I believe you are acquainted with,” said Holmes.

The man searched his memory. “Parkins, Parkins, ah yes, Parkins. I met him at Burnstow a few weeks ago. Yes, a decent sort of man. Is there any trouble?”

“It concerns the strange event that occurred on his last night there.”

“I see.” The man looked at us each in turn. “Perhaps it is better that we speak in private. If you would come this way, please.”

We were shown into a small and comfortably furnished room, evidently kept for the benefit of non-members. Curiously, it was windowless, and its walls were covered in thick dark hangings, muffling every sound we made while entering.

The colonel invited us to sit in a pair of leather armchairs. “Now then, gentlemen.”

“I think you know why we are here,” said Holmes.

The colonel smiled benevolently, the picture of innocence. “Do I?”

“Your trick was very well executed, if I may say so, but I am afraid you underestimated the power of reason.”

“I'm sure I don't know what you are talking about.”

“Then perhaps you will let me give you my version of what took place?”

“If you think it will help.”

“Your scheme was cunning indeed, considering it was improvised in a short time and was an adaptation to the situation at hand. Professor Parkins did react on your devout religiosity, since he is a man of science, but it is nothing out of the ordinary, so he would never suspect it to be the motive of a crime. But in fact your plan started to take shape just after that very first conversation after dinner, did it not? At least you must have decided early on that you would prove your point to him in no uncertain terms, and perhaps even convert him in the process. The first thing you did was to follow Professor Parkins after you had parted on the golf course. He went to examine an old ruin, and you looked for an opportunity to scare him, but did not get the chance until he started walking back to the hotel in the fading light. Then you hit upon the idea of making yourself visible on the beach but at such a distance he would not be able to identify you in the gloom. It was a safe plan, for you knew he thought you were resting in your room and would not disturb you when he came back to the hotel.

“In the night, you crept into the professor's room, making sure you were hiding in the shadows all along, and upset the bed clothes in the unused bed. This nocturnal visit also gave you an opportunity to examine the room, upon which you came across the gas radiator. Parkins' sleep was uneasy due to the sight of you on the beach, not to mention the way you banged his window open with your walking stick to make it seem they had been blown open by the wind. As your room was above his, there were a number of things you could do to frighten him. The detail of the old whistle that Parkins had found only served to make your hauntings more eerie.

“You started to enjoy having this man in your power. You bribed a little boy to tell you about the ghost, since you knew that he would only fall for it if was seen by another. You could of course have found a more respectable witness, but he played the part admirably. Everything was set for the finishing touch, the next night. By this time, you had become a bit carried away, but you were enjoying it too much. Besides, it was all in a good cause. Your plan was brilliant because it was so simple. A ghost is invisible and immaterial. It is made of air. Or, in this case, gas. Yes, you really managed to fool Professor Parkins, and when he came to see us, he was quite convinced that he had seen a ghost. But there were points in his story that did not fit in with the way he had interpreted it. And it took me a while to realise how I was going to interpret it. All the time, I knew that the curtains were the key to the mystery, and by removing the curtains in the professor's room, you both bothered the professor and found the last ingredient in your plan. The curtain rod. By connecting it to the sconce that supplied the radiator with gas, you could lead the gas up to the other bed, concealing the rod underneath the bed clothes. You then turned the gas up and quickly left the room. There were no certainties about the plan, anything could happen, but it gave the best possible results. The gas turned the sheet into a hot-air balloon, inflating it, and even making it rise up from the bed, giving the impression of a spectral figure hovering over the floor. When you had heard the professor's screams, making sure the illusion had produced an effect, you bolted into the room and immediately turned down the gas. Luckily, Professor Parkins fainted, which gave you the time to remove the rod from the gas sconce, and put it back in the window. There was no chance the professor would look through this, since his reaction to the ghost had reassured you of its effect. Perhaps seeing his reaction even made you feel that you had gone a bit too far?”

Colonel Wilson's face had changed during Holmes' narrative, from mild complacency into a resolute frown. “What do you want from me?” he said, betraying a slight tremor in his voice.

“Only your confession, Colonel. Perhaps even a note stating as much addressed to Professor Parkins.”

“That would only serve to inflate his smugness. He was the archetypal self-righteous scientist, looking down on ordinary churchgoing people. I only wanted to teach him a lesson.”

“Your lesson turned him into a broken man. And it seems to have turned you into the archetypal self-righteous churchgoer.”

Wilson's gaze flickered. “How did you manage to piece all this together?”

“By noting all the things Professor Parkins told me that he did not attach any importance to. The gas radiator, your room being above his, the curtain rod. It all pointed in one direction. I may have made some guesses, but the reactions in your face when I explained it proved me right. Oh, and, by the way; the whistle.”

“What about it?”

“If you will hand it over to me, I will return it to the professor.”

I was just as startled as the colonel.

“Are you implying that I am a thief? I threw it into the sea!”

“Stuff and nonsense, Colonel. Your interest in that religious artefact inspired your plan just as much as your will to teach the professor a lesson. You never threw it away.”

Holmes held out his hand. The colonel leaned forward in his chair, resting his elbows on his knees. Then he stood up, nodded to us and left the room. In less than a minute he returned, walked round the back of Holmes' chair, paused and handed him something, before walking back to his own seat. Holmes now held in his hand a short, smooth-surfaced metal pipe with a few holes along the side.