The Sensible Necktie and Other Stories of Sherlock Holmes (3 page)

“Could it not have been a cloud of smoke drifting from a nearby fire or factory?”

“Only to thicken once more on the open seas, where it should have been dispersed by the ocean breeze? A queer cloud of smoke, Watson.”

“So what are we to make of it all? That the explanation is a supernatural one?”

“Oh Watson, don't be foolish. There is clearly some vital piece of evidence lacking.”

“I do hope you will find it, old chap. We don't want another James Phillimore on our hands. After that ordeal, you had to spend a month at a resting home.”

“The case haunts me to this day, Watson. It was a perfect vanishing act. His colleague was standing in the street outside, waiting for Phillimore to fetch his umbrella before accompanying him to their office in the City, and inside the house the maid heard the door open and slam shut just seconds before she looked out into the hallway and found it completely empty.”

“I remember. In the room to the right, another maid was cleaning, and in the room to the left, the butler was clearing the breakfast table. They heard the door too, but saw no sign of their master. How many weeks did you devote to the case before giving it up?”

“Ten at least. I was positive that the staff of the household had conspired, but in that case, what would they have done to him, and why were there no signs of struggle?”

“And then there was that report from South America. Peru, was it? That a man of his description had checked into a hotel in his name at exactly the same moment that he disappeared in London. Chilling.”

“My dear Watson, that must have been a pure coincidence. But it serves to demonstrate how willing people are to welcome impossible solutions.”

“Do you think the cutter
Alicia
has ended up in the same place as James Phillimore?”

“Hum! I shall refrain from indulging you in your attempts to allow for supernatural eventualities.”

“It only stands to reason to assume that science has not yet explained everything.”

“And among those unexplained things you count magic umbrellas and clouds of mist with the power to dematerialise a ship?”

Holmes pulled up his legs into his armchair and peered dreamily into the fire. I enjoyed my cigar in silence for a few minutes, meanwhile picking up one of the newspapers that Holmes had opened on the item that described the
Alicia
affair. There was a picture of Jack Frome accompanying the article, a gentle-looking face framed by a thick chinstrap beard, and I began to contemplate it, musing on this man and his predicament.

“You say that Mr Frome appeared agitated and uneasy when he came to you?” I asked Holmes.

“Yes, and he complained of headaches. But he dismissed my expressions of sympathy, saying that he had regularly occurring headaches and that they usually went away after a while.”

“Was it anything more than headaches?”

“What do you mean?”

“I was only reminded of an article I read a few years back about a French physician who described a condition that I have encountered in some of my own patients. It connects migraine headaches with distorted vision or even a loss of vision in one eye.”

“You interest me, Watson. Go on.”

“Well, there is no mystery about it. The phenomenon is commonly linked to cerebral disturbances, and a decreased arterial blood flow is the probable cause of these distortions, which the medical men term ‘auras'. In some it presents itself like zigzagging lines across the field of vision, in some a blurring of the sight on one eye, and in some rare cases a complete loss of sight on one eye.”

Holmes looked at me as if frozen stiff. He did not move a muscle for what must have been twenty seconds. Then I could see his eyes moving about as if he was letting his gaze scan across an invisible book in front of him. Finally he rose from his armchair and walked up to the nearest bookcase, from which he took down a folio-sized binder. He carried it to the table, pushed away some of the chemical instruments and placed it there. Untying the ribbon that held the covers of the binder together, he opened it, and I could see that it contained a large bundle of maps. Sea charts, to be exact. Flipping through them, Holmes was clearly searching for one in particular, and when he found it, he made a loud victorious cry.

“Yes, yes, it all fits together. Splendid, my boy! As I have said on numerous occasions, you are a conductor of light. But this time, Watson, you excel yourself. I must admit that you have cracked it, and I am very much in your debt.”

“Cracked it? Surely not. A mere sight loss cannot account for the disappearance of an entire ship and its crew!”

“Not on its own, of course, but taken together with the fact that only Frome was following the cutter with his eyes the whole way, and that the patch of mist in all likelihood was not static, but drifted some yards to the side before it cleared away, it is all perfectly obvious. Here, look at this chart of the waters outside Lydmouth. Do you see? Just southeast of Lydmouth is a small group of islands, barely visible from land but close enough to allow a small boat to sail there in a matter of minutes. Now, the waters around here are treacherous, Frome said so himself, and if the conditions are just right, then it is perfectly possible for the
Alicia
to have sailed into the mist, lost its bearings - a small cutter like that has no need for any advanced navigational instruments - and followed along with the patch of mist to the east. Thus, it would have drifted to the left from Frome's point of view, and if it is as you indicated, that he suffered from a blurred field of vision in advance of the migraine headache that he received the next day when he came to see me, then it is likely that he had no view of it. And once the mist cleared away, the cutter, going in the direction of the mist, would have drifted out past the
Lizzie May
, where the captain was keeping lookout for her towards the harbour. Do you see? The
Alicia
needed only go past the
Lizzie May
to become invisible to all who kept a lookout for her. This she could easily have done in the time before the mist cleared away, and once she was on that side, the journey to those islands is a short one, and quite possibly the only way to go once the treacherous undercurrents have taken the upper hand.”

“Do you really think this is possible? The undercurrents would have to be very strong for the cutter to go such a long way.”

“An experienced sailor knows better than to try and fight currents. The men in the crew had a good reason for not taking any unnecessary risks.”

“What's that?”

“Like most sailors, they did not know how to swim.”

Holmes walked over to his desk and started scribbling a note. Just then, Mrs Hudson walked in through the door, bearing the latest morning editions.

“Ah, Mrs Hudson,” said Holmes. “I need you to take this over to the telegraph office. It is for a Mr Jack Frome of Lydmouth harbour.”

I took the newspapers from the landlady and glanced over the front page of
The Times
.

“Holmes!” I cried. “You are too late!”

He looked up from his note and I showed him the headline that read: “Crew of
Alicia
found on Channel island.” He took the newspaper and read it while making strange noises of contentment and delight.

“It is just as we deduced! The cutter, when driven off course by the mist and the current, was forced to steer towards the islands to avoid drifting out into the open sea. The captain of the
Lizzie May
admits that all eyes were directed towards the harbour from whence the cutter was expected to come, and if only someone had glanced in the other direction, they would have seen the boat and there would never have been any mystery. The crew of the
Alicia
is reported to be all right in the circumstances, although were found to be suffering from mild dehydration. Oh, and listen to this, Watson: ‘Harbour-master Jack Frome also confesses to having withheld the fact that he occasionally suffers from impaired vision due to chronic migraines, a condition which presented itself on the day of the disappearance, and may have contributed to the official's failure to see the cutter as it drifted along with the mist.' Ha-ha! Watson, I am very much indebted to you. Allow me to buy you dinner tonight. Mrs Hudson, you may forget about that telegram.”

“But are you not frustrated by the fact that no one will give you credit for actually solving the case without this information?” I said.

“Not in the least. The satisfaction I get from my work comes from myself and not from the acknowledgment of others. It is enough to know that I did solve it, or indeed that there was a solution to it. I often repel at the word ‘mystery' that we use for cases like this. There are no mysteries in this world, my friend, only problems that are not yet solved.”

“I must say, however,” I remarked, “that the promise of a remarkable explanation when the problem is yet unsolved often surpasses the prosaic nature of the real explanation once it is revealed. Seeing the solution to this mystery, for instance, it is plain and simple. And a bit boring.”

“That is why people go to magic shows, Watson. They need the illusion of unexplainable mysteries. But I am no conjuror. I am a mechanic, pure and simple, and I solve problems.”

“Then perhaps cases like the Phillimore mystery are rather refreshing from time to time?”

Holmes reclined into his armchair once more. “To a collector of fairy-tales, perhaps.”

The Adventure of the Cawing Crow

There are, deep within the accumulation of papers in my possession relating to the many cases of Sherlock Holmes, notes of numerous incidents which, if made public, would damage the reputation of many a distinguished aristocrat. I need only intimate the fracas of late that ensued when it was suggested that I publish the data in the case of the Robertson twins and the duplicate drawing-room, and I have more than once been implored to destroy my records of the Otwell House mystery, but there is one case in this category which I am now at liberty to publicise, as all of the major characters in the drama are beyond the reach of public scandal.

It took place in the year '93 or '94 - memory fails me - and provided Holmes with a challenging diversion from a number of protracted commissions from eminent clients. It was a cold day in early spring, and we had just returned from a long morning walk when Mrs. Hudson informed us that a lady was waiting in our sitting room. Holmes examined the calling card.

“Miss Madeleine Crabb of Pettigrew Lodge, Sussex. Her business must be pressing. There was a railway accident on that line only this morning, which must have lengthened her journey considerably.”

He climbed the stairs three steps at a time, and I followed readily. We came upon a thin and frail young woman sitting in one of our chairs. She was dressed in a grey plain dress with no decorations, and her brown hair fell in a single long braid across her back. In her hand, she held a simple straw hat of an unfashionable but dainty sort. To me, she was every inch the archetypal girl from the country.

“Miss Crabb, I hope your wait has been brief,” said Holmes, pressing her little hand. Then his face changed, and he looked down upon the hand enveloped by his own palm. “But my dear, you are cold as ice! Please draw nearer to the fire.”

“Please, do not concern yourself , Mr Holmes,” she said. “I am anaemic and always have been. Several doctors have tried to cure my lack of circulation over the years, without succeeding. But I assure you, I am quite all right.”

“Nevertheless,” Holmes insisted. “The fire cannot hurt. This is my friend and associate Dr Watson, before whom you may speak as freely as before myself.”

“That is most comforting,” said the lady as we sat down together by the hearth, “for what I have to tell you is most pressing and yet very delicate. It concerns my poor father, who was once a distinguished peer, but is now retired, even though his name is still known in some circles. It is therefore of the utmost importance that what I have to say will not go further than this room.”

“You have my assurance,” said Holmes.

“And my word as a soldier and servant of Her Majesty,” I added. Holmes shot me an amused glance.

“I thank you, gentlemen,” the woman replied. “The facts, briefly, are these. My father, Wilfred Crabb, used to be a sharp and opinionated politician who moved in the highest of circles and spent most of his time in London. When he retired, he moved permanently to his newly purchased house at Pettigrew so as to make a clean break with the city life he so loved but was no longer able to lead. The adjustment to this new way of life was trying, but in time, it seemed that he would be able to make the transition, and his urban restlessness gradually gave way to an ability to take pleasure in the attractive scenery of his estate. He started to interest himself in the ancient history of the region, befriended the local vicar who is an amateur archaeologist, and took up the habit of making long walks across the fields and woodland. I quietly started to entertain the notion that my father had found happiness at Pettigrew, until he started to behave strangely. Mr Holmes, perhaps I would do better to consult a medical expert, for my father's problems are basically connected to his health. His mental health.”

“You have not wasted your time,” said Holmes. “Dr Watson here is a medical man as good as any.”

“That is most gratifying, as there are both medical and criminal aspects to my story. My father has gone mad, completely and utterly mad, and there is no way of reasoning with him. His monomania is connected to his archaeological pursuits, but his interest in the local prehistoric remains and Druid monuments has developed from a scholarly fascination to a religious fanaticism. He now proclaims complete faith in pagan gods, and disappears from the house every night to perform strange rituals on the moor that borders onto his land. The local farmers have approached the members of our household, claiming that they have had hens and cats stolen from their homes in the night. Mr Holmes, I believe my father takes these animals and sacrifices them on an old altar stone on the moor that some say used to be part of a Druid shrine.”

“What does the vicar say?” I asked.

“I visited him last week in connection with my worries. He admits to having introduced my father into the archaeological remains of the local area, but denies any involvement in fuelling my father's fanaticism, and I believe him. He is a sober and rational man who is much liked in the parish.”

Holmes nodded, then leaned forward, pressing his outstretched forefingers together in a gesture of deep concentration.

“Now, Miss Crabb, I would like you to tell us exactly how your father's madness started and how it has evolved.”

“Very good. It started quite suddenly one morning, but only after a few days had it taken the form that it has had now for the past few weeks. Ever since we moved to Pettigrew Lodge, it has been the habit of my father and me to take a long morning walk across the meadows that surround our estate. On the morning in question, we chose a path across the moorlands. The weather was fine, and we amused ourselves by noting various species of birds that are indigenous to those parts of the country. In the middle of this moor there are some of the prehistoric remains that had caught my father's interest, including a couple of standing stones and a mound that evidently marks the spot of an old pagan chief's grave. Father spoke to me at length about these things, and his enthusiasm for the subject was at that time so remarkable and rational that he managed to arouse my own curiosity. We had come to a point where the moor is bordered on one side by a copse of trees and an old dilapidated fence that marks the end of our estate. This fence is interrupted at one point by a dead tree trunk that has been incorporated into it as a fence pole. It was there that my father was attracted to the trees by the sound of a bird. To me, it sounded like the cawing of an ordinary carrion crow, but for some reason it made my father stray from the path and walk up to the fence a few yards to our right.

“I stayed on the path and waited for him while he peered in among the trees. He stood there by the fence for a few seconds, and then he turned back. However, as he approached me, I could see a change in his face. The glee and contentment that had infused it earlier were gone, and he looked rather annoyed. I thought that maybe I had made something to offend him, for as he joined me on the path he simply gestured to me to say that we should continue walking. We did so, but it was as if my father was a different man from when we were talking about birds and archaeology only five minutes earlier. He did not speak a word during the rest of the walk, and when I tried to ask him about it, he only turned his head from me. When we returned to the house, he hurried up to his study and locked the door behind him. I did not see him for the next four days. He only ventured from his study at night, long after I had gone to sleep, and went into his bedroom. But according to Mrs. Kilroy, our housekeeper, he slept on top of the bed covers with his clothes on, and he did not change his clothes for at least a week. I believe it was also during these first nights that he began his nocturnal activities.”

“How did you become aware of what these activities entailed?” asked Holmes.

“It was our gardener, Mr Brookshaw, who first witnessed it. He had had a particularly long working day, and was in the business of stowing away his gardening tools in the shed, when he suddenly saw something move in the bushes nearby. He called out. There was no answer, but he saw Father running away from there, and he followed him. Father hurried through the garden, down the path that leads to the moor, and Mr Brookshaw ran after him into the woods that lie between our garden and the moor, but there he lost track of him. During the following nights, several members of the household staff came to me to tell me they had seen Mr Crabb going out late at night. It was not until the following week that reports of animal thefts started to come in. By then, I realised I had to take measure, and confronted Father, who had been actively avoiding me ever since that day when he shut himself in his study. He still spent the days there, but we had now established a routine of Mrs. Kilroy going up and giving him his meals on a tray that she left outside the door. One day, I insisted on doing this, and hid myself until the moment when Father opened the door to take in the tray. Then I bolted towards him, forced open the door that he tried to close in my face, and managed to make my way in.

“‘Father,' I said, ‘I must speak with you.'

“‘What is the matter, my child?' he said, quite soberly.

“‘I demand to know what is going on!'

“He looked at me, the picture of amused incomprehension. I persisted.

“‘What are you doing at night?'

“As we kept staring at each other, the faint smile on his lips started to fade. His look was that of a sane man trapped inside an insane mind. There was a hint of a sad plea, a desperate wish to break free from the madness and join me in the rational world, but hindered by something that would not allow him. He pondered for a moment, then it was as if this restraining madness got the better of him, and the imploring look faded away.

“‘My dear child,' he said. ‘We must pay tribute to Toutatis, protector of our tribe. He demands a sacrifice, otherwise he will avenge us!'

“And with those words he shut the door before me. I was stunned and puzzled, and walked away from there much saddened. It was now clear to me that Father had taken leave of his senses and had thrown himself into the pagan beliefs that had previously been nothing but a pastime.”

Miss Crabb's voice broke, and she lowered her gaze. I ventured to put a hand on her shoulder, but Holmes was completely still.

“How long ago was this?” he asked.

“A week and two days,” replied Miss Crabb with some effort.

“And you have not spoken to each other since?”

“Not a word. He avoids me, if he is at all aware of my presence.”

“And the nocturnal excursions?”

“Continued uninterrupted until two days ago. Since then I believe he has not left his bedroom. Yesterday I took a walk in the direction that Brookshaw claimed Father had run off to. I came into the woods, and immediately I felt ill at ease, as if the trees brimmed with apprehension. I walked on, however, thinking that I might find something out there that would explain Father's strange behaviour. Only a couple of minutes later, I was met with a horrible sight. Right in front of me on the path, something was hanging from the branch of an old oak tree. I moved closer, and saw to my astonishment that it was a dead black cat, strung up by its neck! I let out a cry and ran to one side, in an effort to move as far away from it as possible. This only brought me face to face with a dead rooster, hanging from its feet from another branch at eye level. The terror of the moment made me disoriented, and I ran around for some moments in this part of the woods, until I encountered another dead cat and the disembodied head of a piglet, strung up in the same way as the other animals. Eventually, I managed to find my bearings, and ran in the direction I had come, returning to the edge of our garden within a few minutes. I met Brookshaw by the rose bushes, and asked him if he had seen the things in the woods, but he knew nothing about it. Concluding that it was in some way connected to Father and his recent mysterious doings, I ran back to the house and started banging on his door, but there was no answer. Panic stricken and seeing no way out, I eventually came to think of you, Mr Holmes. You see, the stories of your exploits were some of Father's favourite reading matter, and since I doubt that the police or a medical doctor would be able to bring any light to this until I have a better understanding of just what is going on, I decided that you were the man to consult.”

Holmes let his forefinger run along his lower lip in an expression of deep meditation upon Miss Crabb's story.

“As I said,” he remarked, “we have a medical man among us. What would his professional opinion be, I wonder?”

Holmes' and Miss Crabb's eyes were directed at me.

“I agree with Miss Crabb that there are many obscurities in this that need to be sorted out before we can consider Mr Crabb's mental illness,” I said. “At this moment, we know virtually nothing about the pathology itself. He has become reclusive, antisocial and seemingly uncaring for his own daughter. But I would say that the most interesting aspect is the suddenness with which these symptoms have appeared.”

“Exactly!” replied Holmes. “We must look to the situation and the context before we consider the symptoms.” He sprang from his chair and stood by the fireplace, grasping one of his chalk pipes from the mantelpiece without looking at it. I could see that fire in his eyes that showed itself once an intriguing puzzle had nestled its way into his mind. “Now, the careful consideration of human behaviour shows us repeatedly that nothing in it happens suddenly or without reason. I ask you therefore, Miss Crabb, whether you could tell us more about your father's past and about his break with his political entanglements?”

“I could tell you many stories,” said our visitor, “about Father's meetings with renowned parliamentarians, not to mention royalty from near and far. Politics was always a passion for him, and he was very much at home in those circles. His debating skills were a source of envy both in his own and in rival parties, but he never seemed to make any real enemies. His main principle was to adhere to the gentlemanly ideal, to retain a courteous and civil tone whenever he voiced his opinions or criticised his colleagues. He was instrumental in introducing a way of speaking in the House of Commons that was modelled on old rhetorical gestures from ancient Rome.”