Encounters of Sherlock Holmes Part 19

For all his pretence of annoyance at being treated like a magician, I knew my friend appreciated being asked to explain his observations, and so was not at all surprised when Holmes, after waving a self-deprecating hand, answered Clarendon's question in full.

"It is not beyond reason, Mr Clarendon, to suggest that a man with no fire lit on a cold evening like this is conserving his funds, although the rich brocade of your smoking jacket and the superior nature of the artwork on display hints that this is a temporary, or at least recent, condition. The fact that you have been drafting theatre reviews-" he gestured at the papers strewn around the room "-further supports the proposition that acting has not recently proven sufficiently remunerative. You mention Miss McCarthy in disparaging terms in the review topmost of the collection heaped on that occasional table, and I happen to have seen her play the t.i.tle role in The d.u.c.h.ess of Malfi last month. She is, as you say, too jejune for the role. I surely need not elaborate on the circled job advertis.e.m.e.nts in the theatrical periodicals I can see all around?"

He waved a hand again to forestall any deluge of praise from Clarendon and was at once business-like.

"You told Dr Watson, I believe, that you were in rather a hurry that day?"

"Yes," the actor replied, "I was in danger of missing the train entirely so was more put out than usual to be rebuffed not once but twice."

"And you told the good Doctor that the gentleman in the second carriage was entirely m.u.f.fled and hatted so that no part of his face could be seen?"

"Exactly so, Mr Holmes."

"Was there any other thing you noticed about him, then, that might enable us to identify the man now?"

Clarendon took his time to answer, spending more than a minute in complete silence, his eyes closed, reliving the scene in his mind. Finally, he opened his eyes and shook his head. "Nothing, Mr Holmes; I can think of nothing else. He was tall, but not unnaturally so, otherwise I might have considered that his reason for wishing the carriage to himself. He had his legs stretched out when I entered, but there was still plenty of room for me, had he not immediately started shouting abuse and waving those long fingers at me like some demented spider -"

"Long fingers!" I exclaimed, as an image from earlier in the day came irresistibly to mind. But Holmes, as ever, was one step ahead.

"Thank you, Mr Clarendon. I would say that little detail - combined with others I have already had laid before him - will prove enough to convince Lestrade to arrest George Fellows and his wife, the victim's sister. I expect one will turn on the other quite soon after their arrest - the wife, if I am not mistaken. She believes herself to be more sinned against than sinning, after all."

Not for the first time, I stared at my companion in amazement. For his part, Holmes acted as though nothing exceptional had occurred. He merely shook Clarendon's hand, and informed me as he headed for the door that he would be happy to explain - once we had given Lestrade the last piece of this particular jigsaw.

As it turned out, it was the following morning before Holmes and I sat down together. Over breakfast, Holmes was happy to explain those elements of his thinking to which I had not been privy the previous evening.

"You must forgive me, my dear fellow," he began as he held the newspaper out to me, displaying as it did the headline FAMILY MEMBERS ARRESTED IN RAILWAY MURDER! "I have been even more remiss than usual in sharing my thoughts with you regarding this case. In my defence I can only plead the fact that we have gone our separate ways more than is common over the past day or so."

Holmes' smile was such that I could not help but feel that he was toying with me. "The key to this whole affair is a simple one. All along everyone has referred to the location of Miss Williams' murder as a locked carriage. And of course, it is no such thing. The door to a railway carriage is closed tight, of course, but not locked, else there would be no way for pa.s.sengers to leave in emergency - or indeed at their destinations.

"Thus, even before I carried out my examination, I had concluded that the murderer must have climbed into Miss Williams' carriage after the train had left the station. The carriage door handle merely required a sharp twist, and the killer would be inside. I had a.s.sumed that this would have been done in the open, given the darkness of the tunnel and the closeness of the iron railings to the side of the train, but when you mentioned that Mr Fellows had begun life as a sweep's boy, and so was used to moving in tight, dark s.p.a.ces, I began to suspect that tunnels offered the perfect cover, at both ends of the journey. Finding the missing glove as I did simply confirmed my suspicions. George Fellows moved from his carriage to the next while the train was concealed by the railway tunnel, and there killed his victim."

I must admit to a certain grudging, if fleeting, respect for Fellows at that point. The thought of clinging to the side of a train thundering along in the darkness, and with deadly iron spikes only inches away, filled me utter horror. Whatever else the man might be, he was clearly no coward. But Holmes had continued speaking.

"Initially, I was sure that murder, not robbery, was the motive for this crime - and yet what killer would turn up his nose at a providential hundred pounds? Only one who had expectation of far greater remuneration to come, obviously. A woman who believed she would soon have no difficulty making her peace with her father and making her way back into his will. They would be united in grief, after all. Mrs Fellows would have little need for a mere hundred pounds then. Better that her husband leave the money and thus convince the police that nothing sinister could possibly have taken place. However, last night you raised an interesting alternative possibility."

My confusion was apparently obvious to my friend, for he sighed, "Mrs Fellows' reluctance to spend any money, Watson! Fraser remembered that Mrs Fellows had discouraged Miss Williams from making any substantial purchases. I had been working on the a.s.sumption that murder had always been the intention and the money left in place to deflect suspicion, but now the very opposite notion gained substance. Why would so much care be taken about one hundred pounds before the murder, and so little afterwards?"

I a.s.sumed the question was rhetorical, but Holmes apparently expected an answer. I shrugged helplessly and waved a b.u.t.ter knife at him to go on.

"Two different aims, Watson! Mrs Fellows expected a robbery only, and wanted as much of the hundred pounds to remain intact as possible. Evidently, Mr Fellows disagreed, but I very much doubt that Mrs Fellows intended her sister to die, or knew that her husband had a syringe full of poison with him. I suspect the original intention was for a quick robbery-in and out in the first tunnel, where in the darkness Miss Williams would not recognise her a.s.sailant as her brother-in-law. But one hundred pounds was not enough for George Fellows-not when there was an inheritance to step into."

"Is that the entirety of your evidence, Holmes?" I asked, for though I could not fault his reasoning, I remembered my vision of the killer standing over his dying victim and was determined that he paid the full price for his crime.

I think Holmes understood, for rather than bristling at my perceived lack of confidence, he was content to explain in further detail. "No, not at all, Watson, and you are quite correct to ask, for this was a clever and subtle crime. One, indeed, which we might never even have noticed had it not been for the wholly coincidental presence of the man Aberdeen. I fully believe that the Fellows would have escaped justice entirely had it not been for that, and one other unforeseen complication.

"Mrs Fellows did not expect to b.u.mp into Bill Fraser, nor was she prepared for the fact that her sister would so quickly find common ground with the man and invite him to walk with them. The plan called for the two women to spend the day together, with no other close witnesses, so that Mrs Fellows could ensure that as little money as possible was spent, and then guide her sister to a solitary train compartment. But Fraser prevented that, and neither she nor her husband were cunning enough to extemporise, nor experienced in lying.

"Mrs Fellows tried to shake Fraser off by feigning illness, but when it became clear that Miss Williams was happy to be escorted by him to the station, she made her excuses and, I suspect, rushed home in order to establish a rudimentary alibi. The original intention was presumably that Mrs Fellows would accompany her sister to the very door of her compartment, ensuring no other pa.s.senger boarded before the train left. She would then tell her husband that the coast was clear-for how else could he be sure that there would be no witness? The chance meeting with Bill Fraser put paid to that plan, which is why the footprints on the train door were smudged. George Fellows, having no word from his wife, must have held himself against the door while he checked his sister-in-law was the only occupant, rather than swinging over and through in one movement.

"As I say, I cannot prove one way or the other whether the initial intention was murder or simple robbery, but I believe I can say what actually transpired. Having committed his foul deed, George Fellows calmly returned to his own carriage while the train traversed the second tunnel-the one leading into the terminus-and was gone long before anyone noticed that the quiet young lady sitting in the adjacent carriage was dead."

There was a ghost of a smile on Holmes' face, as he sipped his tea. "And of course I did send word to Lestrade yesterday evening to check on Fellows' recent movements! You will not be surprised to learn both that his company is in severe financial difficulty-the sort that even one hundred pounds will not fix-and that he spent the morning loafing about near the station, before buying a ticket for the same train as Miss Williams. You may be more surprised to discover that Fellows was arrested wearing a set of cufflinks, engraved with the letters JH" beneath: obviously a present from Miss Williams to her fiance, James Hogg. He says that his wife gave them to him; she says she has never seen them before. It will not be long before one or other of them attempts to come to some sort of deal with the police."

Holmes paused for a second in contemplation. "Which means that, in this minor matter at least, I was incorrect. Miss Williams remained constant in her affections to the end. That may be of some consolation to the family."

And with that, Holmes turned his attention back to his newspaper, and his boiled eggs. I intended to write up the case for publication, but no matter how I tried I could not forget my vision of Miss Williams' dying moments, nor turn it into something suitable for an audience of my peers. But now, as the third decade of what I still consider the new century beckons, it seems a foolish delicacy on my part to remain silent and rob my friend of his success...

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.

Stuart Douglas has worked in a toy shop, a zoo, a chocolate factory and on a farm, and now runs Obverse Books. Should he ever manage to appear in Doctor Who he will, therefore, have fulfilled all of his childhood ambitions.

THE TRAGIC AFFAIR OF THE MARTIAN AMBa.s.sADOR.

BY ERIC BROWN.

There commenced in the spring of 1915 one of the most fascinating cases that my friend, Mr Sherlock Holmes, has had the fortune to investigate since the arrival on our planet of the Martians ten years ago.

We were relaxing in our rooms that morning, having recently solved the enigma that came to be known as "The Mysterious Affair of the Rosebury Diamonds". I was scanning The Times and my friend, as was his wont of late, was poring over one of a dozen tomes he had purchased from a bookseller on Charing Cross Road.

In 1906, shortly after the establishment of the Martian presence in London and other capitals around the world, my friend took it upon himself to learn the predominant language of the Red Planet. Almost a decade later, thanks to his diligence and exceptional powers of memory, he was practically fluent in that notoriously complex tongue. As a reward he had bought himself a complete set of the Encyclopaedia Martiannica.

Now I set aside my paper and glanced across at Holmes. He had taken a break from his studies and was filling his pipe.

"What are you reading about now, Holmes?" I enquired.

He flicked a hand at the open page. "A volume on the biological history of the Martian race," said he. "Fascinating. Did you know, Watson, that the gestation cycle of a pregnant Martian female is a little over three Terran years?"

"I must admit my ignorance in that area," said I.

"And were you aware, moreover... Hullo, and what's this?" he said, glancing across at the window.

The spring sunlight had been occluded suddenly, as if by a storm cloud, and as we strode across the room and stared out we beheld the reason. A Martian tripod, fully a hundred feet high, stood in the street outside.

"Curiouser and curiouser," Holmes commented, for a platform was descending from the underbelly of the cowled vehicle and riding upon it was a Martian.

Now, for all that the Martians occupy our planet in their hundreds of thousands, it is not an everyday occurrence that one of their number is seen, as it were, in the flesh. Their singular three-legged transportation devices might ubiquitously prowl the capital from Richmond to East Ham, and from Barnet to Croydon, but the creatures themselves show a distinct inclination towards privacy.

Not, however, this individual-for it stepped from the platform and trundled on its many puckered tentacles across the road and on to the pavement.

Holmes rubbed his hands together in delight. "Why, I do believe, Watson, that the Martian is making a beeline towards 221b!"

Indeed, the alien was hauling itself up the steps towards our front door. We repaired to our respective chairs and made ourselves ready for the audience. I was, I have no hesitation in admitting, more than a little excited at the prospect of the imminent meeting.

A minute later Mrs Hudson, appearing unaccustomedly fl.u.s.tered, burst into the room. "Oh, Mr Holmes!" she cried. "Would you credit it, but there's one of those 'orrible Martian creatures downstairs, and it said it wants to see you promptly!"

My friend smiled. "Then if you would kindly show the fellow up, Mrs Hudson."

"And leave its dreadful slime all over my new carpets?"

"I will personally pay for their cleaning. Now, I rather think that time is of the essence."

With an indrawn breath, Mrs Hudson departed.

Evidently our extra-planetary visitor, for all its many tentacles - or perhaps because of them - found the ascent of the staircase something of a trial, for it was a good five minutes before Mrs Hudson flung open the door and stood aside as the Martian shuffled into the room.

We rose to our feet, as the occasion seemed to demand, and I stared in fascination at our visitor.

We are all aware, from the many ill.u.s.trations provided by our national dailies, of the appearance of the beings from the Red Planet. Now, however prepared I might have been, the sight of the creature in such close proximity provoked in me the contradictory emotions of fascination and repulsion, for the Martian was truly a hideous specimen of its kind.

It stood perhaps five feet tall, its shorter lower half consisting of six writhing tentacles most easily described as octopoid. Its larger upper section, or torso, however, bore no relation to that of any terrestrial creature, and this perhaps accounted for my horror.

Set into the oily brown skin of its torso was a quivering, v-shaped mouth and two vast, cloudy eyes. Strapped around its mid-section was a belt, fastened to which was a small black box.

However uncomely its appearance, it was nothing beside the revulsion I experienced as the creature's peculiar body odour wafted my way - a scent that combined the stench of putrid carrion with the sweet reek of rotting fruit.

Holmes, maintaining an enviable savoir-faire in the face of the noisome aroma, gestured the alien to a chaise longue, the only piece of furniture in the room able to contain its broad bulk.

The Martian sat down, arranging its several limbs across the brocade in a manner at once business-like yet prim. As we watched, the peculiar v-shaped mouth quivered and a series of rapid burbles, and not a few belches, filled the air.

"Mr Holmes, Mr Watson -" the tinny translation issued from a grille in the black box seconds later, "I am Gruvlax-Xenxa-Schmee, deputy amba.s.sador to the British Empire, and I have come today to request your investigational services."

Holmes leaned forward, evidently excited, and it was a temptation beyond his powers of resistance to reply to the deputy amba.s.sador in its own tongue. My friend gave vent to a horrible series of eructations which surely taxed the elasticity of his larynx.

The Martian flung several of its tentacles into the air and replied excitedly, "But you have mastered our language as no other Earthling yet, Mr Holmes!"

My friend laughed. "We should proceed, for the sake of my friend Mr Watson, in English." He turned to me and said, "I asked, Watson, as to the nature of the investigation."

Presently the creature replied, "I am afraid that it should remain undisclosed until you have agreed to accompany me to the amba.s.sador's residence, where I will furnish you with all the relevant details."

Holmes harrumphed, not taken by such a stipulation. His curiosity, however, was piqued. He said to me, "This can be no little matter, Watson, if the amba.s.sador himself requires our presence." To the Martian he said, "Very well, Mr Gruvlax-Xenxa-Schmee. Shall we hasten to the emba.s.sy?"

"We will avail ourselves of my tripod," said the Martian.

Holmes jumped to his feet. "The game's afoot, Watson," said he, and reached for his cape.

To stride the boroughs of London as if on the shoulders of a giant!

We sat ensconced in comfortable armchairs in the hooded c.o.c.kpit of the tripod and goggled in amazement at the business of London pa.s.sing to and fro far below. Tiny cars powered by the latest Martian technology beetled along like trilobites, and in the air the first of the flying machines, owned by intrepid-and wealthy-Earthmen buzzed about like insects.

The ride was over all too soon. What seemed like minutes later, we were deposited outside the Martian emba.s.sy in Grosvenor Square and ushered up the steps by the deputy amba.s.sador. In due course we entered the sitting room of the penthouse suite and paused beside a polished timber door.

Without further ado Gruvlax-Xenxa-Schmee said, "I made the discovery this morning, Mr Holmes. Beyond the door is the amba.s.sador's bedroom, and it is my habit to enter at eight, once the amba.s.sador has risen, to apprise him of the day's agenda."

Holmes fixed the deputy with an eagle eye. "And this morning?"

Gruvlax-Xenxa-Schmee reached a tentacle towards the door and turned the handle. The door swung open, and the Martian stood aside and gestured for us to enter.

Holmes stepped forth with alacrity, and a little more hesitantly I followed.

We were in a bedchamber dominated by a large double bed, upon which reposed the bulk of the Martian amba.s.sador.

I did not require a doctorate in Martian medicine to ascertain that the amba.s.sador was quite dead.

"Stabbed," Holmes opined, "by a sharp implement in the centre of its torso - the area in the Martian body where the major pulmonary organ is located."

Gruvlax-Xenxa-Schmee shuffled back and forth beside the bed, obviously in a state of great agitation or grief. "We have summoned our finest investigational team from Mars," it said, "but it will be several weeks before they arrive on Earth. Also upon that ship is the amba.s.sador's life-mate, come to retrieve her partner's corpse for burial in the sands of our home planet."

I stood over the bed and gazed down at the dead Martian. Added to its usual odour was the obnoxious stench of escaped bodily fluids. I withdrew a handkerchief and covered my mouth and nose.

Ichor, sulphurous yellow and viscid, had leaked from the wound in its torso and pooled in the sheets around its bulk. Its vast eyes were open, and stared blindly at the ceiling. Its v-shaped mouth likewise gaped, as if emitting a final, painful cry.

Beside the bed was a small table upon which lay several envelopes, each one slit neatly open.

"At what time did you last see the amba.s.sador?" Holmes asked.

The Martian replied, "At eleven last night, when he retired."

"And you say the door was locked?"

"From the inside, by the amba.s.sador."

"Was he in the habit of locking his bedroom door?"

"The amba.s.sador valued his privacy."

"I see," said Holmes. "I take it you had a spare key?"

"That is so. And I fetched it when the amba.s.sador failed to respond to my summons at eight."