The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories Part III Read online

  Dr. John Hamish Watson (1852-1929) was born in Stranraer, Scotland on 7 August, 1852. In 1878, he took his Doctor of Medicine Degree from the University of London, and later joined the army as a surgeon. Wounded at the Battle of Maiwand in Afghanistan (27 July, 1880), he returned to London late that same year. On New Year’s Day, 1881, he was introduced to Sherlock Holmes in the chemical laboratory at Barts. Agreeing to share rooms with Holmes in Baker Street, Watson became invaluable to Holmes’s consulting detective practice. Watson was married and widowed three times, and from the late 1880’s onward, in addition to his participation in Holmes’s investigations and his medical practice, he chronicled Holmes’s adventures, with the assistance of his literary agent, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, in a series of popular narratives, most of which were first published in The Strand magazine. Watson’s later years were spent preparing a vast number of his notes of Holmes’s cases for future publication. Following a final important investigation with Holmes, Watson contracted pneumonia and passed away on 24 July, 1929.

  Part III: 1896-1929

  Holmes and Watson’s friendship and professional partnership continued throughout the second half of the 1890’s. During this period, cases were numerous, and Holmes was at the top of his game. Although he did not immediately allow Watson to resume publication of his adventures following his return to London in 1894 after “The Great Hiatus”, Holmes’s fame reached far and wide.

  In mid-1902, Watson married for a third time, as mentioned by Holmes in “The Blanched Soldier”. Watson and his wife set up residence in nearby Queen Anne Street, and as before, he continued to involve himself in Holmes’s investigations.

  In Autumn 1903, Holmes, only forty-nine years of age at the time, “retired” and moved to the South Downs of Sussex, residing at a farm near Beachy Head, very near the coast. Ostensibly there to keep bees, Holmes had, in reality, removed himself from his consulting practice, as he was finding it more and more necessary to help with his brother Mycroft’s work in delaying or helping to prepare for the upcoming conflict with Germany - at that point a matter of when rather than if. While giving the impression of being a recluse, Holmes actually stayed quite busy, with the aid of Watson, who was still residing with his wife in London. Holmes and Watson were extremely active and effective during World War I, and after that conflict was over, Holmes continued to conduct the occasional investigation. Watson, though less busy in the 1920’s, was often of vital assistance to Holmes, right up to the time of his death in July 1929.

  Holmes continued to reside in Sussex, still participating in intermittent adventures, throughout the 1930’s and 1940’s. He was involved in the Allied efforts during World War II, and thereafter returned to his farm, continuing to keep bees and conduct research until his death on the morning of his birthday in 1957, while overlooking his home.

  Quotes

  “Good old Watson!”

  – Sherlock Holmes, “His Last Bow”

  “I shall ever regard him as the best and wisest man whom I have ever known.”

  – Dr. John H. Watson, “The Final Problem”

  Two Sonnets

  by Bonnie MacBird

  Out of the Fog

  When electronic clutter clouds our minds

  With trifles, and presentiments of doom

  There’s always a retreat we know to find

  Up seventeen stairs to that gaslit room.

  Perhaps a brandy, in our easy chair

  We turn the pages of a well-worn book.

  Now, there beside the fire, sit our pair.

  Two gentlemen, a smile, a knowing look.

  And so with pipe in hand, our man unmasks

  With reason, knowledge and a touch of art,

  A source of horror, which he takes to task

  And sets the evil, from us, far apart.

  The side of angels and the depths of hell

  Emerge from fog; are dealt with. All is well.

  The Art of Detection

  The world is puzzling, that we know for sure

  To tame its mysteries a worthy goal.

  For this we turn to science, but the lure

  Is to unmask the secrets of the soul.

  For Sherlock Holmes, the boundaries are clear.

  The facts are clay, and scientists need bricks

  To build a solid construct, yet appear

  To some like a magician playing tricks.

  But inferential logic can go wrong

  And fail to parse out motives or mistakes.

  The mind of man is like a complex song

  And a musician’s ear is what it takes.

  Holmes uses all - his knowledge, mind and heart,

  Because to practice science... is an art.

  Harbinger of Death

  by Geri Schear

  My friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes has often spoken with disdain of superstition and the supernatural. Anything that is not firmly founded in science and the natural world are anathema to his cold, analytical mind.

  On occasion, I have challenged him, pointing out there is much in the world that remains a mystery to us and observing that new discoveries are being made almost daily.

  “Bah!” he replies. “When science proves to me that ghosts exist or that one man can read another’s mind, I shall be happy to explore the subject. However, until that unlikely day dawns, I must consider it utter twaddle.”

  I was reminded of these conversations on a rainy Tuesday morning in 1896 when Holmes handed me a letter he had just received.

  “Well, Watson,” said he. “One of these deluded believers in the supernatural wishes to consult with me on a case of premonition.”

  The letter he handed me was quite baffling. It read,

  Dear Mr. Holmes,

  I hope you will forgive a complete stranger writing to you. I find myself in a situation so outré, so distressing, I do not know where else to seek advice.

  My great-aunt Catherine is very dear to me and I am afraid, I am very much afraid, that she will die this week. Indeed, if the predictions are true, it seems quite certain.

  She herself is convinced of it. “I have seen the harbinger of death,” she says.

  I shall call upon you tomorrow at two o’clock in hopes that you can advise me.

  Sincerely,

  Jane Asquith

  “How very strange,” I said. “A harbinger of death. Shall you meet with this Miss Asquith, Holmes?”

  “This is a matter for clerics or carnival hucksters,” he replied. “Still, I have had no case of real interest since I helped my brother recover the Bruce-Partington plans. I suppose I can spare Miss Asquith half an hour.”

  Despite this dismissive attitude, I had a feeling Holmes was rather more interested in the matter than he said. Several times over the course of that wet and windy evening, he picked up the letter and re-read it.

  The following afternoon we sat by the fire in our sitting room while a sulphurous fog enveloped the city. Holmes added to the effect by puffing endlessly on his favourite briar pipe. The atmosphere inside was soon as poisonous as that beyond our windows.

  Two o’clock came and passed with no sign of our visitor. Twice Holmes picked up the newspaper only to toss it aside moments later.

  “She may have been delayed by the weather,” I said.

  “Bah! If she were not coming, she should have sent a telegram. I might have gone out instead of spending the day cooped up indoors.”

  Some twenty minutes after the hour, we heard a knock at the door below and moments later a handsome young woman was ushered into our rooms. She was slender, with the finely boned features of a true beauty. Her clothes were well made and becoming to her English rose complexion. At this moment, however, she seemed flustered.

  “I do apologise,” she said. �
�I am afraid my train was delayed because of the fog.”

  “Perfectly understandable, Miss Asquith,” I said. “Please sit down. I shall ask Mrs. Hudson to bring some hot coffee.”

  Holmes was unamused by this further delay. However, he could see the girl was trembling with cold and he is not unkind.

  “Please sit here by the fire,” he said. “While Watson sees to the domestic matters.”

  “Thank you,” our guest said. “I really dislike being late. I pride myself on my punctuality as a rule. It is so discourteous to be tardy. Besides, I know what a busy man you are, Mr. Holmes. Oh, it is good of you to see me on such short notice.”

  A few minutes later, her coffee cup warming her hands, Miss Asquith told us her tale. “In order for you to understand the strange situation in which I find myself,” she said, “it is necessary I tell you a little of my background.”

  “Proceed,” said Holmes. He sat back in his chair and made a tent with his fingers. His hawkish eyes were almost fully closed, and yet I knew he was paying the closest attention.

  “I was unfortunate enough to lose both my parents before my third birthday. My mother died just a few months after I was born, and I lost my beloved father in the train derailment at Wigan in 1873. However, my father’s aunt, my great-aunt Catherine, came to live with me and raised me as her own child. She has been so very good to me and I am sure no parent could love me more.

  “Two years ago, I decided I wanted to see more of the world and taste some independence. I became governess for a family in Ireland. While there, I met a fine gentleman by the name of Lindley Mead and, in short, we are engaged to be married.”

  “What does your great-aunt make of this arrangement?” I asked. Holmes continued to sit silent in exactly the same pose.

  “She is delighted. Lindley comes from a very fine family and I shall want for nothing.”

  For a moment Miss Asquith fell silent. She sipped her coffee and seemed at a loss as how to continue.

  “When did you return to England?” Holmes said.

  “In December. Aunt Catherine had an incident with her heart in November and her health has been in decline ever since. I was - am - dreadfully worried about her. Lindley would not see me distressed for worlds, and so he suggested we spend Christmas in Hertfordshire with my aunt and my father’s brother Ambrose, who has just recently returned home after many years in India.

  “We had a lovely holiday. Aunt Catherine and Lindley got on famously and everything seemed delightful. I had never met my uncle before; he moved to India before I was born. It was delightful to meet him and, I confess, to imagine that my father might have been a little like him.”

  “It sounds perfectly charming,” I said.

  “It was,” she said. “Indeed, we would have been perfectly gay but for one thing.

  “When Aunt Catherine became ill, my uncle hired a young woman to be her companion. Kate is a wild gypsy girl, dark skin, dark hair, and her English is sometimes inadequate. However, she seems quite devoted to Aunt Catherine, and my aunt, in turn, is fond of her.

  “On Christmas Eve, when we had finished dinner, we gathered in the drawing room. My aunt’s health generally keeps her confined to bed, but that night my uncle carried her into the room that she might join in all the revels. We were in the middle of exchanging gifts when Kate seemed to go into a strange sort of trance. She mumbled words that we could not understand. Only one made any sense, ‘Billy’.”

  “Billy?” Holmes said. “Does your aunt know anyone of that name?”

  “No one. My great-grandfather’s name was William, but no one ever called him Billy.”

  “Could you make out any other words?”

  “It was just a strange jumble of sounds. Then she shrieked the word ‘Death!’ We were all quite unnerved. Lindley tried to shake her out of it but the girl was in some sort of ecstasy. She then seemed to fall asleep. Her head was sunk onto her breast and she breathed heavily for several minutes. Then she said, quiet clearly, ‘Death.’

  “At that she seemed to waken and she began to weep hysterically. She said the Angel of Death had come and told her that my beloved aunt would die on Friday the Thirteenth. She was unable to explain the name Billy and seemed to have no recollection of saying it. She later told us that she has had visions ever since she was a young girl.”

  “What is the nature of these visions?” I asked, quickly covering up my friend’s snort of derision.

  “Death. Always death. She seems convinced that my aunt will die on Friday the Thirteenth. I should say that my fiancé and uncle were amused by this, but my aunt was not. She heard the girl’s words with extraordinary seriousness.”

  “By your own account, Miss Asquith,” Holmes said, “Your great-aunt is in poor health, she is elderly. She might die at any time. I do not wish to appear unsympathetic, but what do you expect me to do?”

  “I have tried to dismiss the matter as idle superstition, Mr. Holmes,” said the woman. “I was raised to believe in the concrete, and to trust only what I could see and touch. Aunt Catherine instilled these principles in me. Yet, oddly, despite her rational attitude in almost everything else, she has always been extremely superstitious. She bows to magpies and knocks on wood for luck. She always feared Friday the Thirteenth, and she has a horror of black cats. To see her reduced to such terror by these dire predictions is very upsetting. The matter has become even more distressing of late.”

  “Why so?” I asked.

  “Surely it is obvious, Watson?” Holmes said. “The day after tomorrow is Friday the Thirteenth. It is the first one this year.”

  “That is it exactly, Mr. Holmes,” said Miss Asquith. “My Great-Aunt’s health cannot stand up to sudden shocks. As the thirteenth draws ever closer her anxiety increases. I beg her to refuse to allow Kate access to her, but she will not listen. The girl arrived, it seemed, knowing many secrets about my aunt. My aunt is convinced the girl has some strange power.”

  “You still have not explained what you want of me, Miss Asquith,” Holmes said. “No crime has been committed. This is a matter for doctors and priests, not for a detective.”

  The woman seemed utterly crestfallen. “Oh, I do not know what I hoped,” she cried. “You are known for your common sense and for your wisdom, Mr. Holmes. I thought you might advise me.”

  It is rare indeed when Holmes appears dumbfounded, but he did at that moment. “What can I tell you that you have not already determined for yourself?” he said. “If this girl, Kate, is a person of conscience, perhaps you could point out to her the harm she may be doing. Make her your ally, if you can. If she refuses to stop frightening your aunt then you may have to threaten her with dismissal. As to the rest of it, well, someone who believes one superstition may believe another. See if you can offer your great-aunt a talisman of some sort. Convince her it will protect her from every evil. I’m sure you can find some sort of gewgaw in London that will fit the bill.”

  He pondered a moment longer, then said, “Is your great-aunt wealthy?”

  “No, not very. Her father left her five thousand pounds and some jewels when he died. My own father also left her an annual stipend. She had enough to live in some comfort, but I am not sure what, if anything, remains. I am afraid she probably squandered a great amount on so-called spiritualists. Her fiancé died a month before they were to be married, you see, and she is obsessed with trying to contact him in the afterlife.”

  “And the house and property?”

  “They are mine. That is to say, Aunt Catherine is my guardian, but I come into my inheritance when I am married.”

  “And when will this happy event occur?”

  “The first week in July.”

  “I see. So there is no reason why anyone would want to harm her?”

  “Want to...? Certainly not, Mr. Holmes. Besides, it is unlikely she
will live more than another year or two in any case.”

  “Is that what her doctor says?” I asked. “She had a myocardial infarction, and it caused serious damage to her heart, I suppose.”

  “Yes, indeed. Her illness was quite sudden and left her an invalid. We had to move her from her bedroom to the morning room, for she can no longer manage the stairs. Christmas was the last time she was able to leave her bed.”

  Holmes seemed thoughtful but remained silent. Our visitor rose and said, “Thank you for taking the time to see me. I realise what foolishness it seems. Only I am so very fond of her.”

  “Of course,” I said, shaking her hand. “But superstition cannot harm her.”

  Holmes, too, shook the woman’s hand. “If there are further developments, Miss Asquith,” he said, “I hope you will contact me immediately. In the meantime, I would suggest you spend as much time with your great-aunt as possible, particularly on Friday. On no account leave her alone. Not even at night.”

  “Do you really think she might be at risk?” the woman asked.

  “She believes it,” Holmes said. “Your presence may serve as a distraction. See if you can find some activity elsewhere to keep this gypsy girl busy on that day. You might also ask your great-aunt’s physician to visit, just to put her mind at ease.”