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

  “Thank you, Mr. Holmes, you are every bit as kind as I had been told.”

  For several hours after Miss Asquith left, Holmes sat in silent contemplation. His head sunk down, his pipe dangling from his lips, and not a word did he speak. Then, a few minutes before five o’clock, he suddenly sprang to his feet and said, “I’m going out, Watson,” and was gone before I could even reply.

  I did not see Holmes again until late the following morning. He joined me at the breakfast table looking perplexed and uneasy.

  “Where did you get to last night, Holmes?” I asked.

  “I was researching the background of Miss Asquith’s family,” he replied and said no more. He sipped his coffee and made an indifferent job of his eggs.

  “Anything of interest?” I urged. Clearly, there was more to this tale of superstition than I had fathomed.

  “Miss Catherine Anne Asquith is as blameless as you, Watson. She has lived a quiet, indeed, an exemplary life. She is not wealthy but is fairly comfortable. She lives in a large house in Hadley Wood and employs four indoor servants, and two outdoor men. As our client told us, Miss Catherine Asquith is merely the guardian of the estate. Jane Asquith comes into her inheritance on her thirtieth birthday, or on the occasion of her marriage, whichever comes first.

  “The house belonged to the late Stephen Asquith, our young client’s father. He, in turn, inherited the property and a modest sum from his father, Major Clive Asquith of the 3rd Bengal Light Cavalry. The major was stationed in Karnaul and served with distinction in Delhi.”

  “A prestigious regiment, Holmes,” I said. “I have heard many tales of their exploits.”

  “Do you know anyone who served in that illustrious company?”

  “Yes, my old friend, Windy. That is, Teddy Windermere. He is considered something of a regiment historian. Do you want me to talk to him?”

  “If you would. See if you can find out anything that is not part of the official record about the major.”

  “Certainly, I shall go after breakfast. But surely you do not think there is some sort of plot against the unfortunate maiden aunt of our young visitor?”

  “Probably not. All the same, I should like to be sure.”

  My friend declared he had other business to attend, and so I set off to visit my former fellow-officer in Hampstead. Windermere had been a senior officer when I first enlisted in the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, and he was kind enough to take a young subaltern under his wing. Despite a twenty-year age difference, we had a great deal in common and took a similar approach to the care of the wounded soldiers in our care.

  Windy was at home and happy to see me.

  “Glad of the distraction, young Johnny,” he said. He tapped his leg with his cane. “This wretched thing worries me no end in this weather. How are your wounds?”

  “They flare up from time to time,” I said. “The curse of getting older, I suppose.”

  “Well, others are much worse off, eh? So you still solving murders with that Holmes fellow? I must say, I enjoy your stories. You have a real talent for it.”

  I confess I was very pleased to hear this. I explained that a case had brought me to Hampstead, and my old colleague heard the details in silence.

  “Clive Asquith, eh?” said Windy when I was done. “Yes, I remember him. That is to say, I heard of him. He was long before my time, of course, but he had a reputation.”

  “A bad reputation?”

  “Well, no, not entirely. There was some sort of scandal.” He frowned and pondered for a few moments and said, “There was a woman. Well, there is always a woman in India. It seems the major became thoroughly infatuated with some girl. I’ve forgotten her name, I’m afraid. Anyway, she had a child by him. She died in the delivery and the baby died too. I believe the major was distraught. Of course, many people saw it as divine justice. He was a married man, after all, and had a family.”

  “Do you know anything else?”

  “Well, another scandal emerged not long after the girl and the baby died. Her father claimed the major had stolen some rubies. They were absolutely priceless, he said. The major was outraged and insisted his property be searched. Nothing was found.”

  “Did people believe he was innocent?”

  “Oh yes, it seemed beyond doubt. It was generally believed the dead girl’s family blamed Asquith for her death and simply wanted a reason to make things difficult for him.”

  “Do you know anything else about the fellow?”

  He pondered for a moment longer. “No, other than that he served with distinction, I believe. This is related to one of Mr. Holmes’s cases, I take it?”

  I dissembled as much as felt comfortable. Shortly afterwards, I left and returned to Baker Street.

  Holmes returned later in the evening. I told him what I had learned from Windy.

  “Interesting,” he said. “A tawdry tale but hardly unusual. There was no further scandal attached to the major?”

  “None at all, as far as Windy knows,” I said.

  “And what of the major’s descendants?”

  “Windy wouldn’t know any recent history, I’m afraid. He was invalided out of the service around the same time as I. I could make further inquiries.”

  “Not necessary,” said he. “I have not been idle. Our client’s uncle, Major Ambrose Asquith, made something of a name for himself in India during the past twenty-five years.”

  “The way you say that, Holmes, leads me to believe that name is not a good one.”

  “It probably depends on who you ask,” he said. “His military record is unblemished if undistinguished, but he has amassed some large debts and has an urgent need of funds.”

  “Surely he cannot expect to gain from his sister’s death?”

  “It does not appear so, but I have sent some queries by telegram. I shall know more when I receive a reply.”

  “Then there seems no reason for anyone to hurt the old woman,” I said. “And given her rapid decline, it’s likely she will be dead before the end of the year. Surely nothing can be gained by hastening her death.”

  “What you say is perfectly reasonable, Watson,” my friend replied. “It is exactly what I have been telling myself. It is only superstition, after all. No need to fret. Unless...” At that, he sank into a brooding silence and did not stir for the rest of the evening.

  Early the following morning, I was roused from a deep sleep by my friend. “Come, Watson,” he said. “I have had replies to my telegrams. We must away to Hertfordshire. Make haste. There is no time to lose.”

  We got the train at Moorgate, and some forty-five minutes later alighted at the Hadley Wood station. The air was damp and misty, but it had none of the acrid quality of our London fog. It was pleasant to breathe in the natural scents of the woods and the grasses.

  We took a cab from the station and hurried the Asquith home. We alighted outside a large iron gate and walked up the elegant, curving driveway to the front door. Holmes rang the bell and we waited.

  “Splendid to be out of the city, eh, Holmes?” I said as I gazed at the rolling expanse of Hertfordshire that lay before us serene and enchanting in the damp air.

  Holmes’s attention was elsewhere. “I pray we are in time,” he said.

  We waited a few moments longer. Holmes was about to ring again when the door was opened by a flustered looking man.

  “Can I help you?” he said.

  “I am Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” said my friend. “This is my colleague, Doctor Watson. We would like to speak to Miss Jane Asquith.”

  “I am afraid that may not be possible, sir,” said the man. “We have had a sudden death, and the house is all an uproar.”

  “We are too late!” Holmes cried. “When did Miss Catherine Asquith die?”

  “No more than an hour ago,
sir,” said the man. “Please come in and I will see if Miss Asquith might be able to speak with you. I am afraid she is very distressed.”

  “Damnation!” Holmes exclaimed, after the man left us alone in the study. “This is my fault, Watson. I should have come last night.”

  “Forgive me, Holmes,” I said. “But are you not breaking one of your own rules? You are theorising in advance of the facts. After all, the old woman’s death may have been from natural causes. She has been in bad health for some time, after all.”

  Holmes looked chagrined. “Yes, you are quite right, Watson. A salutary reminder. I shall wait until we learn more.”

  The door opened and our young client came into the room. “Oh, Mr. Holmes,” she said. “How good of you to come. But there is nothing you can do, nothing anyone can do now for my poor aunt.”

  “I am sorry, truly sorry, that we did not arrive in time,” said my friend. “But if you would be so kind as to tell us everything that happened regarding her death, perhaps I may be of some use after all.”

  The woman looked surprised. “I will tell you everything, Mr. Holmes, of course I will. But I cannot see how you can help us. She suffered a fatal heart attack. Still, as you have come all this way...”

  She sat down and gathered her composure. After a moment she said, “I took your advice, Mr. Holmes, and I have not left my aunt alone since Wednesday, when I came to see you.

  “Last night she was in very good spirits. We played cards in her room and talked about the wedding. She was feeling better and even talked about joining us at the table in a day or two.

  “At around eleven o’clock I kissed her goodnight and retired.”

  “Excuse me, where is your bedroom?”

  “I had Lindley set up a divan for me in the morning room so I would be near her. She told me it was a foolish notion, but she did not really try to discourage me. Her sleep has been very poor lately, and I think it comforted her to know I was near.

  “Even after I lay down, we continued our conversation. Eventually we fell asleep but my slumber was fitful. Then something woke me in the early hours. Perhaps I had a presentiment that something was wrong. I found my aunt gasping for breath. She had such a look of terror on her face. ‘The harbinger,’ she gasped. ‘The harbinger of death.’

  “I called for help and my Uncle went to get the local doctor. Alas, there was nothing anyone could do. She fell into a coma and died just an hour ago.”

  “I am very sorry to hear it. What time did you waken?” Holmes said.

  “Around five o’clock. It was still dark out, but something felt wrong. I cannot explain it.”

  “Would you be kind enough to let us see the room where this occurred? I assume your aunt’s body is still in situ?”

  “Yes, she is. Please, come this way.”

  The morning room was at the back of the house. All the curtains were drawn and the body was covered with a sheet.

  The dead woman’s bed faced the window. The divan that Miss Asquith had been using was against the wall beside the door, about twelve feet from her aunt’s bed.

  “With your permission, Miss Asquith, Doctor Watson will examine the body. You might prefer to wait elsewhere. We may be several minutes.”

  “Take as much time as you need, Mr. Holmes,” she replied. “I have a great many things to do. Please join me in the drawing room when you are ready. Ring for Craddock, the butler, if you need anything.”

  As soon as our client left, Holmes drew back the curtains and paused to examine the small casement window. “What do you make of this, Watson?” he said.

  “It doesn’t open very far; no more than five inches,” I said, looking at it. “Between that and the rose bush below, I think we can safely rule this out as an entryway for any killer.” I looked around the room. “I can’t see a killer coming through the door, either. He’d have to pass right by Miss Asquith’s divan to get to the old woman’s bed.”

  Holmes rubbed his hands together in glee. “Quite a puzzle. And yet I see possibilities... Do you examine the body, Watson. I shall focus my attention on the room.”

  “What am I looking for, Holmes?” I said. “Surely you do not think this could be anything more than a natural death? The fact that today is Friday the Thirteenth is no more than a coincidence. Unless you are willing to concede to a supernatural explanation?”

  “I cannot say what I believe, Watson,” he replied, ignoring my gibe. “Just do your usual, thorough job and tell me if anything strikes you as odd.”

  As I worked, Holmes began his own exploration of the room. He sniffed the bedlinen and the carpet and crawled around on his belly, examining every surface. He inspected the door and the lock. Then he returned to the casement window and scrutinized every inch of the glass, the sill, and the carpet below with his glass. “Wet,” he said. “This window was open for some time.”

  “It was shut when we came into the room,” I said.

  “Yes,” he said, chuckling. “Indeed it was. Well, what is your diagnosis? Natural causes?”

  “I am afraid so, Holmes,” I said. “A myocardial infarction.”

  He rubbed his hands together with glee. “What a case this has been, Watson! I was a dullard indeed not to have seen the signs before.” He bent down and examined the old woman with his glass, then chuckled.

  “Natural causes, you say. What do you make of this, then, Watson?” He held up a short black hair with his tweezers.

  “A hair? What does that prove?”

  “Murder, my dear fellow. It is unassailable proof of murder.”

  A short while later, the room locked, and the butler instructed to allow no one to enter; we joined Miss Asquith in the drawing room. She was sitting on the divan, pale and her eyes red from tears, but she was perfectly composed. Her fiancé was in attendance. He was a slender, handsome young man with black curls and high cheekbones. He had the look of a poet, though I later discovered he was an architect. At that moment, he was sitting beside our client, holding her hand.

  “Miss Asquith,” said my friend gently. “I would like to ask you some questions, if I may.”

  “Do you feel up to it, my dear?” said Mead. “I’m sure Mr. Holmes would understand if you would rather wait.”

  My friend looked as if nothing would please him less. Fortunately, Miss Asquith said, “I want to help, if I can. Please sit down, Mr. Holmes, Doctor.”

  “Before we begin, may I ask where your uncle and the girl, Kate, are?”

  “My uncle took the doctor home, and Kate is in her room, I suppose,” said Miss Asquith.

  “I’m afraid the girl has vanished,” Mead said, reluctantly. “Mr. Ambrose Asquith went looking for her after Jane’s aunt died. He thought she would want to pay her respects. However, she was not in her room and it looked as if her bed had not been slept in. As Jane says, Ambrose drove the doctor home, but he said he’d see if the girl had caught a train. He should be back soon.”

  “Very well. Now, Miss Asquith, you said something woke you in the early hours. I need you to try to remember as much detail as you can about the state of the room when you awoke.”

  Miss Asquith frowned then she said, “Well, nothing seemed out of the way. The room was in darkness but the curtains were drawn back.”

  “That was how you had left them before you went to sleep?”

  “Yes. My poor aunt liked to be able to see the sky from her bed.”

  “And the window was open?”

  “Oh, no. The weather has been very damp of late, and we have kept the window closed. I do not think we have opened it since last autumn.”

  “Did you hear anything?”

  Again, a pause as she considered. “I heard a rustle outside.”

  “The trees, surely,” said her fiancé.

  “Perhaps,” Holmes said, but aga
in, from his air of suppressed excitement, I knew there was more here than I had fathomed.

  “Did you smell anything?”

  “Why, isn’t that odd?” exclaimed Miss Asquith. “I had quite forgotten, but you are right, Mr. Holmes. There was a peculiar smell. Something familiar and strong, but I cannot identify it.”

  “Ha!” Holmes said. “Excellent. I wonder if I might examine the grounds? No, you need not come with me, Mr. Mead. Please stay here and look after your fiancée.”

  We walked the circumference of the building. Outside the morning room, Holmes stopped and examined the bushes closely.

  “No man could get into the room this way,” I said. “Even if he could get the window opened widely enough, he’d be torn to bits on those rose bushes.”

  “And yet a man stood here,” Holmes replied. He pointed at the clear outline of a man’s shoes in the ground. “And there is something else here too, you see?” He plucked a tuft of black hair from the bush and showed it to me.

  “Holmes,” I cried. “I begin to see. But who would do such a wicked thing? And why?”

  “Why indeed. Ah, what is this...? Fish!”

  It was indeed a piece of trout that, curiously, had a long string tied around its tail. Like the hair, Holmes saved it in an envelope.

  “I do hope you won’t have to carry that around too long, Holmes,” I said. “You’ll have every cat in Hertfordshire after you.”

  “Not every cat, Watson,” he said, chuckling. “Just one.”

  We then began to search the grounds. Holmes would not tell me what we were looking for; only that it was something unusual. “You will know it at once as soon as you see it.”

  Holmes examined the small garden shed and came out chuckling.

  “Find something interesting?” I asked.

  “Milk,” he said.

  “Milk? In a garden shed?”

  He refused to say any more and I continued my search. In the nearby copse of trees, I found a small patch of recently dug earth. “Holmes,” I cried, “I think I have found something.”