The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories Part I Page 7

  “But she became suspicious of her husband’s frequent absences, which were not always as concerned with his supposed business as she had first thought. Somehow, perhaps by means of a private detective, or some other method, she discovered that her supposed beloved husband was maintaining another establishment in neighbouring Sutton Coldfield, and she decided to confront her husband with the knowledge. At this time, a coolness developed between her and Staunton’s son.

  “She told Staunton that she was about to reveal his double life, and confront his other wife with the knowledge of her existence. Frightened that he was about to be ruined, and quite possibly be prosecuted, for his duplicity, he returned home and saw his wife writing at the desk. He immediately guessed what she was about. He quietly let himself into the house and went to the kitchen for a knife. Entering the drawing-room, he confronted his wife, who was indeed writing the fatal missive. A violent argument ensued, during which he produced the kitchen knife, and in defence, she snatched up the long paperknife that lay in its holder on the desk. You really should have taken better note of that empty knife-holder, Inspector.”

  “Since we believed the murder weapon had already been discovered, it seemed to be of no importance,” answered the abashed police agent.

  “Well, well. Be that as it may. In the ensuing struggle, which took place in near-silence, the kitchen knife was dropped, and the stiletto paperknife passed from Martha Taylor to Henry Staunton, who in his blind fury used it to kill the unfortunate woman. It was at about this time that the seal was ripped from the watch-chain. The fastening is twisted on both the chain, and the seal itself, and I have no doubt that you will easily find a perfect match there, Inspector.

  “You will remember Doctor Watson’s characterisation of the fatal wounds, and also note the fact that Staunton here is left-handed. His son is right-handed, as I ascertained when I asked him to sketch the scene of the murder. The wounds could only have been inflicted either by standing behind the victim and stabbing her by reaching over her shoulder, stabbing downwards - a most awkward way of delivering the blows, and one which is contradicted by the position of the body’s head relative to the chair - or alternatively if the victim was standing, by stabbing with the murderer facing his victim, using an overhand grip - less effective, perhaps, than the underhand grip, but ultimately fatal. Am I correct so far, Staunton?” He received no answer, other than a silent, grim-faced nod, and continued.

  “Being faced with the undisputed fact that he was now the killer of the woman with whom he shared his house, his principal object now was to avoid detection. He quickly snatched up the fatal letter in its envelope, which had only just been addressed and blotted before he entered the room. He knew his son was in the house, and his twisted mind instantly conceived a way in which he could escape blame, and transfer it to his own flesh and blood.”

  “A foul and heinous act,” growled Upton.

  “He secreted the stiletto, and smeared the kitchen knife with blood before letting the chair fall with a crash, to alert the boy and to draw his attention, before letting himself out of the front door and silently re-locking it. He disposed of the murder weapon, and I have no doubt that if you drag the Minster Pool at the end where Dam Street runs close by, you will discover it there. The rest you know.”

  “I never meant to kill her!” wailed the unfortunate Staunton. “It was my intention only to prevent her from sending the letter.”

  “That’s as may be,” replied Inspector Upton in stony tones. “But instead of confessing to your guilt like a man, you attempted to fasten the crime on a poor defenceless young man - your own flesh and blood at that.”

  “I never meant him to go to the gallows,” cried Staunton, in an agony of distress.

  “Maybe you did not,” answered the police agent. “But I will make every effort to ensure that you make that trip yourself. Thank you, Mr. Holmes. You have saved a young man’s life, and prevented a grave miscarriage of justice.”

  “All I ask,” replied Holmes, “is that my name not be mentioned in connection with this case. Inspector Upton shall take all the credit for the observations and deductions, and the bringing to justice of Mr. Henry Staunton. Come, Watson, our task is done, and I think that we shall sleep well tonight at the George before our return to London on the morrow.”

  “But why in heaven’s name,” I could not refrain from asking Holmes as we made our way from the police station, “did Staunton ask you to clear the boy’s name, given that this inevitably would lead to the proof of his own guilt?”

  Holmes shook his head. “He believed that he had committed the perfect crime, and that suspicion would never fall on him,” he said. “We may see his retaining me as an act of bravado and cocking a snook at the police. After all, who would believe that a man who had hired the foremost man in his field to clear his son’s name would himself be guilty of any wrongdoing? Unfortunately for Mr. Henry Staunton, he underestimated my abilities, as have so many others in the past. It is their loss.”

  “And the world’s gain,” I added.

  Holmes’s only answer was his familiar sardonic smile.

  The Kingdom of the Blind

  by Adrian Middleton

  It was during the late autumn of our first year together that my relationship with Sherlock Holmes, the celebrated detective, took on the semblance of a routine. He had, for some months, continued to conduct his affairs without my assistance, mentioning only a handful of his cases and excusing his often lengthy disappearances with little or no explanation. On several occasions I had stumbled upon him coming and going in a number of rudimentary disguises. Each of these, he later explained to me, was put to use in different parts of the city.

  “The secret to good intelligence,” he had said upon his return to our apartment in the early hours of the morning, “is establishing a long and unremarkable presence in those parts of the city where crime, and potential clients, frequent. If I can pick up the rudiments of the different trades at the same time well, that improves the accuracy of my deductive reasoning.”

  “And the bruises?” I enquired, noting that many of his forays resulted in personal injury which he was, invariably, loathe to discuss.

  “Rough and tumble is a way of life on the streets, Watson. The giving and taking of beatings is a matter of note that fixes my characters in the memories of those from whom I obtain my information; and it is a safer alternative to thievery and intemperance.”

  “I have no need to practice my medical skills, Holmes,” I retorted. “You should take better care of yourself.”

  “I can assure you that it is only superficial - the London criminal relies more on reputation than skill, and as long as he thinks he has the upper hand there is little danger. I avoid the hardened sloggers for the best part.”

  “Except when your hubris gets the better of you.”

  “And have you seen that happen?” He challenged. “Control and discipline are bywords for professionalism. I know my limits.”

  “Indeed,” I harrumphed, unconvinced. “You can at least rely on me to attend when you exceed them.”

  “Do you know, I believe that I can,” he said, shaking away the traces of Fuller’s Earth that had greyed the hair of his latest disguise, before making a fresh pot of coffee as I set about collecting the morning papers.

  Upon my return, Holmes had changed into his dressing gown and was standing at our window, observing the beginning of the day’s intercourse while I settled into my armchair to read the Illustrated London News. While my attention was focused on news of troops returning from Afghanistan, Holmes’s continued to observe, occasionally glancing at his fob as if noting the time of those events which transpired on the streets beneath.

  “We have a visitor, Watson,” he said, gesturing towards the street below. “A friar of the Dominican Order - possibly Dutch - recently returned from Rome.”

&
nbsp; Joining Holmes at the window, I glanced across the street where the man who had attracted his attention paused, waiting to cross as a hansom passed him by. He was a young and portly man, with a great black overcoat and a wide brimmed hat, which I conceded gave him the air of a clergyman.

  “Are you sure he’s for us, Holmes?”

  “His gaze was directed upon this very window, Watson, and his choice of crossing place is similarly specific. See? He crosses now so that he will arrive at our door.”

  “How can you be sure he is a friar?” I asked.

  “I am occasionally called upon to carry out interventions on behalf of the Vatican. In doing so I have had the opportunity to study certain aspects of ecclesiastical society. For example, the weather is fine, and the cassock is the usual form of street dress. That our visitor wears a capello romano hat shows he has no fear of being identified as a Catholic, so the heavy coat may only suggest that he does not wish his order to be identified. While the hat is without distinguishing features, suggesting a deacon or a seminarian, the hairstyle suggests that it covers a tonsure. Hence a friar.”

  “That still doesn’t explain why he might be Dominican, or Dutch,” said I.

  “He carries beneath his arm two rare books of Dutch origin, and the Blackfriars are the most studious, the most surreptitious, and the most well-travelled of the Catholic orders.”

  “And Rome?”

  Holmes merely smiled, asking if I would be so kind as to attend to the door. Returning to his chair, he was perfectly composed by the time we heard the knocking that announced our guest.

  “Come,” said Holmes loudly as I opened the door.

  The friar entered the room silently, his piercing blue gaze scouring it as he removed his hat, revealing, as Holmes had predicted, that the top of his head had been shaved.

  “Mister Holmes?” he said, with an unmistakably Dutch accent, “I am Brother Pius Augustus of the Order of Preachers, rector pro tempore to the Catholic University in Kensington.”

  “A Dominican?” Holmes smiled at me, making no effort to conceal his triumph. “This is my associate, Doctor Watson.”

  Acknowledging the man, who placed his hat and the two volumes he carried upon a side table while I closed the door and withdrew to take a comfortable spot by the window.

  “Please,” Holmes continued, “be seated, and tell me what matter brings you directly from the Apostolic Palace?”

  The young friar took the seat opposite Holmes, pausing to look in my direction. For a moment our eyes locked and it felt as if he was looking directly into my soul. I withered, breaking away as the friar turned his gaze towards my friend, who met it with an equally steely look of his own. It was suddenly as if I were not present, and that these two powerful minds were locked in some invisible test of strength from which, I had no doubt, Holmes would emerge victorious.

  “How could you tell from whence I came?”

  “While both of those books were recently bound in the ecclesiastical province of Utrecht in the Netherlands, they have since been returned to Rome.”

  “How could you possibly know this?”

  “The uppermost volume bears a seal. Archivum Secretum Apostolicum Vaticanu. Stamped on a new binding, it confirms you were in the Vatican compound quite recently. Furthermore, your coat has been weathered by your journey, suggesting you are presently returned to these shores.”

  “I am impressed,” said the friar. “You have been to the Holy See yourself?”

  “On several occasions,” my friend confirmed. “While there I gained some understanding of Catholic binderies - I had intended to turn my notes into a monograph, but the subject was so specialised that I dismissed its usefulness. It seems the knowledge found a purpose after all.”

  “Then you are, indeed, the man to consult.”

  “Indeed? Then you had best state your case.”

  “It is a matter of the gravest importance, Mr. Holmes. The fates of the Roman Church and of all forms of Christian worship, rest upon it.”

  “Hmm.” Holmes sunk into his chair, his fingers steepled. “I must have the truth, and all of it, sir. It seems unusual that you would visit me at this time of the morning.”

  “Why do you say this?”

  “I presume that you are a devout follower of the Liturgy of the Hours, and therefore you do not conduct meetings without careful timing. A planned appointment would have to take place between early and mid-morning prayer, and yet here you are, in my office, at the very time you should be observing terce. Your visit is therefore an unscheduled one.”

  “That is so,” said Pius, slumping a little at Holmes’s deduction. “I will tell you all. You have heard of the philosopher Empedocles?”

  Holmes nodded. “Not just a philosopher. A political activist and a fraudster.”

  “Fraudster? Why do you say that?”

  “As I recall, Empedocles was meant to have certain... powers. Similar to those of Jesus Christ, if I am not mistaken.”

  “So the histories would tell us, but why would that make him a fraudster?”

  “I hardly think the Catholic Church would be interested in canonizing him. He claimed to be a god.”

  “I can assure you that his miracles were genuine. It was Empedocles who established that the four elements of earth, air, fire and water make up the structures in the world. His powers were derived from an understanding of the divine, and they directly inspired the works of Saint Albertus Magnus.”

  “Albertus the Dominican?”

  “Quite so, Mr. Holmes. The works of Empedocles were recorded in the Index Librorum Prohibitorum, and held in the Vatican Secret Archive until the sixteenth century, when they disappeared.”

  “So they are both sacred texts and banned?”

  “The Church has been attempting to recover them ever since. Imagine, Mr. Holmes, such secrets falling into the wrong hands. Miracles performed by heathens would undermine the very foundations of the church.”

  “You seriously think this book can enable the performance of miracles?” I asked. “Are we talking about medical miracles like making the blind see and the lame walk, or those of the biblical variety, like summoning plagues or walking on water? It’s preposterous.”

  “No more preposterous than our own saints performing such miracles, Doctor?” said Holmes, gently chiding my interference.

  “Well...” I realised I was on tricky ground, not wanting to offend the church.

  “We are talking about real power, gentlemen, and we believe that power may fall into the wrong hands. Whilst travelling through Europe I learned that certain... terms, first used by Empedocles and later Albertus Magnus, have started to emerge here in London. These terms could only have come from the lost papyri, and I can only conclude that these heretics have access to them.”

  “Who are these heretics?”

  “They are Freemasons, of the Rosicrucian Society of England. Dr. William Westcott and Dr. William Woodman. Woodman is the Supreme Magus of his Order, and they are expanding quickly into all of England and Europe.”

  “I know of them,” said I. “Woodman is a retired police surgeon, and Westcott is a Deputy Coroner in the East End.”

  “So he is,” said Holmes, “and you are sure these men are a danger? Surely a formal approach-”

  “Out of the question. The Catholic Church must have nothing to do with them. The Holy Father has been quite specific on the matter. It is his belief that the sect of the Freemasons are determined to bring the Holy Church into ruin.”

  “And what would you have me do? Expose the Order in some fashion, or simply retrieve the lost texts?”

  “Retrieve the texts, if you can. I am told that Woodman has a translation, and that a German Countess, Frau Sprengel, holds the originals.”

  “Told by whom?”

  �
��A fellow priest that I met upon my travels. As you can see from what I carry, my interest in books is notable.”

  “I see. I am sure you will understand that burglary is not a service that I provide. All that I can offer is to negotiate on your behalf. Anonymously, of course. Is there, perhaps, a sum that the Church would be willing to pay for the retrieval of such documents?”

  “Absolutely not! I ask only that you confirm the existence and whereabouts of these papers. This will enable... further action to be taken.”

  “Very well, Brother Pius, I shall look into these Freemasons to determine true origin of this manuscript. If it exists, I shall confirm its location to you.”

  “That seems a most acceptable arrangement, Mr. Holmes. If you need me, I shall be at Abingdon House.”

  With that the friar rose, retrieved his hat and books, and left.

  “Well, Watson?” said Holmes once our guest had departed. “What say you?”

  “Clerical mumbo-jumbo if you ask me,” said I. “Miracles indeed.”

  “It is not what we believe that makes this case of interest, but what the friar believes.”

  “The friar? Surely he is just a messenger.”

  “Hardly. Upon closer examination, I observed a number of characteristics that disturbed me. The books, for example. There is a reason that he keeps them close. No volume bearing the seal of the secret archive may be removed. They are considered to be the Pope’s personal property.”

  “Are you suggesting that he stole it?”

  “That may be a strict interpretation, but I suspect he believes his actions are both legitimate and justified. Did you observe the title of the uppermost book?”

  “I did not,” said I. “I do recall the second had a word upon its spine. Empto. Probably Emptor, or buyer. A catalogue or index of book for sale?”

  “Well spotted, Watson, but the title of the uppermost book was Logicae Seu Philosophiae Rationalis Elementa.”

  “The elements of logical or rational philosophy?”