A Study in Terror (3 page)

“So Holmes,” said I, “we are back to the original question.”

“Indeed we are.”

“Which is: this surgeon's-case—why was it sent to you?”

“A provocative question.”

“Perhaps an explanatory letter was delayed.”

“You may well have hit upon the answer, Watson,” said Holmes. “Therefore, I suggest we give the sender a little time, let us say until—” he paused to reach for his well-worn Bradshaw's, that admirable guide to British rail movements “—until ten-thirty to-morrow morning. If an explanation is not then forthcoming, we shall repair to Paddington Station and board the Devonshire express.”

“For what reason, Holmes?”

“For two reasons. A short journey across the English countryside, with its changing colours at this time of year, should greatly refresh two stodgy Londoners.”

“And the other?”

The austere face broke into the most curious smile. “In all justice,” said my friend Holmes, “the Duke of Shires should have his property returned to him, should he not?” And he sprang to his feet and seized his violin.

“Wait, Holmes!” said I. “There is something in this you have not told me.”

“No, no, my dear Watson,” said he, drawing his bow briskly across the strings. “It is simply a feeling I have, that we are about to embark upon deep waters.”

Ellery Continues

Ellery raised his eyes from the manuscript. Grant Ames, III, was at the scotch again.

“You will be cut down eventually,” Ellery said, “by a pickled liver.”

“Killjoy,” Ames said. “But at the moment I feel myself a part of history, son. An actor under the Great Proscenium.”

“Drinking himself to death?”

“Bluenose. I'm talking of the manuscript. In the year 1888 Sherlock Holmes received a mysterious surgeon's kit. He trained his marvellous talents on it and began one of his marvellous adventures. Three-quarters of a century later, another package is delivered to another famous detective.”

“What's your point?” grumbled Ellery, visibly torn between Dr. Watson's manuscript and the empty typewriter.

“All that remains to complete the historic re-run is to train the modern talent on the modern adventure. Proceed, my dear Ellery. I'll function as Watson.”

Ellery squirmed.

“Of course, you may challenge my
bona fides
. In substantiation, I point out that I have followed the Master's career faithfully.”

That pierced the fog. Ellery studied his guest distastefully. “Really? All right, wise guy. Quote: ‘It was in the spring of the year 1894 and all London was interested, and the fashionable world dismayed, by the murder of the—'?”

“‘Honourable Ronald Adair.' Unquote,” said Ames promptly. “
The Adventure of the Empty House
, from
The Return of Sherlock Holmes
.”

“Quote: ‘She had drawn a little gleaming revolver and emptied barrel after barrel into—'”

“‘—Milverton's body, the muzzle within two feet of his shirt-front.' Unquote.
The Adventure of Charles Augustus Milverton
.”

“You scintillate, Watson! Quote: ‘These are the trodden, but not the downtrodden. These are the lowly, but never the low.'”

“Unquote.” The playboy yawned. “Your efforts to trap me are childish, my dear Ellery. You quoted yourself, from
The Player on the Other Side
.”

Ellery scowled at him. The fellow was not all overstuffed blondes and expensive scotch. “
Touché, touché
. Now let's see—I'm sure I can stick you—”

“I'm sure you can if you stall long enough, but that's exactly what I'm not going to let you do. Go into your act, Mr. Queen. You've read the first chapter of the manuscript. If you don't come up with some Queenian deductions, I'll never borrow a book of yours again.”

“All I can tell you at the moment is that the handwriting purporting to be Watson's is precise, firm, and a little crabbed.”

“You don't sound like Holmes to me, old buddy. The question is,
is
it Watson's. Is the manuscript the McCoy? Come, come, Queen! Apply your powers.”

“Oh, shut up,” Ellery said, and he went on reading.

CHAPTER II

THE CASTLE ON THE MOOR

In his latter life, as I have recorded elsewhere, my friend Sherlock Holmes retired from the feverish pace of London to keep bees, of all things, on the South Downs. He thus terminated his career with no regret whatever, turning to that husbandman's activity with the same single-mindedness that had enabled him to track down so many of the world's cleverest criminals.

But at the time Jack the Ripper stalked London's streets and by-ways, Holmes was a whole-hearted creature of urban life. His every faculty was keyed to the uncertainties of London's dawns and dusks. The sinister stench of a Soho alley could set his nostrils a-quiver, whilst the scent of spring stirring a rural countryside might well put him a-dozing.

It was therefore with surprise and pleasure that I witnessed his interest in the passing scene as the express hurtled us towards Devonshire that morning. He gazed through the window with a concentrated air, then suddenly straightened his thin shoulders.

“Ah, Watson! The sharp air of approaching winter. It is invigorating.”

I for one found it not so at the moment, an atrocious cigar between the teeth of a dour old Scot, who had boarded with us, befouling the compartment. But Holmes seemed not to notice the reek. Outside, the leaves were turning, and flashes of autumnal colour streamed past.

“This England, Watson. This other Eden, demi-Paradise.”

I recognised the near-quotation and was doubly surprised. I knew, certainly, of the sentimental streak in my friend, but he rarely allowed it to show through the fabric of his scientific nature. Yet, pride of birthright in the Briton is a national trait, and Holmes had not escaped it.

As our journey neared its destination, his cheerful mien vanished; he became pensive. We were on the moors, those broad stretches of mire and morass that cling like a great scab to England's face. As if Nature insisted upon a proper setting, the sun had vanished behind thick cloud-banks, and we seemed to have been plunged into a place of eternal twilight.

We soon found ourselves upon the platform of a small country station, where Holmes thrust his hands deep into his pockets, his deep-set eyes kindled, as they so often did when he was beset by a problem.

“Do you recall the affair of the Baskervilles, Watson, and the curse that darkened their lives?”

“Well do I!”

“We are not far from their holdings. But of course we go in the opposite direction.”

“And just as well. That hound of Hell still haunts my dreams.”

I was puzzled. Ordinarily, when Holmes was involved in a case, he viewed his surroundings single-mindedly, sharply aware of a bruised twig while remaining oblivious of the landscape in which it lay. At such times, reminiscence was no part of it. Now he stirred restlessly, as though he regretted having allowed impulse to send him upon our journey.

“Watson,” said he, “let us arrange for the rental of a dog-cart, and get this business over with.”

The pony we procured no doubt had relations among the ones that ran wild on the moors, but the little beast was tractable enough, and it clipped steadily away at the road between the village and the Shires estate.

After a time, the turrets of Shires Castle came into view, adding their tone of melancholy to the scene.

“The game-preserves are beyond,” said Holmes. “The Duke has a variegated terrain.” He scanned the country before us and added, “I doubt, Watson, that we shall find a jolly, red-cheeked host in that forbidding pile.”

“Why do you say that?”

“People of long blood lines tend to reflect the colour of their surroundings. You will recall that there was not a single cheerful face at Baskerville Hall.”

I did not dispute this, my attention being fixed upon the scowling grey of Shires Castle. It had once been complete with moat and drawbridge. However, more modern generations had come to depend for defence of life and limb upon the local constabulary. The moat had been filled in, and the bridgechains had not creaked for many a year.

We were ushered into a cold and cavernous drawing-room by a butler who took our names like Charon checking our passage across the Styx. I soon learned that Holmes's prediction had been accurate. The Duke of Shires was as icily forbidding a man as ever I had met.

He was of slight stature and gave the impression of being phthisical. It was an illusion. Upon closer inspection I saw a well-blooded face, and I sensed a wiry strength in his frail-appearing body.

The Duke did not invite us to be seated. Instead, he stated abruptly, “You were fortunate in finding me here. Another hour, and I should have been on my way to London. I spend little time here in the country. What is your business?”

Holmes's tone in no way reflected the ill-manners of the nobleman. “We will intrude upon your time no longer than is necessary, your Grace. We came merely to bring you this.”

He proffered the surgeon's-kit, which we had wrapped in plain brown paper and secured with sealing wax.

“What is it?” said the Duke, not stirring.

“I suggest, your Grace,” replied Holmes, “that you open it and discover for yourself.”

With a frown, the Duke of Shires stripped off the wrappings. “Where did you get this?”

“I regret that I must first ask your Grace to identify it as your property.”

“I have never seen it before. What earthly reason had you for bringing it to me?” The Duke had raised the lid and was staring at the instruments with what certainly appeared to be genuine bewilderment.

“If you will draw down the lining you will find our reason imprinted upon the leather underneath.”

The Duke followed Holmes's suggestion still frowning. I was watching closely as he stared at the coat of arms and it was my turn to feel bewilderment. His expression changed. The palest of smiles touched his thin lips, his eyes brightened, and he regarded the case with a look I can only describe as one of intense satisfaction, almost of triumph. Then, as quickly, the look vanished.

I glanced at Holmes in search of some explanation, knowing that he would not have missed the nobleman's reaction. But the sharp eyes were hooded, the familiar face a mask. “I am sure your Grace's question is now answered,” said Holmes.

“Of course,” replied the Duke in casual tones, as though brushing the matter aside as of no consequence. “The case does not belong to me.”

“Then perhaps your Grace could direct us to the owner?”

“My son, I presume. It no doubt belonged to Michael.”

“It came from a London pawn-shop.”

The Duke's lips curled in a cruel sneer. “I do not doubt it.”

“Then if you will give us your son's address—”

“The son I refer to, Mr. Holmes, is
dead
. My younger, sir.”

Holmes spoke gently. “I am indeed sorry to hear that, your Grace. Did he succumb to an illness?”

“A very great illness. He has been
dead
for six months.”

The emphasis put by the nobleman upon the word “dead” struck me as odd. “Was your son a physician?” I inquired.

“He studied for the profession, but he failed at it, as he failed at everything. Then he
died
.”

Again that strange emphasis. I glanced at Holmes, but he seemed more interested in the ponderous furnishings of the vaulted room, his glance darting here and there, his thin muscular hands clasped behind his back.

The Duke of Shires held forth the case. “As this is not my property, sir, I return it to you. And now, if you will excuse me, I must prepare for my journey.”

I was puzzled by Holmes's behaviour. He had accepted the Duke's cavalier treatment without rancour. Holmes was not in the habit of allowing people to walk over him with hob-nail boots. His bow was deferential as he said, “We shall detain you no longer, your Grace.”

The Duke's rude behaviour was consistent. He made no move to reach for the bell-rope that would have summoned the butler. Thus, we were compelled to find our way out as best we could, under his stare.

This proved a stroke of good fortune. We were crossing the baronial hall towards the outer portal, when two persons appeared through a side-entrance, a man and a child.

In contrast to the Duke, they did not seem at all hostile.

The child, a girl of nine or ten years of age, smiled as brightly as her little pallid face would permit. The man, like the Duke, was of slender build. His quick, liquid eyes, although they questioned, were merely curious. His dark resemblance to the Duke of Shires left room for but one conclusion. This was the other son.

It did not seem to me that their arrival was particularly startling, but it appeared to disconcert my friend Holmes. He came to a jerky halt, and the surgeon's-kit that he was carrying fell to the floor with a clatter of steel against stone that echoed through the great hall.

“How clumsy of me!” he exclaimed, and then proceeded to be even clumsier by blocking me off as I attempted to retrieve the instruments.

The man, with a smile, sprang into the breach. “Allow me, sir,” said he, and went to his knees.

The child reacted almost as quickly. “Let me help you, Papa.”

The man's smile glowed. “So you shall, my dear. We'll help the gentleman together. You may hand me the instruments. But carefully, lest you cut yourself.”

We watched in silence as the little girl handed the shining implements to her father, one by one. His affection for her was touchingly apparent, his dark eyes hardly bearing to leave her as he swiftly returned the instruments to their proper niches.

When the business was finished, the man arose. But the little girl continued to scan the flag-stones upon which we stood. “The last one, Papa. Where did it go?”