Sherlock Holmes (47 page)

Mycroft was silent for perhaps
thirty seconds as he considered Holmes’ reply. "Hmm... quite so.
Perhaps you are right; bringing this woman before the courts would
have been an entirely unpleasant business. There would indeed have
been a great deal of embarrassment in high places... but tell me,
Sherlock, how did you know her to be a German spy?"

Holmes chuckled. "Mulhouse, as
you know, Mycroft, is at that very delicate border between France
and Germany... but that is not what convinced me. I find the
Germans to be so literal in their spying. It was the name that she
had adopted that helped give away her allegiance."

I sat for a moment before
saying, "Surely, she took her husband's name of Duval?"

At this, Holmes roared with
laughter and slapped the arm of his leather armchair. "No, Watson!
Her first name, Adelinda! It is an old ‘High German’ name meaning
'Sweet Serpent'!"

We laughed and sitting back,
smoked almost in silence until we had finished our pipes. Little
more was said of the affair and as we said our goodbyes, I was
pleased to see that Mycroft left in good heart. He had finally
agreed that the needs of the state had been met and that honour had
been satisfied through the actions of his brother.

As to Claude Duval, we heard
nothing of him until Holmes received a letter in the latter part of
1903. It seemed that he had emigrated to America and was now busily
helping two brothers in Ohio to perfect their flying machine.

It was in May 1902, as I sat
enjoying breakfast in Baker Street and benefiting from the warmth
of a fine, spring morning that I noticed a letter on our breakfast
tray, written in a familiar hand. Holmes was engrossed in his copy
of 'The Times' and so I took the opportunity to open the letter
with some degree of privacy.

Holmes, although mostly hidden
from view by the broadsheet, shook his paper slightly, as if to
straighten it, whilst saying, "It is from your aunt in Lymington,
Watson... and it is something of a cry for help. She is clearly
concerned and is in urgent need of your assistance."

My head jolted up for I had not
even taken the single sheet of notepaper from its envelope. Whilst
the postmark on the envelope was clearly visible, I was unsure how
he could have known the sender and its contents. "Are you sure,
Holmes?" I asked, knowing full well that he would be correct.

Holmes sighed, closed and folded
his newspaper and placed it on the breakfast table. "Well, let us
see. The letter is written in a woman's hand and addressed to 'John
Watson ', no Dr or Mr. This implies that it is from someone very
close to you who has memories of you as a small boy and before you
became a man. The postmark is Lymington and we both know that your
charming Aunt Rachel resides there."

I nodded and waited for him to
continue.

Holmes smiled, saying, "The
slightest hint of the odour of honey from the envelope confirmed
it. The formation of the letters and the slight smudge to the ink
at one side implies that the envelope was written in haste. Your
aunt wanted to expedite this letter to you and, in her haste, she
has placed the stamp slightly askew. Your aunt is a woman of
exceeding neatness and this small lack of detail indicates her
concern and that, at the time of writing, she was indeed
distracted."

Of course, once these things had
been pointed out, it became self-evident. Removing the paper from
the envelope I began to read and, as I did so, the seriousness of
the affair began to unfold. Holmes, seeing my face change as I
read, became immediately concerned.

"What is it, Watson?" He
queried, a sense of alarm sounding in his voice.

I sat back in my chair seeming
to be unable to comprehend the contents of the letter. After a few
moments I stammered, "It... It relates to friends of my aunt who
live in St John's Wood, an older couple whom I have met on a few
occasions. It appears one of them has been struck down by some
unearthly presence."

Holmes reached forwards and took
the letter from my limp grasp. His brows furrowed as he read the
letter. "This is most serious, Watson. Your aunt is not a woman who
worries unnecessarily. We must extend an invitation to her at once
and ask her to allow us to take up the case."

With that, Holmes produced his
notebook from his jacket pocket and dashed off a telegram to my
aunt.

It was a measure of Holmes’
concern that he immediately sought to arrange accommodation with
Mrs Hudson for my aunt. Hearing of her distress, it was agreed that
she should stay in Mrs Hudson's spare room. Within a day we had had
a reply and the following morning found us welcoming my aunt to our
rooms. Looking towards my Aunt Rachel I could readily see that her
face bore a complexion that plainly advertised the benefits of
residing in the Devon countryside. I was also intrigued by the
wicker basket upon her arm.

Taking off her bonnet, Aunt
Rachel beamed as she looked us both up and down. "You appear to be
keeping well, John... and you too, Sherlock, but I have brought you
a little something: a little piece of Devon sunshine."

Proudly, my aunt untied and then
removed the checked, linen cover from her basket. From within the
basket she firstly removed a large, round metal tin and then two
jars of gleaming, amber liquid.

"Honey!" I cried and sprang
forwards to grasp one of the jars and hold it to the light. My aunt
keeps bees and it had been this delicious product of these tiny,
industrious creatures that had saved her life the previous year.
"Dare I ask, Aunt, what you have in your tin?"

Aunt Rachel smiled for she knew
me far too well. Taking off the lid, she tilted the tin towards me,
asking, "Is it as you had hoped, John?"

Within the cake tin I saw a
superb, golden honey cake. This was an enduring memory from my
childhood and my aunt baked them to perfection using her own
recipe. I think I almost ran to ring for Mrs Hudson in my eagerness
to request some tea so that we might all enjoy a slice of cake
before matters became more serious.

All this time, Holmes had
remained silent. Apart from his initial greeting and his submission
to the obligatory embrace from my aunt which, I must admit, he bore
with great fortitude, he had said nothing. However, I knew that he
had observed all.

It was as we sat, enjoying our
tea and slices of delicious honey cake, that Holmes leant forwards
and asked, "Tell me, Mrs Watson...um...Aunt, how long have you been
wearing your crucifix?"

As I watched, my aunt's hand
went instinctively to her neck and she held it there. After a few
moments, she removed her hand to reveal a fine gold chain and cross
hanging around her neck. It was something I had not noticed and
something that I had never seen her wear before.

Aunt Rachel blushed slightly and
lowered her head, saying, "I have had it since I was a girl... but
I have only recently chosen to wear it."

Holmes’ voice was now softer,
asking, "Since this business with your friends in St. John's
Wood?"

Aunt Rachel nodded, adding,
"Yes, since Elsie died. I thought, due to the circumstances... but
you must think that I am a silly old woman and..."

The sentence remained unfinished
as Holmes bent forwards and gently patted my aunt's hand. It was a
sign of compassion and affection, an emotion I had rarely seen
surface in my friend. "Not at all, Aunt, but you must tell me all,
leave nothing out, no matter how small."

Aunt Rachel dabbed her eyes with
a small lace-edged handkerchief and smiled at Holmes. "You are very
kind, Sherlock. You and John have given me the strength to go on.
It all began around Christmas time. My friends, Stephen and Elsie
Grainger had moved from Lymington some years past to be nearer to
their daughter and her husband. They had bought a nice terraced
house in St. John's Wood and Elsie would pen a letter to me every
quarter with their news and I would respond in kind."

Holmes nodded and began to fill
his pipe as he waited for my aunt to continue.

"It was her December letter that
raised my concerns. Elsie had always been quite a strict Methodist
but, in this letter, she said she had gone to some kind of séance
at the request of her husband and it had been most
disquieting."

Holmes’ brows furrowed slightly
as he lent forwards, asking, "Did she say in what way it was
disturbing?"

My aunt shook her head. "In this
initial letter there was nothing specific, she just said she felt
uncomfortable and that the spiritualist had asked for a
contribution towards the meeting. My friends were not well off,
Sherlock. Two guineas was a lot to them."

I almost choked as I heard this.
"Two guineas? For what, pray, a meeting with someone who can
supposedly receive messages from beyond the grave? Outrageous!"

Holmes frowned and raised his
hand slightly, in a calming gesture. Although still ruffled, I
settled back once more in my seat.

"Did Mrs Grainger write more on
this in her subsequent letter?" pressed Holmes.

Aunt Rachel nodded. "I received
the last letter from Elsie in late April. I had been expecting it
for some weeks and I fear that I was becoming anxious. It was a
dreadful letter, Sherlock. Stephen had forced his wife to attend
further meetings and it seems that he had become a believer and had
fallen under the spell or influence of the person who had led them,
a Doctor Daniel Garton. She talked of seeing things at these
meetings and of being frightened, being exposed to a strange smell
and seeing a green mist when the spirit appeared to them. Over the
previous month they had paid over ten guineas to attend these
meetings."

I was appalled and my dear aunt
was again in tears after recounting this. I looked towards Holmes.
His face was now grim and he was sitting back in his chair with his
thin fingers steepled against his lips. I was becoming increasingly
angered by what my aunt had said and could not restrain myself,
crying out, "This is dreadful, Holmes! We must seek out this Doctor
Garton at once and have it out with him!"

Holmes wagged a reproachful
finger in my direction, saying, "No, Watson. We will do nothing in
haste. There are people amongst us who genuinely believe that they
have been given a gift whereby they can communicate with departed
souls. They share their gift freely and, I believe, they assist
those whose mourning continues in this world. Whilst this is not my
belief, they are, for the most part, harmless and they provide some
solace to those seeking it."

Holmes now sat forwards
slightly, his expression changed as his jaw tightened and his eyes
burned like red hot coals. "However, there are charlatans whose
sole purpose is to exploit the vulnerable and take money from those
desperately seeking to fill the void left by a departed loved one.
This is, I believe, what we are dealing with here."

Holmes’ paused and his face
softened as he once more leant forwards towards my aunt, asking,
"Tell me, Aunt. What do you know of the circumstances surrounding
the death of Elsie?"

My aunt again dabbed her eyes
and I could see that she was becoming emotionally exhausted by this
ordeal. I put out my hand towards her and she grasped it briefly
and smiled. She looked towards Holmes and I could see that, whilst
weary, she was indeed determined to finish her story.

Clearing her throat briefly, she
continued, "Well, I know very little other than what I have read in
the newspapers. I was informed of her death on the 27th of May by
Stephen. He wrote to me briefly from his hospital bed-"

"Hospital bed?" interrupted
Holmes.

My aunt nodded. "Yes, Stephen
recounted in his letter how they had both been struck down by what
he called 'The Emerald Spirit' and that Elsie had perished because
she was weak and did not fully believe."

At this, she slumped in her
chair, her hands went to her face and she sobbed. I moved quickly
to her side whilst Holmes raced to ring the bell to summon Mrs
Hudson. It took several minutes for Aunt Rachel to regain her
composure but, having done so, she was able to walk unaided to her
room, accompanied by Mrs Hudson.

Alone now, we were able to
reflect on what had been said. Holmes had taken up his favourite
briar pipe and was sitting in his leather armchair, eyes closed and
deep in thought. The only sign of any conscious activity being the
odd plume of smoke which appeared from his thin lips. Opening his
eyes slowly, he asked, "Tell me, Watson, do you have the newspaper
report of the death of Elsie Grainger? I would have thought that a
death attributed to 'The Emerald Spirit' would be most noteworthy
and part of your collection."

I thought for a moment but could
not bring any such report to mind. Frowning, I rose and began to
look in my scrapbooks for any mention of the death of Elsie
Grainger in cuttings after the date my aunt had mentioned. "Bless
my soul, Holmes. Here it is... On the 27th last, Mr and Mrs Stephen
Grainger of fifteen, Boundary Road, St. John's Wood were admitted
to Marylebone Hospital. Once there, Mrs Grainger was found to be
dead from asphyxiation and her husband grievously suffering from
the effects of monoxide poisoning. The alarm had been raised when
Mr Henry Todd, a neighbour, who was emptying some ashes, saw what
he describes as "a strange, green, ethereal glow that filled the
whole of the Grainger's sitting room window." Fearing that it might
be a fire, Mr Todd approached and looked through the window where
he saw the bodies of his neighbours prostrate on the floor. At the
subsequent inquest into Elsie Grainger's death, no explanation
could be put forward for the observed green glow and no fault could
be found in the chimney of number fifteen. A verdict of 'death by
misadventure' was recorded."