Sherlock Holmes
The Adventure of the Antiquarian’s
Niece
by
Published by Barbara Hambly at Smashwords
Copyright 2009 Barbara Hambly
Cover art by Eric Baldwin
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The
Adventure of The Antiquarian’s Niece
A note to the Reader:
This story first appeared in the anthology
Shadows Over Baker Street, whose stories concerned Sherlock Holmes
within the context of H.P. Lovecraft’s Cthulhu mythos.
SHERLOCK HOLMES
THE ADVENTURE OF THE ANTIQUARIAN'S
NIECE
(by John H. Watson, M.D.)
by
Barbara Hambly
In my career as the chronicler of the cases
of Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I have attempted (his assertions to the
contrary) to present both his successes and his failures. In most
instances his keen mind and logical deductive facility led him to
the solutions of seemingly insoluble puzzles. Upon some occasions,
such as the strange behavior of Mrs. Effie Munro, his conclusions
were astray due to unknown and unforseen facts; on others, such as
the puzzle of the dancing men or the horrifying contents of the
letter received by Mr. John Openshaw, his correct assessment of the
situation came too late to save the life of his client.
In a small percentage of his cases, it was
simply not possible to determine the correctness or incorrectness
of his reasoning because no conclusion was ever reached. Such a
case was that of Mr. Burnwell Colby and his fiancée, and the
abominable inhabitants of Depewatch Priory. Holmes long kept the
singular memento of his investigation in a red cardboard box in his
room, and if I have not written of these events before, it is
because of the fearful shadow which they left upon my heart. I only
now write of them now in the light of the new findings of Mr. Freud
concerning the strange workings of the human mind.
Burnwell Colby came to the lodgings that I
shared with Holmes in Baker Street in the summer of 1894. It was
one of those sticky London afternoons that make one long for the
luxury of the seashore or the Scottish moors. Confirmed Londoner
that Holmes was, I am sure he was no more aware of the heat than a
fish is of water: whatever conditions prevailed in the city, he
preferred to be surrounded by the noise and hurry, the curious
street-scenes and odd contretemps engendered by the close proximity
of over a million fellow-creatures than by any amount of fresh air.
As for myself, the expenses incurred by my dear wife's final
illness prevented me from even thinking of quitting the metropolis
– and the depression of spirits that had overtaken me from the same
source sometimes prevented me from thinking at all. While Holmes
never by word or look referred to my bereavement, he was an
astonishingly restful companion in those days, treating me as he
always had instead of offering a sympathy which I would have found
unendurable.
He was, as I recall, preparing to concoct
some appalling chemical mess at the parlor table when Mrs. Hudson's
knock sounded at the door. “A Mr. Burnwell Colby to see you,
sir.”
“What, at this season of the year?” Holmes
thumbed the card she handed him, angled it to the window's glaring
light. “Heavy stock, one-and-six the hundred, printed in America in
a typeface of a restraint generally only found in the most
petrified of diplomatic circles but smelling of…” He broke off, and
glanced at Mrs. Hudson with eyes suddenly sharp with wary interest.
“Yes,” he said. “Yes, I shall see this gentleman. Watson, if you
would remain I would much appreciate an outsider's unbiased view of
our guest.”
For I had folded together the newspaper which
for the past hour I had stared at, unseeing, preparatory to making
a retreat to my bedroom. To tell the truth I welcomed the
invitation to remain, and helped Holmes in his rapid disposal of
alembic and pipettes into his own chamber. As I reached down for
the card, still lying on the much-scarred rosewood, Holmes twitched
it from my fingers and slipped it into an envelope, which he set in
an obscure corner of the bookcase. “Let us not drip premature
surmise into the distilled waters of your observation,” he said
with a smile. “I am curious to read what would be writ upon a
tabla rasa
.”
“Behold me unbesmirched,” I replied, throwing
up my hands, and settled back onto the settee as the door opened to
admit one of the most robust specimens of American manhood that it
has ever been my privilege to encounter. Six feet tall, broad of
shoulder and chest, he had dark eyes luminous with intelligence
under a noble brow in a rather long face, and by his well-cut, if
rather American, brown suit and gloves of fawn kid, he clearly
added material wealth to the blessings of kindly nature. He held
out his hand to Holmes and introduced himself, and Holmes inclined
his head.
“And this is my partner and amanuesis, Dr.
Watson,” said Holmes, and Mr. Colby turned unhesitatingly to shake
my hand. “Anything that may be said to me, may be said in his
presence as well.”
“Of course,” said Colby, in his deep,
pleasing voice, “of course. I have no secrets - that's what gravels
me.” And he shook his head with a ghost of a chuckle. “The Colbys
are one of the wealthiest families in New England: we've traded
with China for fifty years and with India for twice that, and our
railroad interests now will better those profits a thousand
percent. I've been educated at Harvard and Oxford, and if I may say
so without tooting my own horn, I'm reasonably good to look on and
I don't eat with my knife or sleep in my boots. So what would there
be about me, Mr. Holmes, that would cause a respectable girl's
guardians to reject my suit out of hand and forbid me to exchange a
word with her?”
“Oh, I could name a dozen commonplace
possibilities,” replied Holmes, gesturing him to a chair. “And a
score more if we wished to peruse a catalogue of the
outré
.
Perhaps you could tell me, Mr. Colby, the name of this unfortunate
young lady and the circumstances under which you were so rudely
ejected from her parents' favor?”
“Guardians,” corrected our visitor. “Her
uncle is the Honorable Carstairs Delapore, and her grandfather,
Gaius, Viscount Delapore of Depewatch Priory in Shropshire. It's a
crumbling, mouldering, Gothic old pile, sinking into decay. My
family's money could easily rescue it – as I've said to Mr.
Delapore, any number of times, and he agrees with me.”
“A curious thing to do, for a man rejecting
your suit.”
Colby's breath gusted again in exasperated
laughter. “Isn't it? It isn't as if I were a stranger off the
street, Mr. Holmes. I've been Mr. Delapore's pupil for a year, have
lived in his household on week-ends, eaten at his table. When I
first came to study with him I could have sworn he approved of my
love for Judith.”
“And what, precisely, would you say is the
nature of Mr. Delapore's teaching?” Holmes leaned back in the
basket-chair, fingertips pressed lightly together, closely watching
the young American's face.
“I guess you'd say he's … an antiquarian.”
Colby's voice was hesitant, as if picking his words. “One of the
most remarkable students of ancient folklore and legend in the
world. Indeed, it was in the hopes of studying with him that I came
to Oxford. I am – I guess you might call me the intellectual black
sheep of the Colby family.” He chuckled again. “My father left the
firm to my brothers and myself, but on the whole I've been content
to let them run it as they wished. The making of money … the
constant clamor of stocks and rail-shares and directors … From the
time I was a small boy I sensed there were deeper matters than that
in the world, forgotten shadows lurking behind the gaslights'
artificial glare.”
Holmes said nothing to this, but his eyelids
lowered, as if he were listening for something behind the words.
Colby, hands clasped, seemed almost to have forgotten his presence,
or mine, or the reality of the stuffy summer heat. He went on, “I
had corresponded with Carstairs Delapore on … on the subject of
some of the more obscure Lammas-tide customs of the Welsh
borderlands. As I'd hoped, he agreed to guide my studies, both at
Oxford and, later, among the books of his private collection –
marvelous volumes that clarified ancient folkloric rites and put
them into contexts of philosophy, history, the very fabric of time
itself! Depewatch Priory…”
He seemed to come to himself with a start,
glanced at Holmes, then at me, and went on in a more constrained
voice, “It was at Depewatch Priory that I first met Mr. Delapore's
niece, Judith. She is eighteen, the daughter of Mr. Delapore's
brother Fynch, a spirit of light and innocence in that … in that
dreary old pile. She had just returned from finishing-school in
Switzerland, though plans for her come-out into London society had
run aground on the family's poverty. Any other girl I know would
have been pouting and in tears at being robbed of her season on the
town. Not she! She bore it bravely and sweetly, though it was clear
that she faced a lifetime of stagnation in a tiny mountain town,
looking after a decrepit house and a … a difficult old man.”
From his jacket pocket Colby withdrew an
embossed cardboard photograph-case, opening it to show the image of
a most beautiful young lady. Thin and rather fragile-looking, she
wore her soft curls in a chignon. Her eyes seemed light, blue or
hazel so far as I could tell from the photograph, her hair a medium
shade – perhaps red, but more likely light brown – and her
complexion pale to ghostliness. Her expression was one of grave
innocence, trusting and unself-conscious.
“Old Viscount Delapore is a grim old autocrat
who rules his son, his niece, and every soul in the village of
Watchgate as if it were 1394 instead of 1894. He owns all of the
land thereabouts – the family has, I gather, from time immemorial –
and so violent is his temper that the villagers dare not cross him.
From the first moment Judith declared her love for me, I offered to
take her away from the place – to take her clean out of the
country, if need be, though I hardly think he would come after her,
as she seems to fear.”
“Does she fear her grandfather?” Holmes
turned the photograph thoughtfully over in his hands, examining the
back as well as the front most minutely.
Colby nodded, his face clouding with anger.
“She claims she's free to come and go, that there's no influence
being brought to bear upon her. But there is, Mr. Holmes, there is!
When she speaks of Viscount Gaius she glances over her shoulder, as
if she imagines he could hear her wherever she is. And the look in
her lovely eyes …! She fears him, Mr. Holmes. He has some evil and
unwholesome hold upon the girl. He's not her legal guardian –
that's Mr. Carstairs Delapore. But the old man's influence extends
to his son as well. When I received this –” He drew from the same
pocket as the photograph a single sheet of folded paper, which he
passed across to Holmes, “I begged him to countermand his father's
order, to at least let me present my case. But this card …” He
handed a large, stiff note to Holmes, “was all I got back.”
The letter was dated August 16, four days
ago.
“
My best beloved,
“
My heart is torn from my breast by this
most terrible news. My grandfather has forbidden me to see you
again, forbidden even that your name be mentioned in this house. He
will give no reason for this beyond that it is his will that I
remain here with him, as his servant – I fear, as his slave! I have
written to my father but fear he will do nothing. I am in despair!
Do nothing, but wait and be ready.
“
Thine only,
Judith.”
The delicate pink paper, scented with
patchouli and with the faint smoke of the oil-lamp by which it must
have been written, was blotted with tears.
Her father's card said merely:
“Remove her from your thoughts. There is
nothing which can be done.”
Burnwell Colby smote the palm of one hand
with the fist of the other, and his strong jaw jutted forward. “My
grandfather didn't let the mandarins of Hong Kong chase him away,
and my father refused to be stopped by Sioux Indians or winter
snows in the Rockies,” he declared. “Nor shall this stop me. Will
you find out for me, Mr. Holmes, what vile hold Lord Gaius has upon
his granddaughter and his son, that I may free the gentlest girl
that ever lived from the clutches of an evil old man who seeks to
make a drudge of her forever?”
