The Big Book of Sherlock Holmes Stories (68 page)

“You must remember that I was very young,” said Holmes tartly. “In any case the difference between us—”

“You mean because she was of the nobility—”

“No, Watson, because she was by far my intellectual inferior. But let me proceed with my story.”

The
Mary Celeste
sailed with the morning tide. The next two weeks were uneventful, if any crossing of the Atlantic by sailing ship in winter can be said to be uneventful. Bianca and the child Sophia became great friends, and the ship frequently rang with their merry laughter. There was no sign of pursuit, yet I was not entirely at ease. It seemed likely that our pursuers would not long be deceived, and would find some way to follow us, and I spent many long hours on deck scanning the horizon through a telescope.

As it happened, however, it was not I who made the first sighting. As we approached the island of Santa Maria, which is the southernmost of the Azores, there was a cry from the other side of the deck. It was Bianca.

“A monster! A monster rises from the sea!”

I ran to her side. A great grey mass was emerging from the waves—your hypothetical monster, Watson. It was only a few yards away, and I could see that it was no sea-monster, but a man-made construction. Without doubt it was a submarine vessel, such as are now being constructed by all the great navies in the world, but at that time it was, as far as I knew, merely an inventor's pipe-dream. Was it friend or foe? We were not left long in doubt.

With a clanking sound, a hatch on the upper surface of the vessel opened, and a bearded face peered forth.

“Ees the brigantina
Mary Celeste
? Señor Holmes accompanied by two friends of the King of Espain?” it enquired cautiously.

“Who are you?” I called out.

“I am Don Narciso Monturiol, and this is my invento the submarino, the
Ictíneo III
. I have been charged by the King to escort you to where you wish to go.”

“How did you know that we were on this ship?” I persisted, still a little suspicious.

“The King has received a message from you, from Lisboa.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. My message had arrived safely.

“We welcome your escort, Don Narciso,” I cried.

Monturiol and I agreed that my companions and I should remain on board the
Mary Celeste
, as the submarine would be rather uncomfortable, especially for a young lady and a child. He would patrol in our vicinity and report to us if he detected any vessel following us.

A few days after we had left the Azores behind, the submarine again surfaced near us. By this time, the weather had worsened considerably, with high seas and poor visibility, but Monturiol was able to make us understand that there was a brigantine following closely on our course, and that he proposed to take Bianca and Luca aboard.

“If the ship indeed carries our pursuers,” said Luca, “then anyone left aboard the
Mary Celeste
is doomed, for in their fury that we have escaped them they will surely kill all those who have assisted us.”

“You are right,” said Richardson. “Can we not all be carried by the underwater vessel? We could then leave them to chase an empty ship, giving us more time to make our escape.”

Monturiol confirmed that there was sufficient room in the submarine for us and the crew, and proceeded to attempt to bring his vessel alongside our ship. Because of the gale and the high seas, this proved extremely difficult. Twice the submarine came alongside, and on both occasions was flung violently against the bows, gouging deep strips out of the timber with its steel fins.

Finally, seeing that any further attempt was likely to endanger the submarine, Richardson shouted to the vessel to stand off: we would lower the ship's boat and row across to it.

This was done with great difficulty. More than once the boat was almost swamped by the waves, but eventually we reached the submarine. First the child and then Bianca were pulled through the hatch into safety; then Luca clambered in. As he turned to give me his hand in assistance, a tremendous wave hit the submarine, driving it into the boat, which was crushed, and all those in it were engulfed by the waves. I received a blow on the head, and was barely conscious of all this, and only afterwards was I told how Luca had kept his grip on my arm through it all and had dragged me to safety. We circled the area for some time, but no trace of the crew did we find. My good friend Richardson and his men had given their lives for us. Then the shape of the pursuing brigantine began to loom up through the mist, and Monturiol gave the order to dive.

“What was the name of the ship which you sighted?” I asked the inventor.

“The
Dei Gratia
,” said he.

As our journey proceeded, I questioned Monturiol about his marvellous vessel, and found him most willing to expound on his invention.

“For more than one decade I have worked,” he said, “and I started with a small wooden vessel driven by pedals; after, I build a big one, with steam engine, but that one also could only work in calm water, in harbour, and the Ministry of Marine are not interested. So I have worked for years on this third submarino, which will travel under the ocean.”

“And very successful you have been!” I exclaimed.

“Alas no,” said the inventor sadly. “
Ictíneo
is leaking badly after the heavy seas and the collision with your ship; she is taking in much water, and will be hard-pressed to bring us to the Espanish coast. Fear not,” he added. “We shall be safe. But
Ictíneo
will never sail again, and the Navy will again pour scorn on my efforts. This will be my last submarino.”

“Never fear,” I rejoined. “If not you, someone else will take up your work, and perfect it.”

“And I was right, Watson,” added Sherlock Holmes.

A few years later, one Isaac Peral, a compatriot of Monturiol's, built an improved submarine, and since then many other countries have followed suit, and the submarine is now an important part of the world's navies.

Monturiol was true to his word, and landed us all safely and secretly at a small port near Cadiz, from where, with the help of letters which he carried from the King, Monturiol was able to arrange for a fast frigate of the Spanish Navy to take Bianca and Luca to Genoa, while I hastened to Madrid to report to King Amadeo.

“I am deeply grateful to you, Mr. Holmes,” said Amadeo. “And I am happy that the wrong which I did has been righted. It is only just that I should have gained no benefit from all this. In a month or two I shall abdicate and return to Italy. From what you tell me, it seems that I may well be able to attend my cousin's wedding!”

While in Madrid I heard that the
Mary Celeste
had been taken into Gibraltar by the crew of the
Dei Gratia
, who had obviously decided to try to make a profit out of the affair. More disquieting news was that Captain Winchester had been called to Gibraltar to testify. I felt sure that he intended to keep his promise to say nothing of our transaction, but feared that the lawyers might wheedle out of him more than he intended to say. I travelled south again, to Gibraltar, and attended the court in disguise. Afterwards, I revealed myself to Winchester and learned from him that the deaths of Captain and Mrs. Briggs had passed unnoticed, as he alone knew that they had been staying in the ill-fated hotel, and it was assumed in New York that they had sailed on the
Mary Celeste
. Although he assured me that he would stand firm and say nothing, I thought it best to suggest to him that the court intended to arrest him for complicity in the murder of the crew of the
Mary Celeste
. He took fright and fled to America, taking no further part in the case.

The
Dei Gratia
sailed on to Genoa, even while the Admiralty Court was hearing the case, and much to the annoyance of the Judge Advocate. The Republican ruffians, knowing the proposed destination of the
Mary Celeste
, presumably suspected that Bianca and Luca, if they had survived, would make their way to that port, and were determined to have their revenge on them. Their deductions were correct as it happened, but the delay in Gibraltar meant that Luca and the Genoese
carabinieri
were waiting for them when they arrived, and the scoundrels paid the ultimate penalty for their crimes. The ship and its corrupt crew returned to Gibraltar, where the court obviously had serious doubts as to the
bona fides
of the salvagers, but nothing could be proved, and the Judge had to be satisfied with granting only a minuscule salvage award.

“Ah, yes, Watson, one other point. There
was
a ship's cat. It too found its way to safety—in the arms of Miss Sophia Briggs who, by the way, was adopted by Bianca and Luca D'Este after their marriage. She is now the Duchess of——.”

NOTED FOR HIS
career as an actor and the author of numerous books about the theater, literary figures, and entertainment celebrities, Barry Stuart Day also was one of the driving forces behind the reconstruction of Shakespeare's Globe Playhouse on London's Bankside, an experience about which he wrote
This Wooden “O”: Shakespeare's Globe Reborn: Achieving an American's Dream
(1996), which featured an introduction by John Gielgud.

Among his other books are several in which his scholarship and perseverance produced such works as
The Letters of Noël Coward
(2007) and several charming collections of quotations:
Noël Coward: A Life in Quotes
(1999),
Oscar Wilde: A Life in Quotes
(2000),
P
.
G. Wodehouse in His Own Words
(2001), and
Sherlock Holmes: In His Own Words and in the Words of Those Who Knew Him
(2003).

He is the author of five novels about Sherlock Holmes:
Sherlock Holmes and the Shakespeare Globe Murders
(1997),
Sherlock Holmes and the Copycat Murders
(2000),
Sherlock Holmes and the Alice in Wonderland Murders
(2001),
Sherlock Holmes and the Apocalypse Murders
(2001), and
Sherlock Holmes and the Seven Deadly Sins Murders
(2002).

“The Adventure of the Curious Canary” was first published in
Murder, My Dear Watson
, edited by Martin H. Greenberg, Jon Lellenberg, and Daniel Stashower (New York, Carroll & Graf, 2002).

“
TELL ME, HOLMES
, do you believe there is any such thing as the perfect crime?”

We were sitting in our rooms in 221
B
at a very loose end indeed. As an indication of the depth of his boredom, the world's most famous consulting detective was reduced to turning the detritus of the morning's newspapers into paper darts and launching them into the fire Mrs. Hudson had lit earlier in that morning to ward off autumn's first chill. More than once I had had reason to fear my friend's somewhat uncertain aim would end in a conflagration which would be recorded in the next day's equivalents—“
HOLMES AND FRIEND PERISH IN
MYSTERY BLAZE—ARSON SUSPECTED.”

When I had almost forgotten the question—which had been asked more for something to fill the silence than anything else—Holmes finally answered.

“I am inclined to believe, Watson, that the only crimes that remain unsolved are the ones that have not been called to my attention.”

As I glanced in his direction, I saw the small twitch of irony catch the corner of his mouth. It was an expression one had to be quick to spot and interpret. The next moment the face had regained its classically sculpted lines, something poised between Roman senator and an American Indian.

“I presume you are thinking of the icicle used as a dagger that subsequently melts?” he continued.

“Yes, or what about the case of the Barchester beekeeper who appeared to have been stung to death, until you proved that his wife had administered a fatal injection before dragging his body next to the hive and inciting the bees to attack. I should say that was a close run thing. If you hadn't been able to prove that the fellow was dead before the bees stung him, she'd have got away with it.”

“A simple enough deduction for one versed in the kiss of the needle,” Holmes replied, casting me a covert glance in expectation of a reaction. But I am too old a soldier to rise to such an obvious lure. Seeing that his ploy had failed, he continued. “And an insult to such a sophisticated species. One of these days I fully intend to…” But then another thought seemed to strike him.

“But, my dear chap, I confess I'm surprised you have failed to mention the infamous Anitnegra Affair—a story for which, like the Giant Rat of Sumatra, I suspect the world is not yet prepared.”

“The Anitnegra Affair?” I exclaimed. “But I don't believe you have ever…”

“Oh, my dear fellow, how remiss of me. Do forgive me. It must have occurred during one of your many marital sabbaticals. I do declare, now that I think about it, that it comes very close to your definition of the perfect crime.”

“Pray tell me the details,” I said, reaching for the pad that was never far from my hand, ready for just such a recollection in tranquility.

“It was the rather sordid story of a purveyor of imported meats who became jealous of his partner. One evening in the warehouse there was a passionate altercation and the wretched fellow struck and killed his partner with a frozen steak,
which he then proceeded to cook and eat—thus effectively destroying the evidence.”

“But, Holmes, how was he brought to justice?”

“Oh, that was simple enough,” my friend replied. “The man literally signed his crime. There was a livid mark on the corpse's head which read ‘
ANITNEGRA.
' ”

“
ANITNEGRA
? You mean that was the murderer's name?”

“Oh, no.
ANITNEGRA
is simply
ARGENTINA
spelt backwards. The meat had been stamped in its country of origin and had, so to speak, left its mark.”

“And that was enough to convict him?”

“There was no need to convict him. The meat happened to be spoiled and the murderer died of food poisoning—along with twenty-three other innocent people. It was one of my least distinguished cases and caused me to give up red meat for at least a week….Oh, my dear fellow, I do wish you could see your face!”

And the wretched man sank back into his chair and gave way to a paroxysm of that silent laughter that has often brought me close to throwing something at him.

It was at that very moment that the doorbell clanged that insistent call to arms that had heralded so many of our adventures. Only some time later did it occur to me that it was impossible for the imprint to have read
ANITNEGRA
anyway, since the letters E, G and R would have been reversed—but by that time it was too late to go over the whole wretched story again. Holmes was a leading actor with his timing, whereas I was merely a spear carrier.

Nonetheless, I was in the process of planning the form of my retribution when Mrs. Hudson knocked on the door and ushered in a slim, neatly dressed woman somewhere in her mid-thirties. Handsome rather than classically beautiful to my eye, and as Holmes often asserts, “The fair sex is your department, Watson,” I consider myself a fair judge.

She was clearly nervous, as many of our first time visitors are, but Holmes is adept at putting women at their ease when he chooses to, solicitous and soft of voice, and it was not long before he had her sitting comfortably in the visitors' chair opposite. I took up my accustomed place in a chair slightly to one side and behind Holmes, my pad ready on my knee.

“Pray do not concern yourself on at least one score, dear lady. You have plenty of time before your return to Lewes.”

“But how…?”

“A simple enough deduction, in all conscience. You are clutching tightly a rolled up newspaper of which the letters
EWE
are visible in the banner. The typography is that used by
The Lewes Examiner
and, while that publication enjoys a wide circulation in its part of Sussex, it is only available in the town itself at the time of day you must have caught the train that brought you here so early. Thus you have come here from Lewes.

“If one needed further corroboration, it is to be found in the numbers you have scribbled on the paper as an aide-memoire. To be sure 1415 could refer to the Battle of Agincourt but I suspect the terse prose of Mr. Bradshaw…Watson, would you be so kind?”

I reached to the shelf behind me and passed Holmes that well-thumbed red volume, which he proceeded to flick through with practised fingers.

“Ah, yes—here we are. Fourteen-fifteen London to Brighton, stopping at all stations, including Lewes. It was the first local train you felt you could be sure of catching after you had completed your business here. And by the way, Watson, I see those idle fellows are still engaged in their road works outside Victoria. The young lady has some of their sand on the instep of her shoe.”

“Mr. Holmes, everything they say about you is true—you are a wizard.” Then, as she reached down somewhat self-consciously to brush the offending sand away, she looked up at him with an expression both fascinated and a little frightened. It was one I was well used to.

“What else do you know about me?”

“Other than that you shop frugally at Gorringe's, are an excellent seamstress, are slightly
astigmatic, have a Persian kitten of which you are very fond—and have been crying lately, I know practically nothing. Oh, except that you are a widow and expect to remarry in the near future….”

The young lady's mouth literally dropped open. At which Holmes added—“Oh, and you appear to have no need for the service of a dental surgeon.” This last made her laugh aloud and, as Holmes and I joined in, the social ice was effectively broken.

Holmes leaned forward in his chair and I have no doubt there was a distinct twinkle in those deep-set eyes. My department, indeed!

“My little parlour tricks are obvious enough, once explained, Miss—?”

“Lucas—Mary Lucas.”

“As Watson knows, they are based on the observation of trifles where one may learn more from a lady's glove or the crease in a man's trouser than from a volume of an encyclopaedia. Take your own. They are obviously new, so much so that in your hurry to get here this morning you did not stay at the shop long enough for the sales assistant to take off the label properly. Only half has been removed, leaving the telltale
GOR—
. While clearly new, the gloves do not appear expensive and, in fact, were almost certainly a featured item in the shop's annual sale. Indeed, I seem to remember that rather distinctive design in an advertisement in today's
Chronicle
. The same can be said for your shoes.”

Miss Lucas looked down at her feet, as though they had just betrayed her, while Holmes continued.

“I deduce that you are a seamstress of some accomplishment from the fact that, although your dress is of the latest style, the slight unevenness of the stitching in places tells me that it is not the work of the original designer. Therefore, you probably made it yourself—also from a Gorringe's pattern, I suspect. Your astigmatism is obvious enough from the two small indentations on either side of your nose, which indicate the use of reading glasses. Once again, they would not be deemed suitable for a visit where you wished to impress on first acquaintance. The Persian kitten? When a lady embraces one of that particular breed—particularly on a regular basis—any item of her clothing will bear some evidence that even regular brushing will never quite eliminate. The colour of the hairs is quite distinctive and since the length is unusually short, it argues for either a very small specimen or—more probably—a kitten.”

My friend's last remark produced a rather disconcerting reaction from our visitor. “Oh, Mr. Holmes, what I'd have done without Princess these last few days I cannot imagine…”

And Miss Mary Lucas burst into a flood of tears, which caused her to pull a rather crumpled lace handkerchief from the sleeve of her gown and press it to her eyes. As I moved over to give her what comfort I could, Holmes's eyes met mine in an expression that said “Q.E.D.”

Then a sudden thought struck her.

“But how did you know about my being a widow and…?”

“The ring finger of your left hand bears the unmistakable mark of a wedding band having been there for some considerable time. You now wear it on your right hand and involuntarily turn it around from time to time. It seems a reasonable assumption, then, that you are no longer married to your first husband but that the idea of marriage is by no means repugnant to you and is presently very much on your mind.

“Now, Miss Lucas, the sooner you tell us of the problem that has brought you here, the sooner we may be able to assist you. You may speak before my friend and associate, Dr. Watson, here with the utmost frankness. Few of my cases would be solved without his invaluable assistance”—and he made a grave nod in my direction, which pleased me greatly—“and none of them would be adequately recorded, were it not for his Boswellian qualities of rapportage.

“Tell us your story in your own words and, I pray you, omit no detail, no matter how insignificant it may appear. It is those details that invariably point the finger of truth.” And he settled back in his chair, his lean fingers steepled before
his face and his gaze fixed at some indeterminate point on the ceiling.

“Well, Mr. Holmes—Dr. Watson—there really was little to tell until a few weeks ago. I live—as you divined—not far from Lewes where I am housekeeper to Sir Giles Halliford at Halliford Hall. My dear husband died a few years ago quite unexpectedly, leaving me in very straitened financial circumstances. Some family friends were kind enough to recommend me to Sir Giles whose old housekeeper was about to retire after many years of service. I was offered the post and the arrangement has worked out to our mutual satisfaction. He is what one might call a confirmed old bachelor…”

“Sensible fellow,” Holmes interrupted, then, not wishing to interrupt her flow, apologetically motioned her to continue.

“…but underneath a gruff exterior which he puts up to keep the world at bay, he is the kindest and gentlest of men. Over the years we have discovered we have many interests in common and have grown comfortable in each other's company. To cut a long story short, Mr. Holmes, Sir Giles has asked me to become his wife…and I have accepted.”

“But the problem does not lie there, I fancy?”

“Oh, indeed no. I should add, gentlemen, that this is of very recent occurrence and Sir Giles does not wish to announce our engagement until he has made certain family arrangements.”

“But I thought you said Sir Giles was a bachelor?” I could not help interjecting.

“There is no immediate family as such,” Miss Lucas continued. “He has a ward, a young lady called Emily Sommersby, not much younger than myself, who lives with him. She is the daughter of some old friends of his from his days in India. When they were killed in a climbing accident there some two years ago, he felt it was his duty to bring the girl back to England and give her a home.”

“And how do the two of you get on?”

“To begin with everything was fine,” Miss Lucas replied and her hand began to turn the ring around her finger, “but lately I seem to have sensed a change in her. Her manner has been more distant and if I may invoke a woman's intuition…”

“Indeed, I wish you would. How often have I not told Watson that a woman's impressions are frequently more valuable than the conclusion of an analytical reasoner.”

“Well, then my sense of it is that she felt something in her guardian's behaviour that led her to suspect what he had in mind….”

Looking at her I could not help but think that one woman might just as easily have detected that very same truth from the subtle but telltale conduct and tone of voice of another, but I kept that thought to myself.

Mary Lucas continued. “I am not even certain that she did not overhear the conversation between Sir Giles and myself the other evening, for she entered the room almost immediately afterwards. However, if that were all, I should not be here today taking your time. No, the real trouble began a few weeks ago when a young man arrived out of the blue claiming to be his nephew, Robert…”